defending the Revolution against German invaders. No, the differences between the Wolfhound and the inspector known by his colleagues as the Washtub went beyond the contrast of their appearance, but, in spite of this, Rostnikov had developed a certain affection for the caricature of an officer who paced the room before him. There appeared to be no malice in the colonel and his naivete was sincere as was his loyalty to those who worked under him whether they deserved it or not. All the colonel expected in return was admiration. So Rostnikov did his best to project admiration while retaining as much dignity as possible.
'So,' said Snitkonoy standing to his full six-feet-three, 'you understand what must be done.'
'No,' said Rostnikov amiably.
The colonel shook his head, a patient patronizing smile on his firm lips. He stepped to the polished dark table and leaned forward toward Rostnikov.
'Commissar Illya Rutkin,' the Colonel whispered. 'Do you know him?'
'The name is somewhat familiar,' answered Rostnikov putting down his pad, beginning to sense a potential threat. Rutkin was, he knew, a relatively incompetent assistant to Party District Leader Vladimir Koveraskin, who was far from incompetent and had the reputation of a man to be avoided. Rutkin was an expendable, one of the dispensable underlings Party members keep around to throw to the KGB or whomever might come nipping for corruption or scapegoats. Koveraskin had something to do with keeping track of dissident movements, or at least he was rumored to have such a function.
'He is dead,' the Wolfhound whispered dramatically.
'I am sorry to hear that,' said Rostnikov shifting his left leg which threatened, as it always did when he sat too long, to lose consciousness.
'A man destined for greater service for the State,' the Wolfhound said softly, sadly.
'Dead,' Rostnikov repeated before the eulogy reached proportions worthy of Tolstoy.
'Murdered,' said the Wolfhound.
Rostnikov shifted and put his notebook in his pocket alongside the novel he had finished reading on the metro. Rostnikov's thoughts, up to this moment, had been on dinner and on some urgency to get down to his desk for a quick interrogation of the dealer in stolen goods he had sent Tkach to arrest. Rostnikov did not like the sound of the colonel's voice which suggested something of great moment. He did not like where the conversation was going but he could do nothing to stop it.
'And we…?' Rostnikov began.
'Precisely,' said Snitkonoy with satisfaction. 'We have been given the task of investigating the murder of this important figure. We are responsible for the investigation and the quick resolution. There are ramifications to this case, Porfiry Petrovich.'
Yes, Rostnikov thought, I'm sure there are, but I am not sure you know what most of them are. Murders of commissars were not usually turned over to the Wolfhound. Someone was not terribly interested in the outcome of this murder case. Rostnikov might be reacting with too much suspicion, but it was belter to be suspicious and survive, as he had managed to do, then to underreact and find that it is too late. There was no help for it. It was coming and he would have to deal with it.
'And I am to conduct the investigation,' Rostnikov said. 'I'm honored.'
'We are all honored,' said Snitkonoy. 'This important investigation assigned to us indicates the high esteem in which we stand.'
Rostnikov nodded and hoped that the case was a nice simple one, robbery or a domestic conflict that simply required a cover-up. Snitkonoy strode to his desk, boots clicking again, and reached for a brown file which he picked up and brought to Rostnikov who didn't want to touch it but did so.
'Bad business,' the colonel said. 'He was investigating the death of a child, the death of Lev Samsonov's child, a young girl.'
Rostnikov did not nod, did not respond. This was getting worse and worse.
'You know who Samsonov is?'
'Yes,' sighed Rostnikov. 'The dissident.'
'The traitor,' hissed Snitkonoy magnificently. 'He and his wife are scheduled for deportation. It was feared that without the investigation Samsonov demanded, he might go to France or whatever decadent nation would have him and cause embarrassment, imperil Premier Gorbachev's magnificent and courageous attempts to bring world peace. And…'
'… And in the course of his investigation of the death of Samsonov's child, Commissar Rutkin was murdered,' Rostnikov cut in.
The Colonel did not like to be interrupted. He fixed his fourth most penetrating glance at Rostnikov who looked back at him blandly.
'It is all in the report. You are to investigate the murder of Commissar Rutkin. You need not address the death of the child. Another representative of Party District Leader Koveraskin's office will be dispatched later to deal with that. However, it is possible that the two deaths are related.'
'There are many violent subversive people in Moscow,' said Rostnikov.
'Moscow?' the Wolfhound said, halting in his pacing as someone softly knocked at his door. 'Commissar Rutkin was murdered in the town of Tumsk, where you are to go immediately to conduct your investigation and report back within three days.'
'Tumsk?'
'Somewhere in Siberia on the Yensei River,' the Wolfhound said, ignoring the now insistent knock. 'Arrangements have been made for you. Check them with Pankov. Take the report. It is a copy. Guard it carefully. It contains information on Rutkin, Samsonov, the child. You have my support and confidence and three days.'
'Thank you, Colonel,' Rostnikov said getting up carefully and clutching the file. 'Can I have some assistance in this? Perhaps I can settle this with even greater dispatch if I have someone to do the legwork. Someone we can trust.'
The colonel had a smile on his face which did not please Porfiry Petrovich. The colonel put his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels.
'I've anticipated your request, Gospodin, Comrade.' the Wolfhound said. 'Investigator Karpo will be accompanying you.'
'As always, Comrade Colonel, you are ahead of me,' Rostnikov said.
'Porfiry Petrovich, do not fail me. Do not fail us. Do not fail the Revolution,' Snitkonoy said from his position near the window where the setting sun could silhouette his erect form.
'The Revolution can continue in confidence with its fate in my hands,' Rostnikov said, hand on the door. It was as close to sarcasm as Rostnikov could risk with the colonel, but the inspector's dignity required the gesture.
'Ah, one more thing,' said the colonel before Rostnikov could get the door open. 'An investigator from the office of the procurator will be accompanying you. Someone from the Kiev district. The Procurator General himself wants him to observe your methods, learn from your vast experience.'
Rostnikov opened the door where the colonel's assistant, Pankov, a near-dwarf of a man, stood ready to knock again. Pankov was not incompetent but that was not why Snitkonoy had chosen him. Rostnikov was sure that Pankov owed his position in life to the striking contrast he made to the Wolfhound. Pankov's clothes were perpetually rumpled, his few strands of hair unwilling to lie in peace against his scalp. When he stood as erect as he was able to stand, Pankov rose no higher than the Wolfhound's chest. Rostnikov had recently decided that Pankov looked like a refugee from the pages of a novel by the Englishman Charles Dickens.
'Is he upset?' Pankov whispered in fear to Rostnikov.
'Not in the least,' Rostnikov whispered back.
'Pankov,' the Wolfhound bellowed and Pankov almost shook.
'I'll check back with you in half an hour to make arrangements for my mission to Siberia,' Rostnikov told the frightened little man who looked at the silhouetted colonel.
'Sometimes,' whispered Pankov, 'I think I would live longer if I were in Siberia.'
'Perhaps,' Rostnikov whispered back, 'it can be arranged.'
'Stop whispering and get in here, Pankov,' the Wolfhound shouted. 'I haven't all night, my little friend.'
Rostnikov stepped out, closed the door, tucked the folder under his arm and slowly headed for his office. He did his best not to think, to concentrate on nothing at all, to select in his mind the novel he would take with him on
