“I’m not surprised,” said Rostnikov, opening the shed to help the girl.
Tkach and Zelach ran into the barn, guns drawn, to take in the sight. Zelach’s eyes went from the body of Malenko to that of the crushed chicken. Tkach looked with horror at Rostnikov.
“It’s a deep scratch,” Rostnikov explained, looking around for something to stop the bleeding as he lifted the girl in his arms. He could feel the warmth of her fever right through his coat.
“Does it hurt?” said Tkach.
“Only when I think,” replied Rostnikov, looking at Doguruki and the sprawled body of Ilyusha Malenko. “Only when I think. Now we must get her to a hospital.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Emil Karpo had a dream. In the dream, he was floating on his back, absolutely stiff, as if he had been hypnotized by a magician. He was quite comfortable and mildly surprised to see the magician hovering over him. He was even more surprised that the white turbaned magician looked exactly like Porfiry Rostnikov. Rostnikov looked as if he were deep in concentration to insure the success of his trick, and Karpo wanted to insure that the trick would indeed work.
“What can I do?” Karpo mumbled in his dream.
Rostnikov touched his arm, and Karpo started. It was not a dream. Rostnikov did hover over him in a turban. He also discovered that it was true that one had the illusion that one could feel an amputated limb. Karpo, had not logic stayed him, could have sworn that he felt Rostnikov touch his non-existent arm.
“Turban?” Karpo mumbled dryly through the first sign of coming out of the anesthetic.
Rostnikov touched the bandage and shook his head, no.
“Wounded, stitches, twenty-seven,” he said. “We got Malenko. And there is a tale to tell. How are you feeling?”
Karpo looked around the room. A man in the bed next to him looked away.
“My arm,” he said.
“Is still there,” said Rostnikov. “A surgeon with a cancelled operation decided to spend four hours on you, putting little pieces back together, rebuilding your bones with little leftover pieces. He is quite proud of what he has done. You will have a little difficulty with it, but you should be using it again in a matter of months. The doctor predicted six months. I told him it would be two.”
“It will be one,” corrected Karpo in a whisper, feeling himself sink back into sleep.
When he woke up again, there was no one in the room. He tried to move his injured arm but could not. He could, however, feel some tingling in his fingers. Minutes or an hour later, the man in the next bed returned. He said nothing to Karpo, and Karpo said nothing to him. The man, a bricklayer, tried not to look at the tall man beside him who never blinked, but it was an effort. After a while, the vision of Karpo proved too much for him, and the man made an excursion out of the room, almost bumping into Rostnikov and Tkach on the way.
“You are awake,” observed Rostnikov. Karpo looked at him. Tkach nodded, and Karpo nodded back. The two visitors moved close to the bed. Something was clearly on their minds.
“We have a problem, Emil, a problem indeed that the three of us must be aware of,” whispered Rostnikov.
Karpo’s brow furrowed, and he turned his full attention to the inspector, whose turban had been replaced by a piece of white tape through a patch of shaved scalp.
“I’ll give you the facts,” said Rostnikov sitting on the side of the bed. “You draw the conclusions. Before he died, Ilyusha Malenko said that he had been told by a friend named Dolonick that his wife and Granovsky were lovers. Dolonick had shown him a photograph of them, given him evidence. I attempted to find this Dolonick. He is a writer who has been friendly with several leading dissidents including Granovsky. He is now unfindable. I called the K.G.B. and left a message for Colonel Drozhkin to call me. Ten minutes later a call came that the colonel was not available. Five minutes after that, Procurator Timofeyeva called to order me to her office this evening and told me to talk to no one about this incident.”
Karpo’s eyes remained fixed on Rostnikov’s face. Rostnikov reached up to touch his bandage to be sure it had not departed.
“There is more,” said Rostnikov looking up at Tkach, who stood pale and listened. “Malenko was shot by a police officer named Dolguruki who was serving as my driver. He took over from another driver who was supposedly ill. I checked on the earlier driver. He was not ill. He had simply been transfered to other duties. I attempted to find Dolguruki but was told that he had been sent to Tbilisi on a special assignment. I did not question that it was unusual to send uniformed officers from Moscow on special assignment to Tbilisi. The conclusion?”
“Yes,” said Karpo. “But I’m sure there was a reason, a good reason.”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Rostnikov, “a very good reason. The K.G.B. asks an agent posing as a dissident to find a way to get rid of Granovsky before his trial, before he can cause international embarrassment. The agent, Dolonick, knows about Granovsky’s affair with Marie Malenko. He also knows of Malenko’s instability and begins playing on it, prodding Malenko to act. To set the stage, Granovsky is allowed to be free and guarded only by one incompetent K.G.B. agent. Malenko kills Granovsky and we are called in to find Malenko and prove that the killing is totally nonpolitical. When Vonovich came up, the K.G.B. was quite satisfied to go with him and let Malenko go, but Malenko was out of control and had killed two more. And we refused to stop the pursuit of Malenko and kept tying it in to the Granovsky murder. And so the K.G.B. arranged for a man who would serve as my driver and be ready to get rid of Malenko as soon as he was found to avoid any talking about Dolonick, who had prodded Ilyusha Malenko to the killing.”
“Perhaps it had to be that way,” said Karpo softly but firmly. “Granovsky’s import goes beyond such simple questions as right and wrong.”
“You believe that?” Tkach said.
“Yes,” said Karpo, but Rostnikov noticed the pause before the sick man’s answer, which Tkach did not catch and which Karpo would have covered had he been well.
“In any case,” Rostnikov said, rising from the bed, “I thought you should know primarily because I must insure that no further inquiries are made. The case is closed. The murderer has been caught. Malenko killed his wife and kidnapped Natasha Granovsky. Vonovich, the drunken anti-revolutionary lout, killed Granovsky and the cab driver.”
“And the girl?”
“She is recovering,” sighed Rostnikov, touching his head again. “Her body is recovering well.”
Rostnikov moved to the door with Tkach at his side.
“Goodnight, Inspector Karpo,” said Rostnikov.
“I will be at work in one month,” said Karpo.
“I know,” said Rostnikov going out the door.
Rostnikov and Tkach stopped at a Stolovaya for a bowl of soup. They said little and took the metro back to Petrovka.
“And?” said Tkach when they returned to Rostnikov’s office, where the inspector gathered his notes for his meeting with Procurator Anna Timofeyeva.
“And we go on working,” said Rostnikov. “Do you see a resemblance between the scar on my desk and the one on my head? Curious.”
“Yes,” agreed Tkach. “Curious.”
“Perhaps you and your wife would like to have dinner with my wife and me tomorrow night,” said Rostnikov, looking intently at the autopsy report on the cab driver and wondering if he should bring it with him to his meeting with Anna Timofeyeva.
“Tomorrow, I…yes, I’m sure that would be fine.”
“Nothing elaborate,” warned Rostnikov.
“Thank you, comrade, we will be looking forward to it,” Tkach said with a small smile.
“You did well, Sasha,” said Rostnikov.
