'I called Inspector Ivanov,' said Karpo. 'No one spoke to him about the report. He did not make the change. He suggested that I simply pull it out and return the report to the proper file.'
'No doubt he also wanted to know why you were reading the file of a case assigned to him,' Rostnikov said.
'I told him it seemed to be tied in to a case on which I was working,' said Karpo.
'Well, Sasha?' asked Rostnikov, reaching for the last of the bread. The smell of boiling rassolnik rybny, noodle soup, had reminded Rostnikov of his hunger.
'A joker
'The risks associated with such a joke make that unlikely,' said Karpo, who had obviously thought about this possibility.
'A lunatic in the file room?' Tkach tried again. 'Sabotage? The KGB? A test?'
'All possible,' said Rostnikov. 'But there is another possibility.'
'I don't see it,' sighed Tkach.
'That there is a person, possibly an officer, who has access to the files and knows something but is unwilling or unable to come forward and say it. Perhaps he knows of KGB involvement in the murders, or mat a prominent figure or the relative of a prominent figure, possibly even a member of the Politburo, is involved in die murders. It has happened before. This officer is suggesting that someone else pick up the pieces.'
'There is another possibility,' said Karpo.
'That the murderer is a police officer who wanted the reports of his killings kept together,' said Tkach.
Rostnikov smiled in appreciation and reached over to pat the younger man's back.
'Stay for soup,' he said. 'Sarah, is there enough soup?'
'Enough for all. More than you and I can eat,' she called back.
Tkach nodded and Karpo said nothing for an instant and then nodded his agreement. Rostnikov got up and moved into the kitchen to get another loaf of bread. Sarah looked at him as she cut a cucumber.
'Don't look like that, Porfiry Petrovich,' she said quietly.
'Look? Look like what?' he answered, reaching over her for the day-old black bread in the cupboard.
'We'll talk about it later,' she whispered.
'Talk about?'
'Josef,' she said. She cut the cucumber into smaller pieces, turning her head from him. 'I got a call at the shop today to tell me that he had been, had been transferred to Afghanistan. They said they had already told you.'
'That was kind of them,' Rostnikov said, putting his arm around her shoulder.
A FEVERED RAIN 'No, it wasn't,' she said, holding back the tears.
'No, it wasn't,' he agreed. 'It was a warning to me, to us.'
She said nothing.
'We'll talk later,' he said and returned to die other room to pass the bread around and pour fresh tea.
For the next half hour they worked out a plan to deal with Karpo's case. Only after they had finished their dinner did Rostnikov turn to Tkach.
'This morning I located, and obtained evidence against, two black marketers dealing in video recorders and videotapes,' he said. 'I turned my report in to Deputy Procurator Khabolov, who said that he would personally investigate. I believe he may plan to profit by and from these black marketers.'
'And this surprises you?' Rostnikov said, looking at Karpo, whose thin lips were even more pale and tight than usual. Corruption was accepted by most Soviet citizens, but to Emil Karpo every act of corruption was an attack on the system to which he had dedicated his life. Corruption by a member of the police was especially painful. Karpo's impulse, Rostnikov was sure, was to confront and punish, to punish severely.
'No,' sighed Tkach. 'I'm afraid that I will be used to cover for whatever he plans to do, that I will be blamed if he is found out.'
'A reasonable conclusion, from what we know of Deputy Khabolov,' said Rostnikov. 'And you'd like some help in protecting yourself?'
'Yes,' said Tkach.
'And the black marketers?' asked Rostnikov.
Tkach shrugged.
'One of them has a daughter, a young girl,' Tkach said softly. 'She's about nine or ten.'
Rostnikov looked at Karpo, who betrayed his feelings only by meeting the inspector's eyes.
'Emil Karpo thinks that the existence of the child is not relevant, mat we do not excuse corruption for any cause, that the child might well be better off as a ward of the state. Am I right, Emil?'
'You are right, Comrade,' Karpo said.
'I don't know,' said Tkach.
'Well,' said Rostnikov, standing to ease the strain on his leg, 'let's see what we can work out.'
At precisely eleven o'clock that night, Osip and Felix Gorgasali sat in their trailer, the blackened curtains down, and talked quietly so they would not wake Osip's wife and daughter. They talked about, wondered about, feared, what they would have to face the next morning. A uniformed policeman had arrived late in the evening at the trailer to inform them that they were to be in the office of Deputy Procurator Khabolov at exactly eight the next morning. The policeman had given no explanation, and they had been too stunned to ask for one.
From time to time, Felix muttered nichevo, the Russian word for 'nothing,' which conveyed resignation, stoicism, the idea that whatever might be the problem, you shouldn't let it get to you. Life is too full of explosions. One cannot allow oneself to be destroyed by fear of them.
'Nichevo,' Osip agreed, wondering which shirt to wear the next morning, knowing that he wouldn't be able to sleep.
At precisely eleven o'clock that night, Sasha Tkach rubbed his wife's back as they lay in bed. They didn't speak. Maya loved to.have her back rubbed, and let out a soft, appreciative purr as he moved his hands up from her spine to her shoulders.
The book of fairy tales was propped against the table near the baby's bed. Pulcharia turned and gurgled in harmony with her mother's hum, and Sasha smiled in the darkness, forgetting his anxiety.
At precisely eleven o'clock that night, Yuri Pon considered smashing a chair over Nikolai's head. Nikolai, the filthy dwarf, was snoring, snoring as he never had before.
Yuri went to Nikolai's bed and prodded him. The sleeping man snorted, spewed forth an alcoholic belch, turned on his side, and snored much more quietly. Nikolai had not changed clothes, had not shaved, had simply taken off his shirt and shoes and fallen asleep.
The prodding by Yuri would be effective for about ten minutes while Nikolai approached wakefulness and then gradually retreated to the depth of whatever dreams he had, dreams that quickened his heartbeat and made him snore like a wounded cat.
Yuri wanted to sleep, had to sleep. He had to get up early for work. There was so much to do. But going to sleep with this snoring and the feeling of incompleteness was impossible. It was as if Yuri were hungry, but he had eaten ravenously when he got home that night, had eaten and eaten as he had as a boy, a fat boy. The eating left him still hungry, but hunger wasn't quite what he now felt. Unfulfilled. That was it. There was only one thing that would make that feeling, that near-pain, go away. He would have to do more work for the state, for the people, for Russia. He would have to find a prostitute soon. He would have to find her and kill her. If he lived long enough, he might have to find and kill every prostitute in Moscow inside the Outer Ring Road. There might be hundreds. They might be replaced by others. He might be caught. That would be the worst of all, to be caught and sent to jail knowing that they were still out there. It would be like forever living suspended over a jigsaw puzzle with one piece left to put in and never being able to place the piece where it belonged. As he lay in the darkness of the room, he imagined himself standing over a table with a jigsaw puzzle laid out before him. He couldn't see the puzzle but he knew he held the final piece in his hand. He couldn't quite see the piece, either, but he knew it was heavy, too heavy to keep holding. He also knew that he could not put it down, and he struggled to stay awake, not fall into mis dream, a dream he had created. His eyes wouldn't open. In his near-dream he looked down at the puzzle and suddenly knew the puzzle was very important.
It was more than just a thing to pass the time. The solution to the puzzle would be the solution to something about himself.
