Death of a Dissident

machines and a modest office, but Malenko was not in the office. His secretary, a young man, informed Rostnikov reluctantly that Malenko was at a meeting with some foreigners at the Praga Restaurant. Rostnikov was welcome to wait, but Rostnikov had no intention of waiting. Natasha Granovsky might still be alive. He went out of the factory and stepped into the silence of the street. It was only then that he realized how noisy the factory had been and understood why Sergei Malenko had been so slow to respond to him during the interview at his dacha. He was probably partly deaf. The price Malenko had paid for his success was mounting.

Rostnikov felt uncomfortable at the Praga Resturant. He did not normally go to resturants. Only once a year did he, his wife and Iosef go to a restaurant and that only on Iosef’s birthday. It had been delayed this year because Iosef had been unable to obtain leave at his birthday.

The waiter at the door greeted Rostnikov and asked him if he wanted a seat.

“No,” said Rostnikov, afraid that his leg would lock if he sat. “I am looking for Sergei Malenko. Police business. Tell him Inspector Rostnikov must see him.”

“Very good, Inspector,” said the man and walked away. Rostnikov stood in the small lobby, watching the lunch eaters and listening to the pleasant hum of soft conversation in the darkened dining room. Maybe he could afford to take Sarah and Iosef here. The extra weights could wait. He could make do for another year.

The waiter, a particularly thin man, came back with rapid step and came very close to Rostnikov.

“Comrade Malenko asks that you wait here. He will be done in no more than ten or fifteen minutes.”

“In ten or fifteen minutes, a fourteen-year-old girl can be dead,” said Rostnikov walking past the waiter and heading across the restaurant dining room toward the door from which the waiter had come after bringing Malenko’s message. He bumped into a chair protruding into the aisle, and a man with a dark suit and black eyes turned to say something and then changed his mind.

Rostnikov did not hesitate at the door behind which he heard voices. Nor did he knock. He pushed it open and found himself facing five men seated around a table. One of the men was Sergei Malenko, who stopped in mid-sentence and stood up angrily.

“You will have to wait, Inspector,” he said.

The table was set with a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka, caviar, baked veal, and potatoes steaming in the well heated private room.

“I cannot wait,” he said firmly. “I am sorry, gentlemen.”

“These gentlemen cannot understand Russian,” Malenko said with a smile and a nod at the men.

“Good,” said Rostnikov. “I need some answers from you very quickly.”

“You will be sorry for this, Rostnikov,” Malenko said without losing his smile.

“Not as sorry as you will be if you fail to answer me.

“Ask your questions quickly and then leave,” said Malenko patiently.

“You lived on a farm before all this,” said Rostnikov.

“That was a long time ago,” said Malenko. “Eighteen, twenty years ago.”

“That was where your child was killed by your wife?”

“Yes,” said Malenko, unable to keep up his false front and glaring at the policeman.

“Where is that farm?”

“North of the city, beyond Druzhba. A farmer named Breask or something like that owns it. Why do you ask?”

“I think,” said Rostnikov, “that your son may be heading there. I think he may have kept some tools of yours from that farm and is now using them to kill people, kill people who he thinks betrayed him. Does that make sense to you?”

“No,” said Malenko, his dark face turning pale.

The four other men in the room looked at the two antagonists in confusion.

“He has a young girl with him,” said Rostnikov. “Give me complete directions for getting to the farm, and give them to me quickly.”

Rostnikov handed a notebook and pencil to Malenko, who sketched a map and handed it back to the policeman.

“Thank you. Would you like to come?”

“No,” said Malenko sitting back down. “I…no.”

Rostnikov turned and left the room.

Tkach and Zelach had found the abandoned car with the help of directions from Vera Alleyanovskya. Forty minutes later they found the trail of footprints in the snow. It was faint and had been obscured here and there by falling and drifting snow, but it could be followed.

“This is ridiculous,” mumbled Zelach an hour later. Their car had been left on the road behind Vera Alleyanovskya’s vehicle, and with each step they moved further and further from it.

“But necessary,” replied Tkach, moving forward.

An hour later they found the farmhouse where Malenko and the girl had stopped and they found the reluctant farmer.

“I’ll talk,” Tkach whispered to Zelach as they approached the man who stood in the door, axe in hand.

“Comrade,” shouted Tkach, letting a sob enter his voice. “We are looking for my little sister. She was taken by force by a man she doesn’t want to marry. We have reason to believe he brought her this way.”

“Go to the police,” the farmer said, fingering his axe.

“The police,” cried Tkach. “I want nothing to do with the police. This is a private matter, a matter of honor.”

“The police are trouble,” agreed the farmer looking suspiciously at Zelach.

“My brother,” Tkach explained.

The man nodded.

“The man looked a bad sort,” the farmer said. “Girl did look frightened. He asked me how to get to a village near here. Come in. I’ll tell you where he went.”

“Michael Veselivitch Dolguruki,” sighed Rostnikov, “you are an outstanding driver. I applaud your skill under difficult conditions, but we can do the girl no good if we do not arrive at our destination.”

The police Volga had careened down the highways and back roads into the late afternoon. On one occasion the car had come very near overturning on a skid. On another occasion, a remarkably fat woman had to leap off the road in front of the car with a dexterity that made Rostnikov blink with wonder.

“I’m sorry, Inspector,” Dolguruki said, keeping his eyes on the road, “but I thought you told me to hurry.”

“Hurry, hurry,” sighed Rostnikov, waving his hand in the air.

Rostnikov was worried about the girl, true, but he was also worried about how he might explain the destruction of the automobile. His body and that of the driver could be repaired by doctors. Doctors in Moscow were good and there would be no cost. But to repair an automobile. Ah, thought, Rostnikov, that may be much more difficult.

With that thought, another car joined them on the narrow road and slid in front of them. Rostnikov’s driver hit his brakes and went into a skid that appeared certain to result in crash into the second car. Rostnikov sucked in his breath, braced himself with his good leg, and gripped the door handle. The second car had stalled in front of them, and slow motion took over Rostnikov’s consciousness. His car moved as if through water. The movement took the length of a war and the time of a sneeze, but ended without a collision.

Rostnikov and his driver leaped out to confront the other car’s occupants. There was no more than an inch or two between the cars.

“Tkach!” Rostnikov shouted, watching his breath form a cloud.

“Inspector!” shouted Tkach back as he stepped out of his car. Behind the young detective, Rostnikov could see the outline of Zelach. “We know the village where Malenko has taken the girl.”

“And you think I am just riding around out here to witness the magnificent efforts of farmers preparing their futures?” sighed the inspector.

“No, I-” began Tkach.

“Never mind,” Rostnikov interrupted. “Let’s turn your car and get it going in the right direction. “Zelach,” he shouted, “get behind the wheel. We’ll push.”