'About your daughter's death? Very little. About Commissar Rutkin's death, possibly quite a bit more. Perhaps when we find out about one we will find out about the other.'
He gulped down the last of the coffee, returned the cup and saucer to Ludmilla Samsonov and gave her a small smile before turning to her husband.
'Shall we go,' he said.
A moment later the doctor and the policeman stepped out the door and looked down the slope. The frantic figure of Famfanoff was rushing toward the People's Hall, his flowing coat only partially buttoned, his hat perched precariously atop his head.
By the time Rostnikov and Samsonov reached the square, the navy vehicle had broken the silence of the morning by cranking to life. In moments, a sailor would drive around the corner of the weather station and start the morning ritual of clearing a path.
Samsonov entered the People's Hall of Justice and Solidarity first. After the doctor entered the building, Rostnikov paused for an instant to look back around the town. In the window of his own room across the square he caught a glimpse of Sokolov who danced back out of sight. Rostnikov turned and entered the People's Hall, closing the door firmly behind him.
Rostnikov followed the doctor across the wooden floor and into the room where Mirasnikov lay on his bed, his wife kneeling next to him. Famfanoff tried to rise to stand at attention.
'All is secure, Comrade,' Famfanoff announced.
'I had complete faith in you, Sergeant Famfanoff,' said Rostnikov as Samsonov moved to the bed, pulled a chair over, examined Mirasnikov's face, eyes and wound and pulled a stethoscope out of his bag.
Liana Mirasnikov looked at her husband, the doctor and the two policemen for answers but they had none for the moment. She let out a wail of pain and frustration and Rostnikov wondered where the old woman got the energy for all this grief after being up all night. He suppressed a fleeting image of himself at the bedside of his wife Sarah, her head bandaged, a woman doctor with huge glasses hovering over her and clucking sadly, refusing to give Rostnikov attention, an answer.
Rostnikov met the old woman's eyes and motioned with his hands for her to be calm.
It took Samsonov no more than three minutes to complete his examination and change the bandage on the old man's shoulder. Mirasnikov groaned when his body was moved. He opened his eyes, looked around in fear and closed them again.
'Give him one of these now,' he told the old woman, handing her a bottle of capsules. 'And another every two hours. Wake him if you must but give them to him.'
Samsonov got up and moved to the door. Famfanoff still stood at what he took to be attention. Rostnikov motioned for him to be seated and the policeman gratefully moved back to the chair.
In the assembly room with the door closed behind them, Samsonov took off his glasses, put them in a black leather case, placed the case in his pocket and told Rostnikov, 'There is nothing to be done for him. The wound is infected. I've cleaned it, given him an antibiotic. I suppose we can call in a helicopter and have him evacuated to the hospital in Igarka but I think he would die from the movement. He is a very old man.'
'I understand,' said Rostnikov.
'If you have grief in you, Inspector, give some of it to my Karla,' he said, weariness dulling the bitter edge he sought.
'I have and I will,' Rostnikov said. 'I'll not forget your daughter.'
Samsonov looked up suddenly, angrily, to search for irony in the policeman's sympathy, but he could see none because there was none to be seen. Samsonov considered thanking the man but he couldn't bring himself to do it, not now, not yet. Words, looks were something but deeds were more important.
'We will see,' said Samsonov. 'We will see.'
He turned from Rostnikov and hurried across the room, opening the door through which the sound of the navy plow came screeching. When he closed the door, the sound did not disappear but it was muffled, a little further away.
There was one more person to see before he could rest, Rostnikov thought. One more person. It was not quite together yet. He had a picture but he did not trust that picture. It needed some changes. It needed, among other things, the shaman for whom he had sent Karpo. It would be best if he could get some rest first, but there was no time. Sarah was alone in Moscow.
He buttoned his coat and went out to find General Vassily Krasnikov.
The killer returned to the window and looked out at the square, at the ever-pointing Ermak. Things had not gone well. The policeman was not dead and seemed to be even more eager to pursue his investigation as if he had some deadline, near as the next full turn of the clock.
Perhaps, thought the killer, the attempt to shoot Rostnikov had been a bit rash. Perhaps the man knew nothing. It would be best if he were gone but now was the time for retrenching, pulling in, putting on the mask. Just a few more days and it wouldn't matter what the detective found or thought he found.
The killer looked out of the window and sipped from a glass of wine, a morning glass of French table wine, a small one which always seemed to help clear the mind.
And then something interesting happened. Rostnikov came out of the People's Hall and looked up the slope. The killer did not move away from the window, did not want to risk being seen moving away from the policeman's eyes. Better to simply stand there, look down. Rostnikov turned his head and began to move around the square and onto the just-cleared path. But before he could get ten yards, the door to the old building across the square opened and the other one, the one with the mustache, Sokolov, came running out to head off Rostnikov.
He blocked the other man's way and spoke quickly, apparently with anger and much movement of his hands and arms; the killer could hear the voices but none of the words. Rostnikov looked up the slope wearily and then answered Sokolov with apparent calm and no histrionics.
Whatever he said infuriated Sokolov even more. He pointed a finger at the inspector who moved past him and he kept shouting as Rostnikov followed the plowed path upward past the weather station. Rostnikov did not turn back, did not acknowledge the shouting man in the square standing next to the ruins of the old church. Sokolov shouted once more and then gave up and stalked back into the house slamming the door.
Rostnikov was out of sight for the moment beyond the bend, blocked by the concrete weather station. The killer stepped back from the window, put down the empty wine glass and waited in the expectation that Rostnikov would in a few moments be knocking at the door.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
'You look weary, Inspector,' General Krasnikov said as he ushered Rostnikov into the house.
Rostnikov grunted, unbuttoned the top of his coat, tucked his hat into his pocket, glanced at the furious stuffed head of the bear and moved to the firm wooden chair he had sat in before.
Krasnikov was dressed in a quasi-military suit of boots, gray neatly pressed pants, white shirt and tie and gray jacket. Rostnikov looked up at the General who wandered to his desk by the window, looked out and then turned back to look at his visitor.
'Your Comrade Procurator is not pleased with you,' he said nodding toward the window. 'I happened to be looking out the window a few minutes ago.'
Rostnikov said nothing. He nodded and rubbed his nose.
'I can't say I liked the manner of the man when you two were here yesterday,' Krasnikov went on, standing, hands clasped behind him, legs spread slightly. The pose reminded Rostnikov of the Gray Wolfhound, which reminded him of Moscow, which in turn reminded him of Sarah.
'He wanted to come with me to talk to you,' Rostnikov said.
'And?'
'I didn't want him to come,' Rostnikov went on, opening his eyes but still rubbing the bridge of his nose. 'I wanted to speak to you alone.'
'Good,' said Krasnikov firmly. 'I do not like the man. He confuses duty with power.'
'A common military mistake?' Rostnikov asked, looking away from the General to a vague spot on the dark
