'If you've read his reports, then you know,' said Krasnikov.
Since Rutkin's reports had apparently been scattered to the winds when he died and were now buried in snow or lost in the woods or river, the opportunity to examine them had not been afforded to Rostnikov or anyone else. However, Rostnikov did not plan to share this information with the general.
'There is a story,' said Rostnikov, 'that Field Marshal Mikhail Kutuzov before the Battle of 1812 called in his artillery officer and asked for a report on positions of Napoleon's army. The officer made his report and was ready to leave when Kutuzov asked him once more to give his report on French positions. The officer, in some confusion, gave his report again and turned to leave. Once more Kutuzov asked for the report. Once more the officer reported and this time, before he turned, he asked the Field Marshal why he had wanted the same report three times. Kutuzov replied that in the third telling the officer, in an attempt to vary his presentation, had added information which he had not given before, information which he had not thought important. Kutuzov told the officer that the added information about movement on the left flank in the cavalry cover would significantly alter his plans for counterattack.'
'I've never heard that story,' said Krasnikov.
'Maybe it isn't true,' said Rostnikov.
'Maybe you made it up,' said the general.
'Perhaps if I repeat it you will find some detail that will confirm your suspicion,' said Rostnikov.
'Very clever, Inspector,' Krasnikov said with a smile. 'But remember the real Kutuzov was responsible for abandoning Moscow.'
'… and thereby saving the Russian army,' added Rostnikov.
'You know military history,' said Krasnikov.
'I know Tolstoy,', responded Rostnikov.
Sokolov sighed deeply, clearly impatient.
'I think I like you, Inspector,' said Krasnikov, putting both booted feet on the hard wood floor with a clap. 'Or, at least, I may have some respect for you, which is even more important.'
'What did you tell Commissar Rutkin?' Sokolov said.
Krasnikov fixed Sokolov with what was probably his most withering military look, then he turned to Rostnikov, whose eyes and hands went up to indicate that he knew the question at that juncture of the conversation had been out of order but, perhaps, it might not be a bad idea for the general to answer it. At least that was what Krasnikov got from the look.
'Commissar Rutkin questioned me about the death of the Samsonov child,' said Krasnikov, a touch of emotion suddenly coming into his voice. 'He seemed to think that the child had been murdered.'
'And?' Rostnikov prompted when the general stopped.
'The child fell from the rock by the river,' he said. 'She should not have been playing at the rock. She simply fell. Her father could not accept this fact, could not accept the responsibility and so he began to scream murder and Rutkin came running up here to hold his hand and humor him. Everyone is so concerned about the feelings of a dissident. Everyone is so afraid that he will take his accusations to the West.'
'And,' Sokolov interrupted, much to Rostnikov's annoyance which he did his best not to show, 'you are confident that the child did not meet with foul play?'
'Foul play?' said Krasnikov, not trying to hide his annoyance. 'Why would anyone want to kill the child? She was a quiet, gentle little thing. She couldn't even go out most days because of the cold and wind. She had no one to play with, no other children.'
'And so you spent time with her?' Rostnikov asked, opening his coat a bit more.
'A bit,' he admitted. 'She was a smart child. Mostly she spent time with the priest Galich.'
'And you got along well with her parents?' Rostnikov continued.
'He's a fool,' Krasnikov said, striding across the room past Sokolov to his desk where he picked up an iron paperweight.
'And the mother, Ludmilla?'
Krasnikov looked down at Rostnikov who had turned awkwardly in his chair to face the general.
'She is no fool,' Krasnikov said, shifting the paperweight from one hand to the other.
'She is quite beautiful too,' Rostnikov observed.
Sokolov shifted in his chair and cleared his throat to indicate his irritation with these diversions from the issue.
'I've seen more beautiful women. I've not always been here,' Krasnikov said, looking around the room and then over his shoulder out the window. 'I've seen the women of Rome, Budapest, even Paris.'
'Do you have some idea of why anyone might want to kill Commissar Rutkin?' asked Rostnikov.
'To rid the world of one more fool?' Krasnikov answered with his own question.
'Comrade General,' Sokolov said with intensity. 'This is a serious investigation of the death of a high-ranking Party member.'
'High-ranking?' countered Krasnikov with yet another question.
'A Party member,' Sokolov amended. 'Do you have anything to tell us about his murder?'
Krasnikov smiled and, ignoring Sokolov, threw the piece of iron in his hand to Rostnikov who caught it and felt its cool power.
'Meteorite,' the general said. 'Dimitri Galich finds them all over the area. You might ask him for one as a souvenir.'
Rostnikov rose and threw the piece of iron back to the general who caught it without removing his eyes from Rostnikov's face.
'We will talk again,' said Rostnikov, buttoning his coat and heading toward the door. Behind him he could hear Sokolov getting up quickly.
'I have a few more questions, Comrade Inspector,' Sokolov said.
'By all means,' said Rostnikov pausing at the door to look back at the other two men. 'I am going to go back to my room and then to Dimitri Galich's again.'
'I'll meet you there,' said Sokolov.
'He has some weights. I plan to use them. You may join me if you wish.'
'All right then. I'll meet you at the house in which we are staying,' said Sokolov.
Rostnikov agreed and moved to the door. 'Don't forget to ask for a meteorite,' said the general. 'I won't,' said Rostnikov who opened the door and stepped into the skin-freezing morning.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A dedusbka, a grandfather with a massive, old-fashioned white mustache, held his bundled-up grandchild by the hand and ordered an ice cream. Sasha, who was now growing accustomed to using the ice cream scoop, served them while Boris Manizer watched his new assistant critically. The child, no more than two, was wearing a snowsuit that made him or her look like a cosmonaut.
The grandfather paid and held out the ice cream for the child to lick. The child was wrapped too tightly to bend his arms.
'He likes it,' said the grandfather revealing an almost toothless mouth.
'Good,' said Boris pulling Sasha back behind the stand where two waiting customers, probably foreigners, stepped up to be served.
'Do you see them?' Sasha said looking around the shopping center.
'No,' whispered Boris. 'I just wanted to remind you to scoop like this. Like this. You leave a little hollow space in the ball. You use a little less ice cream. By the end of the day, you save gallons. You understand?'
'Yes,' Sasha whispered back. 'You cheat the people.'
Boris stepped back and put his right hand to his heart.
'Cheat? Me? The people? Never,' he said. 'I keep innocent children from eating too much ice cream and getting terrible cramps. Children will do that. I have children. They do that. I'm doing them a service.'
'You are a hero of the Revolution,' Sasha said.
