Fall of a Cosmonaut ir-13

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “I can kill you now,” said Grachev.

  Sasha shook his head. “Possibly, we are much closer now. But consider this, if you shoot me, a man with a rifle whom you cannot see will put a bullet through your brain. You stand a far better chance of missing me than he of missing you. Then you would be dead and unable to do whatever it is you plan to do.”

  Grachev, his face pale, seemed to smile. “And you are not afraid?”

  “Oh, very much afraid,” said Sasha. “Very much, but I said to myself up there that if I did not do this I would be afraid for whatever remains of my life.”

  “Yes,” said Grachev. “Yes.”

  “May I ask a question?” asked Sasha.

  “Yes, then I have one. I think we should be quick.”

  “Who is Boribyonovich?”

  Grachev looked at the detective. “Don’t you play chess?”

  “A little, badly,” Sasha said, looking across the water at the wall of the Kremlin. “My wife is the chess player.”

  “She is a true Russian.”

  “She’s Ukrainian,” said Sasha. “Her name is Maya. I have two children.”

  “You are trying to make me feel sympathy,” said Grachev.

  “Am I? I don’t know. Maybe. I was … I don’t know,” said Sasha.

  Sasha continued to look across the river at the wall, at the flowing traffic, which paused as drivers looked across and saw the crowd of police vehicles and the two men and a boy on the rocks.

  “I’ve always wanted to climb that tower,” Sasha said, pointing across the river.

  “The Moskvoretsky Tower,” said Grachev.

  “Yes. An interesting sight from this perspective. Have you ever been down on the rocks before?”

  “No. I have a question. Do you love your wife?” asked Grachev.

  “Is that the question you want to ask?”

  “No, it just came to me. I’ll ask the other soon, very soon. Now I have a third question. What’s your name?”

  “Sasha. And yours is Valery.”

  “Mine is Kon,” he corrected.

  “Yes, I love my wife. I love my children. My wife has taken them to Kiev, Kon.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have behaved like an animal, a brooding animal in the zoo. You’ve seen the tigers in those small cages. Pacing, pacing. They are depressed. I was told that by my chief inspector. When he told me about the tigers, I stopped taking my older daughter, Pulcharia, to see them.”

  “Sasha, I think I am dying. I have work to do and I don’t understand what you are saying, but I do understand love. I am sitting here like this because of a woman I love. No, that is not fair, I am sitting here because of what I wanted and because I seem to be growing more and more mad as I lose blood. Also, I think I have the flu.”

  “I would say you are not having a good day,” said Sasha.

  Grachev laughed and then coughed. The boy at his side made it clear by his look that he had no idea what this madman who had kidnapped him was laughing at.

  “A very bad day, but I mean to salvage something.”

  “That is understandable,” Sasha said. “Who is the woman, the one you love?”

  “No,” Grachev said, shaking his head. “I am dying. I am going mad, but I am still playing and I will go down protecting my queen.”

  “All right, then what is the boy’s name?”

  “I don’t know. What is your name?”

  He turned his eyes to the boy, the gun touching the black T-shirt.

  “B.B.,” said the boy.

  “Your real name,” said Grachev.

  “Artiom. Are you going to shoot me?”

  The boy seemed more curious and excited than afraid.

  “No.”

  “Are you going to shoot yourself?”

  “You watch too many movies on television,” said Grachev. “You should be playing chess.”

  “I don’t like chess.”

  “Maybe I will shoot you.”

  The boy who called himself B.B. suddenly changed. He was afraid.

  “I’m not going to shoot you,” Grachev said. “And I’m not going to shoot Sasha here or anyone else. But that is our secret. I have killed enough for one morning. They are making a great deal of noise up there.”

  “A great deal,” Sasha agreed, looking back over his shoulder. “I have no control over that.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Valery Grachev. “Now, my third question. You said you know what I am going to do, or you think you do. What am I going to do?”

  “Take the negative out of that bag and throw it in the river,” said Sasha. “The only reason you have not already done so is that you are waiting for a larger audience and the television cameras.”

  “You really should play chess,” said Grachev.

  Sasha shrugged.

  “I don’t think I can wait longer,” said Grachev. “I think I see a television truck on the Kremlyovskaya Embankment over there across the river, and I am sure there are others and tourists with cameras. I would like your people to let the people with cameras come where they can see.”

  “I do not have that power, Kon,” said Sasha.

  “Then I will have to begin.”

  “Would you like some help?” asked Sasha, who was now certain that Grachev was dying. “It will be awkward for you, keeping the gun on B.B. with one hand, staying alert, reaching in for the film. It will be painful.”

  “I think I would prefer you to remain where you are,” said Grachev. “You can watch.”

  With that, the young man reached into the bag and pulled out a tightly wound roll of film about one and a half feet across. Sasha could see the pain in the man’s face.

  “You are going to destroy Tolstoy,” said Sasha.

  “I am going to destroy a movie about the life of Tolstoy. I will tell you a secret, Sasha,” said Grachev. “From what I have seen of it, it is a very bad, bloated, lying movie about Tolstoy. It turns him into a tragic romantic figure with a big-budget background. The world is better off without this Tolstoy.”

  “And without Kriskov?” asked Sasha.

  “And without me,” answered Grachev, unwinding the film.

  “I can help,” said B.B.

  Grachev handed him the reel, and the boy began to unwind the film. There was a rattle and more than a murmur in the crowd behind the two men and the boy. Above the sound of voices and vehicles, Sasha could hear the crinkling of unwinding film. Soon the rocks in front of the boy and the man who now called himself Kon were covered with curls of black film. When there was still about half the film remaining in a tight circle, the circle collapsed and dropped into the boy’s lap.

  “Throw it in,” said Grachev. “Stand up. Throw it in.”

  B.B. wiped his hands on his jeans and stood. “Really?” he asked.

  “Throw,” said Grachev.

  And the boy threw.

  Some people who had managed to make it to the concrete ledge began to applaud and some took pictures. The film now floated in a serpentine mass upon the water. The black bundle began to move away from the shore. Grachev reached for the second reel and handed it to the waiting boy, who eagerly took it and began to unwind.

  “Sasha, would you like to cast black bread upon the water?” asked Grachev.

  “No, thank you,” said Sasha. “I’m content to watch.”

  And watch he did till there was no more film, just four dark clouds floating away on the water. The first cloud of film had begun to sink.

  “Now,” said Grachev, his eyes blinking away perspiration.

  “Now?” asked Sasha.

  “Now you come close and I tell you a secret,” he said.

  Sasha moved toward him carefully along the rocks, knowing that he was ruining a good pair of pants already stained by his earlier shoot-out with the man toward whom he crawled. Someone in the crowd gasped. When Sasha was a yard from the dying man, Grachev turned his weapon on the detective and said, “B.B., you may go now, clamber up the rocks, climb
the wall, talk to the television people and the police. B.B., I have become the highlight of your life. You will remember me and what we have done till you die. You will tell the story many times. It will change. I don’t know how. I know. I once made it to the Moscow chess semifinals when I was your age. I remember every move and the watching crowd and I have convinced myself that the game I lost was much closer than it probably really was. Go.”

  B.B. scampered up the rocks, slipped once, and continued.

  Grachev was not watching, but Sasha was.

  “Is he gone?”

  “Yes,” said Sasha. “You talked of a woman. Was it Vera Kriskov?”

  “That is Kriskov’s wife?”

  “You know that it is. You love her,” said Sasha.

  “I have never seen her, don’t know her, but I will perhaps do her a great favor when I tell you my secret. Lean close.”

  Sasha leaned toward the man, not worrying about being shot, though it would have been a reasonable cause of concern at that moment. Sasha could smell blood, fever, and death now.

  “There is a bicycle shop off of Gorky Street. It is called Wheels. There is a closet in that shop, in the rear. Go to it. You will find my final surprise, my last move. I will be laughing. I will have protected my queen.”

  “What will I find in that closet?” asked Sasha.

  “The original negative and the duplicate negative for the abomination of the life of Tolstoy. B.B. just threw away the negative of a movie I worked on two years ago, The Gambler’s Wife. That was even worse than the film you will find in that closet. That is my gift to the widow.”

  “And from this you got? …”

  “Look around you, Sasha. I got an audience for my final move. I got …”

  He drew in a breath, broke off in the middle of it, stretched himself out, and died.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Director Igor Yaklovev was sitting at the end of the conference table in his office when Rostnikov arrived with his writing pad, a neatly typed stack of reports, some notes, and a small box in his hands. The Yak motioned the chief inspector to his usual spot, and Rostnikov nodded as he moved to take his seat and place his bundle in front of him.

  The Yak said nothing, sat with hands folded before him on the wooden table. There was nothing in front of him. In a few moments there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” called Yaklovev, and the diminutive Pankov entered, juggling a small tray with two cups.

  Pankov moved slowly, afraid of dropping the coffee, and placed a cup before the director and another before the chief inspector. The Yak’s was black. The chief inspector’s was white with two sugars. Pankov took the small tray and departed.

  “He is learning to make better coffee,” said the Yak after taking a sip.

  “Much better,” Rostnikov agreed.

  “Progress?” asked Yaklovev.

  “Closure on all three current investigations,” said Porfiry Petrovich, handing the director three reports in clean manila folders.

  His leg was definitely bothering him. He would have to see Leon, his wife’s cousin, for an adjustment to his prosthesis. The park competition was coming soon. With any pain it would be difficult to lift.

  “Andrei Vanga, director of the Center for the Study of Technical Parapsychology, has been arrested for the murder of Sergei Bolskanov,” said Rostnikov, taking a sip of coffee and opening his pad.

  “The motive?”

  “The theft of Bolskanov’s research. Vanga had produced nothing of note in almost two decades. He was afraid of losing his job and his reputation.”

  “And now he has lost both,” said Yaklovev. “He has friends and enemies.”

  “Bolskanov’s research paper is contained on a computer disk in the report before you,” said Rostnikov, beginning to draw.

  If the research was worth theft and murder, thought Yaklovev, it might well be of value to certain prominent people behind the center. They would definitely be grateful for the swift conclusion of the investigation and for the disk, of which Igor Yaklovev would make a copy.

  “And Kriskov is dead?”

  “Yes,” said Rostnikov. “We did not succeed in protecting him.”

  “But the stolen negative has been recovered.”

  “Sasha Tkach and Elena Timofeyeva recovered it,” said Rostnikov, letting his fingers mindlessly create the image on the pad.

  “They are to be commended,” said the Yak.

  “Some time off with pay for Sasha Tkach would be …”

  “He is a hero,” said the Yak. “His picture was on television, in the newspaper. He generated very positive promotion for our office. He risked his life to save a boy. He can have a week.”

  “Three would be better,” said Rostnikov.

  “Three,” Yaklovev agreed.

  “Elena Timofeyeva believes Kriskov’s wife was a party to the crime,” said Rostnikov.

  “Is there any evidence of this?”

  “None. Valery Grachev died insisting he acted alone.”

  “Then tell Elena Timofeyeva that she will be commended and the issue dropped.”

  Rostnikov nodded.

  “And the cosmonaut?”

  “Vladovka is dead,” said Rostnikov.

  “And so is a State Security operative who was assigned to protect him,” said the Yak. “Died in a St. Petersburg alley, apparently the victim of a random mugging.”

  “I have heard something of that,” said Rostnikov. “Others will be sent to investigate, I presume.”

  “It is a reasonable presumption, Chief Inspector.”

  “It would be better if they did not,” said Rostnikov.

  The Yak finished his coffee, patted the reports before him, and took the small package being handed to him by Rostnikov.

  “You might prefer that Konstantin Vladovka, the brother of Tsimion Vladovka the cosmonaut, not be bothered,” said Rostnikov.

  Rostnikov looked over at the package that lay before the director.

  Yaklovev opened the package and found a cassette.

  “That will explain,” said Rostnikov.

  “I am sure you did your best to save Vladovka,” said the Yak.

  “While I would far prefer that he remain buried, if it becomes essential for him to be resurrected, it might be a good idea that the resurrection take place when the dead man is somewhere safe, perhaps France or the United States. I would like to think that what is on that tape will protect a dead man.”

  The Yak nodded and played with the cassette.

  “If what is on the tape is of value, I believe I have the power to keep State Security and Mikhail Stoltz from the village of Kiro-Stovitsk. One more question and you may leave. I’ll give you new assignments tomorrow.”

  Rostnikov looked up.

  “What have you just drawn?”

  Rostnikov turned the pad and slid it across the table to Yaklovev, who looked down at it.

  “It looks like two fat worms,” he said.

  “The tape will explain,” said Rostnikov, getting up, deciding that he would see Leon that very day.

  When the chief inspector had left the room, Yaklovev rose, tapping the cassette against the palm of his open hand, and moved to his desk where he kept his tape recorder.

  He pulled the tape recorder from his desk drawer, placed it on his desk, inserted the tape, and pressed the play button.

  “Fat worms,” he said, shaking his head and wondering if his eccentric chief inspector might be going mad.

  “My name is Tsimion Vladovka,” came a voice with an echo behind it. “I was a cosmonaut and I have kept a terrible secret about my last flight.”

  Before the tape was over, Igor Yaklovev had decided that his chief inspector was not mad and that what he was listening to might well be the most valuable possession in his collection of well-protected secrets.

  He would make his usual three copies, as he did of all documents and tapes for his private file, and while he was doing so would decide how best to make use o
f what he had. He was fairly certain that he would soon be having a talk with Mikhail Stoltz.

  And that afternoon-

  “You have a body for me?” asked Paulinin as Emil Karpo made his way through the tables and specimens.

  “I have lunch for you,” said Karpo.

  “Lunch is fine. A corpse would make it better. They’ve taken my scientist and cosmonaut. I have no one to talk to now except the living. I prefer to talk to you and the dead.”

  “I accept the compliment,” said Karpo.

  “It is simply the truth,” said Paulinin.

  Paulinin had what appeared to be a rusty automobile part in front of him. He was working at it with a fine-haired brush. Karpo opened the bag in his hand and stood across the table, lit by the bright overhead light casting black shadows.

  “Do you think I am mad because I talk to the dead, Emil Karpo? Do you ever talk to the dead?”

  “Yes,” Karpo said. “I talk to the dead.”

  “Do they answer you as they answer me when I probe and explore them?”

  “No,” said Karpo. “I talk to only one dead person. She does not answer. For me it must simply suffice that I talk to her.”

  “I understand,” said Paulinin. “In many ways we are alike, you and I. In many ways. That is why we are friends.”

  “Yes,” said Karpo. “I must acknowledge that. If it were not so, I would not be talking to you as I am, telling you things that I do not even tell Porfiry Petrovich and do not even tell myself.”

  “What did you bring?”

  “Cheese, bread, water. And two apples.”

  Paulinin looked up from the rusty metal, still holding the brush, wiped his chin with his sleeve, and adjusted his glasses.

  “Let us eat.”

  A knock at her door brought Anna Timofeyeva out of her near slumber. She had been sitting at her window with her cat, Baku, in her ample lap, looking out on the concrete courtyard where children played, mothers and grandmothers sat on benches and talked, and a regular group of jobless men gathered in a far corner to smoke, complain, and make weak jokes about those who were better or worse off than they were.

  The door was locked, as were all apartment doors in Moscow, so she had to rouse herself, place Baku on the floor, and make her way across the room. The first step made her dizzy and irritable. Not long ago, before two heart attacks sent her into retirement, Anna had been a procurator, a rising and respected figure in the Soviet Union. Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov had worked under her. They had all worked under her, and she had worked tirelessly to enforce the law, to bring those who offended the State to judgment.