armor, right hand raised, pointing into the wilderness, stood in the center of the square. Around him were houses, about a dozen of them, most of them made of wood, spread out in no particular order. The town consisted of a concrete structure with a metal tower on a slope to the right, which Rostnikov assumed was the weather station; a collapsing wooden church, obviously not in use, with part of the cross on its spire missing and its windows glassless and yawning; a wide log building with a broad cedar door; and another concrete building to the left which they were about to pass. Set back on the slope not far from the weather station stood three more wooden houses about thirty yards apart.
'This way. This way,' Famfanoff said, pointing to the right at a two-story wood building. He trudged through the snow and urged them to follow him. They formed a line behind the man, Karpo first, followed by Sokolov and Rostnikov in the rear.
Rostnikov glanced to his left at the lopsided concrete building over whose door was a faded wooden plank with 'The People's Hall of Justice and Solidarity' painted in red letters. A curtain parted slightly in the window of the Hall and Rostnikov saw the frightened face of an old man.
'I don't live here in the village,' Famfanoff said when they were inside the two-story wooden building. 'Our office is Agapitovo. I'm responsible for periodic visits and responses to calls from the south. Kusnetsov is responsible for the north. I don't live here.'
'But other people do,' said Rostnikov. 'And after we eat I would like to know about them.'
'I am at your service,' said Famfanoff.
Famfanoff escorted the visitors into the wooden building and up to the second floor where there were three small bedrooms each furnished with a military cot. Rostnikov asked for the smallest because it faced the square. No one objected. Rostnikov's room contained a wooden chair and a small white metal cabinet with drawers that was meant to serve as a dresser. Sokolov and Karpo had similar furnishings. The bathroom in the hall was the only other room on the floor.
The house, Famfanoff explained as he stood in the doorway while Rostnikov took off his coat and unpacked his bag, was built by government fur traders in the last century but the last Mongols had long since moved beyond the massive forest, the taiga, which almost reached the town. When the traders left, the Navy moved the first weather station into the house and only recently, about five years ago, the new concrete weather station had been completed. Since then, the building they were in had been maintained by Mirasnikov, the janitor at the People's Hall of Justice and Solidarity which served as a town hall, recreation center, meeting ground and office space for Tumsk.
Rostnikov nodded as Famfanoff, his coat open to reveal a less-than-clean MVD uniform underneath, reached into his pocket for a foul-smelling papirosy, a tube cigarette which he lit without pausing in his banter.
'The weather station was built under the direction of the Permafrost Research Center in Igarka,' he said. 'It's on steel beams hammered deeply into the ground. The permafrost softens every summer to about six feet down. The stilts have to go down twenty, thirty feet maybe. Before they came up with the idea of beams all the buildings had to be wood or they would sink into the ground in the summer. Even those would start to sag after four or five years. The wooden houses of Tumsk have all been reinforced with steel beams. You may have noticed that the People's Hall sags. It was shored up by some steel beams about a dozen years ago but, if you ask me, it was too late. It should probably come down or be abandoned like the old church. One of these summers both of them will collapse. No doubt of it. It should come down, but no one seems interested enough in it to make a decision. I tell you, Inspector, Tumsk is a dying town, a dying town.'
Rostnikov walked to the window and looked out at the white square, the buildings with smoke coming from their chimneys and the white expanse behind the village leading to the forest. Then he looked at Ermak's statue which, now that he looked at it carefully, seemed to tilt slightly to the right.
'The statue, is that mounted on a steel beam?'
'I think so,' said Famfanoff with a shrug.
In the window of the People's Hall of Justice and Solidarity, the old man looked out and up at Rostnikov from the parted curtains. Their eyes met and the old man stepped back letting the curtains fall back across the window. Rostnikov moved the single chair near the window and sat looking out.
'You want my theory?' Famfanoff asked as Rostnikov turned back into the room which was rapidly filling with the smoke and smell of the policeman's ropey cigarette.
'Da, kane-sbna, of course,' said Rostnikov as he moved the chair closer to the window.
'A bear,' said Famfanoff pointing at Rostnikov with his cigarette. 'Commissar Rutkin was killed by a bear.'
'Are there many bears around here?' asked Rostnikov.
'Not many, but some,' said Famfanoff confidentially and quietly, probably, Rostnikov thought, to keep the bears from hearing. 'And tigers. There are still tigers. And wolves, of course wolves, a great many of them. I, well, not I exactly, but Kustnetsov had to kill a tiger just three years ago. Of course that was four hundred kilometers north of here but it was a tiger and I've seen bears many times, believe me.'
'I believe you,' said Rostnikov. 'I will consider your bear theory. Is someone getting us something to eat?'
'To eat? Yes, of course. Mirasnikov's wife. She's the wife of the janitor in the People's Hall of Justice,' said Famfanoff. 'She'll keep the house warm. Plenty of firewood.'
'You have files on everyone in town, everyone who lives in town?' Rostnikov asked, looking up at the policeman who appeared to be waiting for an invitation to sit, though there was nowhere to do so but the cot and the single chair on which Rostnikov sat. Rostnikov didn't want to prolong the visit.
'Yes, of course, Comrade,' Famfanoff said. 'I'll get them for you. You want them all? Even the sailors in the weather station?'
'All,' he said. 'How many are there?'
'Let me see. Fourteen, fifteen, if you don't count the few Evenks who wander through and you don't count me, and you shouldn't count me. I don't live here. That doesn't mean I'm not a real siberyaki, a devoted Siberian who takes pride in the rigors of the land of my fathers.' Famfanoff straightened his tunic, looked down the small corridor and then moved toward Rostnikov and spoke softly. 'However, as a matter of fact, Commissar Rutkin before his untimely death indicated that he would recommend a transfer for me someplace a bit larger, possibly Irkutsk where my loyalty, my knowledge of Siberia could be put to better use. I have a wife, a child and perhaps…'
'After the investigation is complete, assuming your cooperation is thorough and efficient, I will make the recommendation,' Rostnikov agreed.
Famfanoff beamed and clutched the cigarette in his teeth in a grin.
Rostnikov doubted that the dead commissar would have made such a promise to the slovenly and probably less-than-competent policeman. Famfanoff was probably where he belonged. For once the system had not failed. In a larger MVD unit he would probably have trouble surviving. Rostnikov had not lied. He wanted and needed the man's loyalty and cooperation. He would write the letter of recommendation, certain that it would have no effect because he lacked the power Famfanoff believed him to possess.
'Two more things, Sergeant,' Rostnikov said.
'Anything, Comrade Inspector,' Famfanoff said, removing the cigarette from his mouth and standing straight in something that resembled attention.
'First, I'd like you to draw me a simple map indicating who lives in each of the houses in Tumsk. Bring it back to me later. Second, I want to know if there is any weight-lifting equipment in town?'
'Weight lifting?' asked Famfanoff, puzzled.
'Yes.'
'I will see if the sailors have any. I don't think they do. Ah, Dimitri Galich has something like that. I'll inquire and I'll have the map for you within the hour.'
'Good. Now I would like to rest. Get the files. Find out about the weight-lifting equipment and call us when the food is ready. Now please close the door on your way out so I can get some rest.'
Famfanoff considered saluting, started to raise his right hand, saw that Rostnikov wasn't looking at him and decided to leave. In the corridor he passed the closed door of the one who looked like a vampire and the open door of the other one, the one called Sokolov with the soft smile, the mustache and hard eyes. Sokolov wasn't in his room. The bathroom door was closed.
