corridor and went through a door.
Rostnikov found himself on an outdoor, wooden-floored patio. There were a series of chairs and a scattering of white metal tables on the long patio, as if someone had thrown a party and neglected to take the last step of putting back the furniture.
In one of the chairs, under a canopy, sat a very old man in a dark robe. He was the only one on the patio, and he seemed to be asleep, his eyes closed, as the three men approached.
'Comrade,' the older KGB man said softly as they stood in front of the dozing old man. The old man didn't answer.
'Comrade,' the older KGB man repeated, perhaps a little uncertain if he should pursue this or simply wait.
'Yes,' said the old man, his eyes still closed.
'The man you sent for has arrived,' said the KGB man, looking at his partner for some kind of support.
The old man opened his eyes, blinked at the sun, ran his heavily veined hands through his crop of billowy white hair, and sat up. He was small, his face deeply lined, with little broken blood vessels under the eyes that might indicate vodka or age, or both. He didn't look up, but groped in the pocket of his robe for his glasses, found them, placed them on his nose, and looked at the polished wooden floor, shaking his head once. Only then did he look up at Rostnikov. Rostnikov met his eyes and showed nothing.
'You two,' the old man said. 'Get back downstairs.'
The KGB men nodded, turned, and departed.
When they had left, the old man, still sitting, bit his thin lower lip gently and watched Rostnikov, who stood solidly, resisting the urge to rock.
'You may sit, Inspector,'isaid the old man.
'Thank you, Colonel,' Rostnikov answered and made his way to a chair, turning it to face the old man. They were perhaps ten feet apart and Rostnikov felt decidedly uneasy. Rostnikov had dealt with this old man before, had sparred with him, tried to trick him, had blackmailed him, and had earned his enmity. That Colonel Drozhkin had offered him a seat was a very bad sign. Drozhkin normally preferred to have Rostnikov stand on the leg the colonel knew would ache painfully after four or five minutes.
'You are getting along in your new duties, Inspector?' Drozhkin asked, this time looking away to show that the question was not a sincere or meaningful one, that Rostnikov would have to play, appear uncurious, till Drozhkin was willing to get to the point, a point he would probably not come to directly.
'I am doing my best,' Rostnikov said.
'But,' said Drozhkin with a falsely sympathetic smile, 'it is a bit less… responsible than your former duties, and Colonel Snitkonoy has methods that are' he held up his withered hands in a gesture of resignation' you know what I mean.'
'I believe I do, Comrade Colonel,' said Rostnikov. 'But I find Colonel Snitkonoy an inspiration, and my duties, no matter how inconsequential they appear, to be a meaningful part of the state's efforts to bring an end to all criminal activity.'
The old man shrugged his shoulders as if a cold wind had cut through him.
'Not many months ago your desire to aid in preserving the ideals of our nation were less compelling than your desire to seek your fortune hi a Western country, a decadent country,' said Drozhkin. 'Would you like some tea?'
'No, thank you, Comrade,' Rostnikov said. 'I am convinced that my interest hi departing was a brief incapacitation brought on by a heavy work schedule.'
The two men sat silently for a moment, having restated the stalemate they had lived under for almost a year. Rostnikov had thought he had sufficient evidence of a KGB conspiracy to murder dissidents, a conspiracy that would have embarrassed the government at a time when the official policy was one of overt reconciliation, of placating the non-Soviet-aligned nations. Rostnikov had managed to get his evidence out of the country with a German tourist. He had approached Drozhkin with the suggestion that he, Rostnikov, his Jewish wife, Sarah, and their son, Josef, be allowed to emigrate under the Jewish quota.
Rostnikov had underestimated the KGB's resolve and possibly the value of his own information, especially after two premiers had died and the possibility existed that Gorbachev could simply accept the truth of the charges and blame them on Andropov or even Brezhnev. The result had been a stalemate. Rostnikov could live. His wife could work. His son could remain in the army without fear of 'special' treatment. And Rostnikov could go on working under close supervision. It was the best that either side could do, and Rostnikov was confident that the KGB had agents in Western Europe trying to find the evidence he had smuggled out. If they ever found it…
'Life is complicated,' Drozhkin said, as if reading Rostnikov's thoughts.
'Yes,' agreed Rostnikov. 'We must learn to accept and live with complication.'
'Live with it carefully,' Drozhkin corrected.
'Very carefully,' Rostnikov said.
Drozhkin smiled, but it was a smile Rostnikov didn't like.
'I'm dying,' Drozhkin said, his dark eyes fixed on Rostnikov's face. Rostnikov had been expecting something and showed no reaction. He was certain that this was not the news Drozhkin had brought him to hear. He and the KGB colonel were far from friends. This was a distraction to set him up, weaken him, throw him off balance before he learned the real reason for the summoning. However, Rostnikov had no doubt that the colonel's announcement of his coming death was true.
'I'm sorry to hear this, Comrade,' Rostnikov said flatly.
'You should be,' said the old man. 'My protective interest in you will be turned over to my assistant, Major Zhenya. You remember Major Zhenya?'
'I remember Major Zhenya,' Rostnikov acknowledged.
Zhenya was not one to forget. Rostnikov called up the image of the tall, lean, straight-backed man who had led him to Drozhkin's office the few times Rostnikov had been summoned to Lubyanka. Zhenya had taken pleasure in staying far enough in front of Rostnikov to make the inspector limp in embarrassment after him. Only Rostnikov had not hurried to keep up with him the second time this happened. Rostnikov had instead slowed down, knowing that Zhenya would not risk failing to deliver the visitor to the quite crotchety old colonel. Zhenya did not like Rostnikov. There may have been a reason, but Rostnikov had no idea what it might be. It was not peculiar to the KGB to take a sudden and lifelong dislike to someone. It was common in the Soviet Union. It was, however, particularly dangerous to have a KGB man dislike you. The dying old colonel's face remained placid, but Rostnikov was sure he had enjoyed passing on the information about Zhenya.
They sat quietly for a moment or two, and then the door beyond the canopy behind Rostnikov opened and a young man with rimless glasses stepped out. He was wearing white and carrying a tray on which rested a steaming pot and two white cups. The man put the tray down on the table and poured a cup of tea.
'Perhaps the sun and air have changed your mind?' asked Drozhkin.
'Perhaps,' said Rostnikov. 'A cup of tea would be refreshing.'
The young man poured a second cup of tea and handed it to the inspector. The two men sat in silence under the sun and sipped tea till the young man in white left.
'Would you like to know what I am dying of?' Drozhkin said, making a slightly sour face and putting down his tea.
Rostnikov didn't answer. He sipped his tea.
'I am dying of many things, impending mandatory retirement is the most vivid to me, but to the doctors it is a cancer that has decided to inhabit the organs of my body. If a cancer could be given intellect, one might reason with it, suggest to it that it live a careful, parasitic existence so it would not destroy its host, but cancers are self- destructive. I am almost seventy-four, not a very old man, but not a young one. I am not well educated, Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov, but I have managed to survive many changes in leadership, to retain my rank, and barring a disaster, to die with dignity for myself and my family.'
The point, Rostnikov was sure, was now being approached.
'You have had a long and distinguished career, Comrade Colonel, and I'm sure you have been an inspiration to your friends and family.'
'Your son has been posted to Afghanistan,' Drozhkin said, sipping the tea again and finding it no more acceptable.
