wood wall.
'Yes.'
Outside the navy plow groaned into the gray morning. The two men said nothing for a few minutes. The general stood erect. The inspector sat back with his eyes closed. Finally, Rostnikov sighed deeply and sat up.
'Let us play a military game,' he said. 'I'll propose a hypothetical situation, problem, and you provide a solution.'
Krasnikov did not answer. Porfiry Petrovich shifted in his chair, looked at the general and went on.
'Military strategists like games, at least that's what Marshal Timeshenko said.'
'I do not argue with Marshal Timeshenko,' said Krasnikov.
'Suppose a military man fascinated by military strategy, feeling, perhaps, that his country is pursuing a foolish military course were banished for his ideas. Having nothing to do and being a man of letters, this military man spends some time writing his criticism of the military course of his former comrades and their nonmilitary superiors.'
'For what purpose?' Krasnikov asked evenly.
'For what purpose does he write or for what purpose does he intend the results of his labor to be applied?'
'Both,' said Krasnikov.
'Perhaps he writes because there is no one to listen except some reader of the future. Perhaps he dreams of return and wants his thoughts in clear form for publication.
Perhaps he is bitter and wants to present his ideas to the world in the hope that by so doing he will force his country to revise its military strategy, force his country through the voices of its critics in other countries, because its strategy has been compromised, to develop a policy closer to his own. So many reasons.'
'And the game?' Krasnikov said.
'Where would he keep his manuscript? How would he get it out of the country?'
'This sounds more like a policeman's game than a military strategist's,' said Krasnikov. 'Would you like some tea?'
'No tea. And yes, perhaps it is a policeman's game.'
'Inspector, you have probably been up all night. You are worried about your wife. You have a killer to catch, a mystery to solve. Perhaps you would be better off dealing with those problems than with hypothetical ones.'
Rostnikov smiled.
'You've been talking to one of the sailors,' he said. 'That is how you know about my wife.'
'The people I find most compatible in this compound are those of the military even if they are not men of rank,' said Krasnikov.. 'What about our game?'
'I don't wish to play your game, Comrade Inspector.'
'It is possible that Commissar Rutkin in the course of his investigation of the death of the Samsonov child found himself playing the game,' said Rostnikov.
Krasnikov looked down at Rostnikov, tilted his head and laughed.
'You are amused,' said Rostnikov with a sigh. 'I'm pleased that I can bring a moment of mirth into the life of a resident of Tumsk.'
'I don't believe Commissar Rutkin found himself playing such a game,' Krasnikov said controlling his amusement.
Rostnikov rose, smiled at Krasnikov and said, 'If such a manuscript existed by such a man, I would have no interest in it other than its connection to the death of the child, the murder of Commissar Rutkin, and the shooting of Sergei Mirasnikov.'
'I did not kill the child or Rutkin. Nor did I shoot Mirasnikov. I am a soldier.'
'I understand,' Rostnikov said, stepping toward the still erect general, 'that in Afghanistan, Soviet soldiers are being told to shoot children and old men.'
'A policy and strategy destined for failure. Afghanistan is a disaster, should never have been entered into. The Soviet army should leave immediately before more of our reputation is eroded and more of our men are needlessly killed. It is not like the American's Viet Nam. For us it is worse, far worse.'
'And this book, if it existed, might point out this folly?' Rostnikov said, now no more than three feet from the taller general.
There was something in the barrel-of-a-man's voice that made Krasnikov pause.
'It might. It would,' he said.
Rostnikov nodded and started for the door.
'I have a son in the army, in Afghanistan,' he said.
'I see,' said Krasnikov behind him. 'I would imagine that a police inspector might have enough blat to get his son out of that death trap.'
'Some police inspectors are not looked upon with favor by the KGB,' said Rostnikov. 'Some police inspectors have made the mistake of playing games of strategy not unlike the one I proposed we play.'
'And some police inspectors are clever enough to be maskirovannoye, masked, to play games to trap naive lawbreakers,' said Krasnikov.
'Keep writing, Comrade General,' Rostnikov said, opening the door and stepping into the morning.
The yellow navy plow was screeching up the slope past the porch. Rostnikov stood waiting for it to pass. The driver, thickly bundled in fur, waved to Rostnikov who waved back.
'You are sure?' Dr. Olga Yegeneva asked, her eyes magnified by the round glasses.
The two women stood talking in the hall of a small private medical facility, really an old two-story house near the small botanic garden off of Mirak Prospekt. The office Olga Yegeneva shared with two other doctors was occupied and so they had moved into the hall where the doctor offered to sit with her patient on a wooden bench. Sarah Rostnikov had indicated that she would prefer to stand.
Sarah Rostnikov looked at the serious young woman in the white smock who stood before her and thought for an instant that it might be better to find an older doctor, a man. Then the instant passed and she saw the younger woman's confidence, steadiness and, equally important, her sincere concern for the patient before her.
'I've thought about it. Better to get it done quickly, have it over when he gets back,' she said. 'You've said every day of waiting is an added danger.'
'Perhaps, but…' Dr. Yegeneva said.
'He'll forgive me,' Sarah said.
'Your son. We could make some calls, perhaps get him back here on leave,' the young doctor said, adjusting her glasses.
The young woman was quite pretty, her skin clear, her short hair a clean straw-yellow, her magnified eyes a glowing gray. Sarah imagined her son meeting the woman, sharing a joke near Sarah's hospital bed, getting together. Even though her cousin had recommended Dr. Yegeneva, Sarah knew the young woman was not Jewish. It was possible that if Josef took a non-Jewish wife he would cease to be identified as Jewish, that his children, Sarah and Porfiry Petrovich's grandchildren, would not be identified as Jewish. She thought this and felt guilty at the thought, guilty and angry and the anger showed.
'I'd rather my son know nothing of this till the operation is over,' she said. 'If everything is fine, he need not come. If everything is not fine, you can try to get him to Moscow as soon as you can. He will need his father. His father will need him.'
Olga Yegeneva took both of her patient's hands.
'I'm very good,' she said softly.
Sarah looked back into the gray eyes.
'I believe you are,' she said. 'Alex told me you are.'
'I'll make the calls, set up the surgery for tomorrow morning,' Olga Yegeneva said.
'My husband will arrange for the remainder of the costs when he gets back,' she said. 'We have saved a bit. We'll have a bit left after.'
Olga Yegeneva nodded. She didn't like talking about money. She didn't like talking about very much but her work. She had heard, read of the money, prestige of surgeons in the West. She would have settled for the respect she felt her skills deserved. Getting through medical school had required all of the influence of her father, a department head at the University of Leningrad. Her father had even joined the Communist Patty when she was but
