wall and back to the window where he turned to Rostnikov who looked up at him attentively.
'You have a son in Afghanistan?'
'I have.'
'And you agree that the military operation there is improper for political, economic and humanitarian reasons?'
'I do,' said Rostnikov.
'I am concerned primarily with the military error,' Krasnikov said, looking as if he were about to resume pacing. 'If I were to try to have a manuscript-length work carried out of the country by a departing citizen, a citizen who might not want to carry such a document, I would go through the painstaking process of actually printing one copy of the manuscript in book form and have it covered, bound and titled, probably giving it a title which an airport inspector or even a KGB officer would be likely to ignore.'
'Printing one copy of a book would be most difficult, require special printing equipment, binding equipment,' said Rostnikov, his eyes never leaving his visitor.
'It would probably take a year to do using crude equipment,' said Krasnikov.
'And the idea would be that instead of hiding the manuscript, one disguises it and puts it in plain sight,' said Rostnikov. 'Clever.'
'A traditional military tactic,' said Krasnikov. 'But it does no good if the carrier does not cross the border.'
'Perhaps a miracle will happen very soon,' said Rostnikov. 'Perhaps a new killer will be identified and Samsonov will be freed and urged to leave the country within the week as he was scheduled 'to do.'
Krasnikov examined the bland, flat face of the policeman and smiled.
'Then we will have to hope for a miracle,' he said.
'Do you still wish to be arrested for murder?' Rostnikov asked.
'There seems to be a slight hint of sun this morning,' said Krasnikov. 'Perhaps I won't confess today.'
The general moved to the bed and held out his right hand. Rostnikov took it.
'Forgive me for not rising, Comrade.'
'Forgive me for underestimating you,' Krasnikov responded.
'Always a tactical error,' said Rostnikov.
'Just as Tolstoy said in his Military Strategy Through History,' said Krasnikov releasing the inspector's hand.
'A book I should read some day,' said Rostnikov with a sigh.
'Let's hope you do,' said the General moving to the door. 'Good morning.'
It was Rostnikov's belief that only one copy existed of Tolstoy's Military Strategy Through History and that copy had most definitely not been written by Tolstoy. The general left the room, closing the door gently behind him. Rostnikov listened to his booted feet move across the short hall and down the stairs. When the outside door closed, Rostnikov sensed rather than heard another movement in the house and then a light knock at the door.
'Come in, Emil,' he called, and Karpo entered the room dressed in black trousers, shoes, and a turtleneck sweater, and carrying a thick sheaf of papers. Rostnikov looked up. 'Emil, how is it that you never need a shave?'
'I shave frequently, Comrade Inspector,' Karpo said.
'Good,' sighed Rostnikov, putting his feet on the floor and reaching out to accept Karpo's report. 'I feared that you had found a way to remove facial hair but once in your life so you would not have to spend time removing it, time you could be spending at work.'
'I don't think such a procedure exists, Comrade,' Karpo said seriously. 'If it were not time-consuming and were reversible, it might well be a consideration. A very rough estimate would yield thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of man-hours saved in the ranks of the MVD alone.'
'You are not joking, are you, Emil? You haven't finally made a joke?' Rostnikov said with a smile as he stood.
'Not at all,' said Karpo, puzzled. 'The seemingly absurd can turn out to be the eminently practical. Invention often requires the creativity of the absurd.'
'Do you ever practice such creativity, Emil?' Rostnikov stretched and looked toward the window.
'Never, Comrade. I am not creative. I leave that to others, like you, who have a genetic or developed ability in that direction,' said Karpo.
'Perhaps you do have a sense of humor, Emil. The problem is that you don't know it. I think it is time to go catch a killer. Shall we go over it again?'
'If you think it is necessary,' Karpo said.
'No,' said Rostnikov. 'Let's go.'
Three minutes later Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov left the house on the square, looked over at the People's Hall of Justice and Solidarity, glanced at the statue of Ermak and started once again up the snowy slope following in the plowed furrow that was almost refilled with drifting snow. He trudged past the weather station and moved to the door of the house of Dimitri Galich.
'It will grow back quickly,' Olga Yegeneva assured her patient.
Sarah Rostnikov looked up at the young surgeon and nodded to show that she understood but she found it difficult to answer, to 'speak, for fear of crying. Porfiry Petrovich had always admired her dark hair with reddish highlights, her naturally curling hair which had recently developed strands of gray.
'Most of it is still there and it can be brushed over,' said Olga Yegeneva. 'I told them to be most careful of that.'
Sarah looked around the small room. The room was white, rather old-fashioned. There were two other beds in the room, one empty, the other containing a sleeping woman with white hair who snored very gently. The winter sun beamed through the window making it difficult for Sarah to accept that the moment was nearing.
'It shouldn't be sunny,' she finally said with a sad smile.
'It should,' said the doctor, her eyes widening behind her round glasses. 'Are you ready?'
Sarah shrugged.
'Why not?'
Olga Yegeneva took her patient's right hand in both of hers and told her again what the procedure would be, that she would be given an injection which would make her drowsy, that she would be wheeled to the operating room where the anesthetic would be administered. She would fall asleep and wake up back in this room, very sleepy, very tired.
'I will wake up back in this room,' Sarah repeated.
'You will.'
The doctor released her patient's hand and made way for a man in white who stepped to the side of Sarah's bed with a hypodermic needle in his hand.
Sarah tried to remember the faces of her husband and son. It was suddenly very important to do so and she wanted to stop this man, call the doctor back, explain that she needed just a few minutes more, a few minutes to remember the faces. It was like catching one's breath. The doctor would understand. She would have to, but Sarah felt the sting of the needle. The panic left her and Sarah gave in, closed her eyes and smiled because the image of Porfiry Petrovich and Josef came to her clearly and both were smiling.
Galich, smiling, clad in overalls and a flannel shirt under a thick green pullover sweater and carrying a brush in his thick right hand, ushered Rostnikov into the house.
'You want to use the weights?' he asked, moving across the room to his worktable cluttered with bits of metal, cloth and glass. The mesh armor had been joined by a thick rusted metal spear which Galich held up for Rostnikov to see.
'No weights today,' said Rostnikov. 'I have much to do.'
'Found this spear only this morning,' said Galich. 'Piece of good luck. It's definitely Mongol and seems to have belonged to a tribal leader. See the markings? Right here?' He brushed at them gently and went on. 'Heavy, iron, but remarkably balanced.'
He hefted the weapon in his right hand, showing how well it was balanced.
'An interesting weapon,' Rostnikov agreed. 'But there are more ancient ones which are also interesting.'
