little more than a word or a hint to have someone ousted from a large apartment in the city, but the Wolfhound wanted none of it.
Colonel Snitkonoy enjoyed entertaining visiting dignitaries in his home, liked to show the almost Spartan nature of his existence to foreigners. The colonel harbored a dream, which he shared on occasion with the two members of his household, a dream of this modest house being turned into a small birthplace museum.
The two members of the colonel's household with whom this dream was shared were his retired adjutant, a quiet, devoted, and very stupid man named Golovin, who firmly believed that the colonel was the most brilliant military officer in the long history of all the Russias, and a housekeeper, Lena, who was not in the least bit stupid and was quite sure that when the colonel moved or died the house would be leveled and replaced with a massive apartment building or offices.
Each morning, seven days each week, except when he had an early-morning engagement or had to catch a flight out of Moscow, a car and driver would be parked and waiting at five-thirty in front of the modest house. The car that waited was also modest, a Zhiguli of recent vintage, not one of the large Volgas or even a foreign car, which he could afford and to which both Golovin and Lena said he was entitled.
This morning, Colonel Snitkonoy was slightly annoyed. He would be attending the ceremony in Soviet Square, and it was especially important that his dress uniform be spotless, his ribbons even, his hat without crease or blemish. He had drunk his morning coffee with care, eaten his English toast with caution, finished his glass of Turkish orange juice with dignity, and discovered a speck of something oily on his knee with concealed horror.
This speck had forced the Wolfhound to completely change his uniform and to be ten minutes late going through the front door, where Golovin on cloudy mornings like this stood ready with an umbrella to walk with the colonel to the waiting car, should the threatening rain start.
But this proved to be a morning like no other morning. Golovin stood inside the door with the umbrella, but he did not open either door or umbrella. Instead, he said, 'You have a visitor.'
The Wolfhound stopped, waited.
'He said it was urgent. Inspector Rostnikov. I put him in your office. I asked him not to touch anything. I hope that was acceptable. He said-'
'Tell the driver I will be out shortly,' said the Wolfhound, going to a door just off of the entranceway. When Golovin was out the front door, the colonel entered his office.
Rostnikov was seated in the large wooden chair across from the desk. His leg, the one he had injured as a boy in the war, was propped up on a wooden block the colonel kept before the chair as a footrest. The block had a history that the colonel enjoyed relating to his guests, but this was neither the time nor the guest. Rostnikov wore a jacket and no tie. He needed a shave and looked quite tired.
'Would you like a coffee, Porfiry Petrovich?' asked the colonel.
'That would be pleasant,' said Rostnikov, and the colonel moved to the door, where he ordered the now- waiting Golovin to bring coffee.
The colonel turned back into the room in anticipation. Rostnikov had never come to his house before. He had never been invited to his house. Even when Rostnikov had brought him the information that resulted in the dismissal of a high-ranking KGB officer just a few months ago, the information and evidence had been brought to the colonel's office.
That information had resulted in Colonel Snitkonoy's being taken far more seriously than he had been before, which was both a good and a bad thing.
'You are supposed to be on vacation in Yalta, Inspector,' the Gray Wolfhound said, moving to his desk. He leaned against the desk and folded his arms in front of him.
'Why was I sent on vacation, Colonel?'
Rostnikov asked the question gently, casually, and he would have liked to present it more carefully, in the natural context of a conversation, but there was no time.
' 'An order came to all departments indicating those senior officers who were overdue for vacation and who must take them immediately,' said the colonel.
'And would you remember the names on the list?' asked Rostnikov. 'I mean, remember them if you saw them.'
'Yes,' said the colonel. 'I would remember all of those within the MVD and- Where is this leading, Inspector? I have an important ceremony to attend.'
Rostnikov shifted his weight, reached into his pocket, came up with Vasilievich's notebook, and handed it to the Wolfhound as Golovin knocked at the door.
' 'Come in,'' called the colonel, looking down at the book. 'Put it on the desk.'
Golovin looked concerned but said nothing as he put down the tray containing two cups and a steaming pot. Golovin departed quickly, closing the door behind him.
'Page six,' said Rostnikov. 'May I help myself?'
'Please,' said the Wolfhound, turning the pages of the notebook while Rostnikov reached over to pour himself coffee.
'These are the names, not all of them, but many of them,'' he said, looking away from the book at Rostnikov.
' 'Now look at pages nine through twelve,'' Rostnikov said, lifting the cup to his lips.
'Where did you get this notebook?'
'It belonged to a GRU inspector named Vasilievich. He was murdered in Yalta two days ago. The men who murdered him were hired by an American who was himself hired by a Soviet. The American returned to the United States yesterday before he could be properly detained.'
'I see,' said the colonel wisely, though he saw nothing at all, and then on the tenth page he saw more names, names that he recognized, including that of both Gorbachev and Yeltsin, but the one that caught the colonel's eye immediately was his own name. He looked away from the notebook again at Rostnikov, who put his coffee cup down on the tray.
' 'Vasilievich was convinced that a conspiracy existed, a conspiracy engineered among high-ranking officers in the police and intelligence services,' said Rostnikov. 'The conspiracy required removing from Moscow and other key cities the senior investigators who might possibly uncover the conspiracy.'
'Assassination,' said the colonel, tapping the book against his thigh.
' That is what Vasilievich believed.''
'And what you believe?'
'Yes,' said Rostnikov.
'I am on this list,' said the colonel.
Rostnikov said nothing.
The colonel nodded his head knowingly, placed the notebook down carefully, and reached for one of the cups of coffee. Conflicting feelings surged through the Wolfhound, not the least of which was a certain pride at being considered important enough to be included on the list of people who might be worth assassinating. Fear was not one of the feelings, for, in truth, Colonel Snitkonoy was a very brave man.
'What do you propose, Inspector?'
'I have reason to believe that the assassination in Moscow is to be carried out by a young man named Yakov Krivonos, the man I was in the process of locating when I was sent on vacation.'
'And the man Inspector Karpo continued to search for until I ordered him on vacation,' continued the colonel. 'A vacation ordered by directive.'
'Inspectors Karpo and Tkach are in pursuit of Krivonos and a man named Jerold, who may be behind the planned attempt,' said Rostnikov. 'May I have more coffee?'
'Help yourself,' said the colonel.
'Inspector Karpo has until tonight at midnight, according to your order, before he must go on vacation,' said Rostnikov.
'If we can reach Inspector Karpo, inform him that the order is no longer in effect,' said the colonel. 'You have a suggestion, Inspector?'
'One that may be dangerous, Colonel.'
'Proceed.'
'A call from you to the appropriate heads of departments in the KGB, MVD, and GRU indicating that you have
