evidence of such an assassination plot and advising them to be alert. You might also tell them about the notebook and suggest that copies have been made and are safe.'
'One or more of the people I contact may well be part of the conspiracy, Porfiry Petrovich.'
'Let us hope so, Colonel. Let us hope they realize that they must stop the assassination attempts or risk exposure. If nothing happens, then Vasilievich's notebook is the conjecture of an old man who coincidentally was murdered. If even one assassination takes place, the conspirators will be pursued. They had hoped, perhaps, to make it look like the work of a group of young drug dealers and criminals acting from a grievance against the state. We must disabuse them of the possibility of such a public interpretation.''
' 'I will make the calls immediately. I can also attempt to have the celebration in Soviet Square postponed.'
'There is less than an hour,' said Rostnikov, rising from his chair. 'Will they listen?'
'No,' said the Wolfhound. 'They will not. And if I am not on the stand with the other officials and an assassination attempt does take place, I will be an immediate suspect. I must make these calls quickly, Inspector, and I must do them in plenty of time to get to Soviet Square.'
It was not the first time that Rostnikov had felt a sincere admiration for the colonel, and he hoped it would not be the last.
'We must hope that Inspectors Karpo and Tkach locate the assassin,' the Wolfhound said, reaching for the phone.
As he leaned forward, his leg brushed his waiting cup of coffee. A splash of dark brown hit his immaculately clean trousers. The colonel paid no attention.
Gorky Street was cordoned off for the celebration. Even if Karpo and Tkach had identified themselves as policemen, they could have gotten no closer because of the crowds. Karpo pulled to the curb in front of the Moscow News Office and across from Pushkin Square. They got out and battled through the crowds onto Gorky Street, making their way past the All-Russia Theatrical Society, the Nikolai Ostrovsky Museum, and Food Store Number One. In front of the Tsentralnaya Hotel they crossed the street to the sidewalk before the Druzhba Bookshop.
Yakov's mother had told them where to find her son, and Karpo had considered several possibilities. One possibility was to call Petrovka, to tell the duty officer to get to the Moscow Soviet, but there would be a great risk in that.
That there was a conspiracy was evident from even his cryptic conversations with Inspector Rostnikov over the last two days. There was no telling who would receive his call or how it might be treated.
No, there had been ample time for him and Tkach to get to Gorky Street, and though it had taken longer than they anticipated, they were here now, making their way through the crowds. Tkach was markedly improved but not to be fully trusted. Had he an alternative, Karpo would have sent Tkach back to Petrovka, but there was no time for alternatives.
Tkach looked across the broad street at the raised platform on which minor officials were already gathering in spite of the thunder and almost certain rain. The threat of rain had not deterred the crowd, which hoped the occasion would be one of protests and spectacle.
Karpo led the way into the building and to the guards.
'Two men,' he said, showing his identification card, though both of the guards had recognized him. 'One young, wearing glasses, the other about my age, bearded, probably quite pale.'
The guard had no idea what Karpo's age might be, but he shook his head and said,
'Hundreds of people have come in and out this morning, all of them with proper identification.''
The second guard, however, said,' 'The one with the flu.'
'Yes, perhaps,' said the first guard. 'He had a beard, but-'
'Where is he?' asked Karpo.
Both guards shrugged.
'I think,' said the second guard, 'he went up those steps.'
Karpo and Tkach hurried past the guards and moved up the stairs two or three at a time.
It took them almost a minute to make their way to the fourth floor, past officials in the halls hurrying for raincoats and umbrellas in their offices or scurrying down the stairs to be outside, where they could be seen when the celebration speeches began. It took them another few minutes to find the door on the fourth floor with the stairway behind it. They entered and in the darkness moved up slowly, cautiously, Karpo in the lead, weapons drawn.
When he reached the door, Karpo stopped and reached back to halt Tkach. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he began to turn the handle, hoping that the growing crowd on the street and the sound of voices inside the room would cover whatever noise he might make. Before he could push the door open, two shots screamed like wounded jackals inside the room.
The rain had begun almost as soon as Karpo and Tkach had entered the Moscow Soviet building. The rain had started to fall, and the umbrellas had begun to open on the street as the major officials began arriving with their own umbrellas. The platform was not covered. No one had anticipated the weather. It should not have rained today. But it was raining, and Yakov Krivonos was propped at his window, ready to fire.
The problem was 'Almost all of them on the platform are wearing raincoats, and some of them have umbrellas. I can't see most of their faces. How am I supposed to know who to shoot?'
Jerold forced himself out of the chair and moved to the window.' 'The first three on the left, near the flag, see them?'' 'Yes.'
'You will shoot them. And two over. The one with the boots. See him? The one who just climbed up?'
'I see his boots,' said Yakov.
'Shoot him, too,' said Jerold, wearily moving back to the chair.
'Hell with this,' Yakov decided as he moved the rifle to the window, lay on the ground, and propped the weapon up on the inverted metal V that served as a bipod to steady the already steady weapon. 'The longer we wait, the harder the rain will be and the more the targets will protect themselves and be harder to find.'
Yakov Krivonos nestled the butt of the rifle against his shoulder, pressed his face against the cheek rest, and moved his left hand to the pistol grip and his right hand to the wooden piece in front of the trigger. The weapon was compact, the barrel clamped at the front and rear to ensure the torque initiated by a bullet passing through the bore would not lift the barrel away from the intended point of aim. The barrel was as long as that on almost any sniper weapon, but it ran the full length of the rifle, almost to the end of the short, comfortable butt. The Walther RA 2000 was gas operated, easy to handle, with the ejection port close to the person firing. Thus, there were both right- handed and left-handed versions so that the port would be on the side opposite the sniper.
It was accurate within three inches at a thousand yards.
'What are you thinking, Yakov?' Jerold asked, his voice dropping, near exhaustion.
Yakov's solution was simple. He would shoot everyone on the platform. There were twelve men and two women. Jerold hadn't told him whom not to shoot. He had simply identified those who were to die. A few extras wouldn't matter, and Yakov didn't want the American to try to get out of his promises of wealth and women.
He raised his rifle. He would simply shoot them all.
'Yakov, you will shoot only those…'
Yakov heard him but did not wish to, and so he told himself a lie. He told himself he had begun to fire before Jerold spoke. He fired the first shot, and the second came almost immediately after.
Before the echo of the second shot had wept its last tear of pain through the stairwell, Karpo pushed the door open and stepped into the room, gun level, ready to fire. He knew where the window would be, must be. If both of the men they sought were in the room, he would go for the one near the window, the one who must be preparing to shoot down another Soviet official in the square.
Karpo came very close to squeezing the trigger before he realized that the person leaning forward against the window with a rifle in his hands was half-turned and looking straight up at the ceiling, blood streaming out of his mouth. As Tkach scrambled up the stairs and joined him, Karpo swung around to the far corner and found Jerold, his hands raised high over his head.
'My gun is on the floor, over there,' said Jerold, nodding with his head toward the weapon, about five feet in front of him on the floor.
'Sasha,' Karpo said, and Tkach leveled his gun at Jerold while Karpo moved to the window to look down. There seemed to be confusion on the platform, and people were looking up at him through the rain, but he could
