reassured.
The train came hurtling out of the darkness, and both Rostnikov and Tkach knew the time for deception was over.
They walked behind a pillar, still talking, and both drew their guns.
“We do not kill him unless we must,” Rostnikov whispered. Tkach nodded.
“Vonovich,” Rostnikov shouted, and his voice echoed and rose above the incoming train. The boarding passengers looked around in confusion, and the heavy pacing man stopped and looked first at the train and then in the direction of the two men, who had gone behind the pillar.
“Vonovich, raise your hands and step away from the track, now!” shouted Rostnikov.
Vonovich answered with a wild shot that hit one of the massive chandeliers, sending a snow of glass to the platform. Passengers screamed and the train, which had pulled into the station, paused only for an instant with passengers inside pressing their noses to the window to see what was happening. The motorman chose not to open the doors and sped on, leaving Vonovich confused. His coat was open and swirling, and he didn’t know which way to run or whether to try to hold the train back with his bare hands.
Instead, he ran for the far exit, away from the voice of the policeman, over the outstretched form of a workman who covered his head in fear and pressed his nose to the floor.
Tkach stepped out from the pillar and was prepared for pursuit, but Rostnikov held him back.
“Wait, he has nowhere to go.” Then to the half-dozen people on the platform. “Stay down. Stay where you are.”
Vonovich, his coat flowing open and letting out grunting sounds, hurried up the stairs and less than five seconds later came scrambling down again, obviously checked by the sight of armed police on the street.
Tkach watched the trapped man with the gun sway as he considered running down the tunnel.
“If he goes on the track,” said Rostnikov, “shoot him.”
But Vonovich did not. He turned his eyes back at the two policemen and began to shuffle in their direction. The shuffle turned into a run and the passengers on the platform rolled away, one woman plunging with a scream off the platform and onto the track.
Tkach and Rostnikov stepped out into the path of the rushing creature.
“If his gun comes up,” said Rostnikov, “shoot. If not…”
But Vonovich was upon them. Tkach could feel himself shoved to the side by some animal force. He tried to keep his balance but went over a bench. Behind him he heard a loud groan and he scrambled up, gun leveled to help Rostnikov. What he saw was something he would never forget.
The massive man was struggling in the arms of Inspector Rostnikov. His legs were off the ground, churning, touching nothing. Vonovich’s left arm came across in a heavy swing and Rostnikov burrowed his own head into the bigger man’s coat and lifted with an expulsion of air. Tkach watched Vonovich come up in the air in Rostnikov’s arms, cradled like a baby, and then Rostnikov threw the creature like a bundle of laundry into the pillar. Vonovich’s gun scratched across the platform and came to rest near Tkach’s leg. Vonovich himself was clearly unconscious.
As he moved forward toward the felled cab driver, Tkach could sense the passengers rising and could hear the woman who had fallen on the tracks calling for help. He could also see quite clearly that Rostnikov was smiling, a childish, satisfied smile, and looking up at a massive ceiling mosaic of an approving ancient Russian knight.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Vonovich, have you lifted weights?” Rostnikov asked, sipping his tepid tea with loud satisfaction. Vonovich, on the other side of the desk, shifted uncomfortably.
“There is no trick to the question,” Rostnikov went on. “I’m breaking the ice, making small talk. We could be here for hours and once I start with the difficult questions we might both get a headache. You, if I judge you right, will get surly. I will grow irritable. It won’t be pleasant, but if we can-”
“I could tear you in half with my hands,” grumbled Vonovich. “You were lucky.”
The huge man grabbed the cup of tea in front of him, buried it in his brown hand and brought it angrily to his mouth spilling much of it on the way. Rostnikov sighed and took another sip of his own tea, turned from the burning eyes of his prisoner and ran his finger along the scar on his desk made by the sickle. As long as he kept this desk, which would probably be the rest of his career, that scar would be there to remind him of this case. He was determined that it would be a reminder of success and not failure, but to achieve success he would have to deal with this oaf Vonovich.
“I’m sure you could,” said Rostnikov. “Shall we start the lies?”
“I have no reason to lie,” growled Vonovich. “I have given you all my papers. Everything is in order.”
He reached up to scratch his head and lost his hat in the process. There was little room in the office to reach for it, and the huge man almost fell out of the wooden chair.
Rostnikov shook his head giving himself-not his prisoner-sympathy. He had sent Tkach home; the boy had seen enough for one day. Karpo was in the hospital having his shoulder wound cared for. That left only Rostnikov. Now the case was his responsibility. And his pleasure.
The bears like this were a challenge, but for Rostnikov the challenge of stupidity was like that of a target for a sharpshooter. It was a matter of professional execution rather than innovation. The smart ones were often easier to break. They tried to be too clever, tell too many lies. The smart ones knew it was a deadly game, and they were confident that they could hold their own. Ah, but the stupid ones-sometimes they clung to an obviously foolish, impossible story regardless of what Rostnikov said. And though they did not know it, they were right to do it.
“What are you thinking?” demanded Vonovich, downing the last of his tea and putting his fur hat back on his head in an awkward position so that it would fall off if he moved or if gravity were simply given sufficient time.
“I was wondering how stupid you are,” said Rostnikov.
“You’ll see how stupid I am,” Vonovich said with a cunning smile.
“Yes, I’m sure I will,” agreed Rostnikov. “Why did you run from the officer in front of your apartment door?”
“I didn’t know he was a policeman. He looked like a killer. A robber.”
“Yes,” agreed Rostnikov, reaching under the table to massage his stiff leg, “he does. So you shot at him and ran away. When you got to the street, why did you continue to run? Did you think a robber was openly pursuing you through the streets?”
“That’s what I thought,” agreed Vonovich, his cunning smile looking particularly stupid to Rostnikov. “I thought he was a crazy robber. There are such things. A man gets a few drinks or something and…there was Czekolikowski who killed everybody in the Praga Restaurant for no reason last year.”
“That was five years ago,” corrected Rostnikov, “and he didn’t kill everybody. There are still a few Muscovites left. He shot two people, one was his brother.”
“He was crazy,” Vonovich insisted, crashing his fist down on the desk. Rostnikov had to catch his skittering cup, and a burly uniformed policeman who had been stationed outside the door burst in with his pistol ready.
“It’s all right,” Rostnikov said, holding up a calming right hand. “Comrade Vonovich is making a point.” The policeman backed out, closing the door.
“I’m an honest citizen,” Vonovich tried with something he must have thought was a pout.
“You are, at best a
Vonovich looked at Rostnikov warily.
“It says that about me in your files?” he asked.
