unmarked door, and a familiar raspy voice behind it said, “Come.”
Rostnikov entered alone and closed the door behind him. Yes, it was the same. Dark brown carpet, framed posters on the wall urging productivity and solidarity. Chairs with arms and dark nylon padded seats and an ancient, well-polished desk behind which sat Colonel Drozhkin, white hair, dark suit, black tie. Drozhkin examined Rostnikov critically and indicated with a gesture of his callused hand that the inspector could sit.
“Your son is back in Kiev,” said Drozhkin, starting the game.
“Yes,” said Rostnikov, gazing at his host without emotion.
“Good,” said the colonel. “Afghanistan is not a safe place for a Russian. Our losses, I will tell you confidentially, have been high.”
It was Drozhkin, Rostnikov knew, who had arranged to have Iosef sent to Afghanistan, and it was Drozhkin who, having gotten Rostnikov’s full cooperation in covering up certain details about a politically sensitive case, allowed Iosef to return to Kiev with his unit. It was Drozhkin now who was making it quite clear that he could do the same thing again.
“There is,” Drozhkin said, folding his hands in front of him on the clean desk top, “a group of fanatics, capitalist terrorists who have sought on various occasions to embarrass the Soviet Union. This pitifully small group calls itself World Liberation. It has members from several countries. It seeks to drive us into conflict with the West. It claims in its literature that once we are at war with the Western powers, both sides will be destroyed, and World Liberation will be able to take over. We have infiltrated this group in the past. We thought we had destroyed them, but a few have survived. Some of them are now in Moscow.”
There was nothing for Rostnikov to say as the gnarled colonel paused to allow him to speak. It was rare for a KGB official to reveal so much even to the police, and Rostnikov knew that much of it might not be exactly true. Rostnikov shifted his leg and nodded.
“Your dead American, Aubrey,” Drozhkin went on, “was working on a story about this group, this World Liberation. We think that his death may be related to that story and the presence of those terrorists in Moscow.”
“Why-” Rostnikov began, but Drozhkin cut him off, rising and waving a hand.
“We know where the core is,” the colonel said, straightening a poster of a grim-faced woman holding a flag against a red background, “but we want them all. We will watch that core while you continue your investigation. We are especially concerned about possible terrorist acts. There are many Western and Third World people in Moscow for this film festival. Any act of terrorism would be most unfortunate.”
“Most unfortunate,” Rostnikov repeated, thinking, unfortunate for whom?
“This is your investigation,” Drozhkin said, his back turned, his hands clasped behind him. “It is important that you not fail.”
The situation was now quite clear to Rostnikov. Dealing with terrorists was the responsibility of the KGB. Drozhkin, a survivor of several decades of purges in the intelligence and security service, had been given a most touchy assignment, to find these terrorists before they acted. As he had done in the past, Drozhkin was covering his flank. If the terrorists acted, he would somehow blame it on Rostnikov and the MVD.
“I understand,” said Rostnikov.
“We have been watching the known members of World Liberation who are presently in Moscow,” Drozhkin went on. “In fact, they are in Moscow because we chose to let them come in.”
“Moscow becomes the web of a spider,” Rostnikov said and immediately regretted it.
“If you wish,” agreed the colonel, fixing his eyes on the policeman. “I am not given to metaphor. Our watching has yielded little. If nothing comes from you in forty-eight hours, we will arrest those members we know. Your task is considerable, Comrade Inspector.”
“Considerable,” Rostnikov agreed blandly. “But we must face our daily challenges and responsibilities.”
Drozhkin’s mouth went tight for an instant and then relaxed. “I’ll detain you no longer,” he said. “You may return to your investigation…and your plumbing. And please give our best to your wife.”
Ah, thought Rostnikov, rising, the final point goes to the KGB. Rostnikov was being watched even down to his little plumbing escapade. And what of the remark about Sarah, whom Drozhkin had never met? The most vulnerable aspect of Sarah was her Jewishness. Was Rostnikov’s apartment bugged? Yes, he thought, it probably is, and the KGB knows that we have talked about applying for immigration. Drozhkin is making an oblique threat.
“It has been good to talk to you again,” Drozhkin added.
Rostnikov paused at the door. “It is, as always, stimulating to talk to you, Comrade Colonel.”
The guide was waiting in the hall to escort Rostnikov from the building. He moved quickly down the hall, making it difficult for the policeman to follow him, but Rostnikov took satisfaction in the conviction that he could surely lift the man above his head and hurl him through the colonel’s door, should madness come.
All in all, Rostnikov decided, he had emerged reasonably well from the discussion. Granted, he now was in a dangerous situation, but that was part of life. He had discovered that Aubrey’s death was probably part of a terrorist plot. Growing in him was the hope and near conviction that the people Aubrey had interviewed were connected to the murder-the Frenchwoman, the Englishman, and the German. He would push them, push them hard, but first he would speak to Mrs. Aubrey to see if she could shed any light on her husband’s research on World Liberation.
The sunlight and fresh air came as a surprise to Rostnikov when he stepped back into Krov Street and crossed to the metro station in front of the Mayakovsky Museum. He dismissed the idea that he might be followed. It would be so laughably easy to keep track of him that the KGB would have no reason to follow, but the idea came nonetheless, and as he moved into the underground he considered checking. It would be easy to look back, scan the crowd, then go through the underpass, return, and watch to see which face doubled back with him. The person would be crafty, probably quite good, but Rostnikov was confident he could spot anyone following him. The problem was that the KGB would then know that he knew he was being followed. So, since it made no difference either way, Rostnikov fought back the urge to let the KGB know he was aware of their interest. Such devious thinking, thought Rostnikov, keeps the mind active.
Back at Petrovka, Rostnikov walked past the downstairs desk, grumbled something to the uniformed guard, and went up the stairs to his office. He nodded at the junior inspectors who shared desks in the outer office and went to his own cubbyhole, where he sat down at his desk, picked up the messages, and removed the small tape recorder from his pocket.
The message on top informed him that the poison which had killed Aubrey, the Japanese, and the two Russians was a bizarre extract, cultivated from bacteria that affect birds. This deadly extract causes psittacosis, a disease normally transmitted to birds and occasionally affecting human beings. The report did not puzzle Rostnikov. It confirmed his limited knowledge of small terrorist groups. Drama was very important to them. If you simply hit a victim with a bat and walk away, you generate little publicity. If you inject diseases, take hostages in public landmarks, hijack airplanes, bomb babies, the world looks at you with fear or disgust or awe. The important thing is that the world looks at you.
Yes, thought Rostnikov, and in a society like ours, the act would have to be so massive, so public, that it would be difficult or impossible to cover up. Now the only problem would be to decide what such a public display might be. Would they kidnap the president?
Rostnikov ran his finger along the scratch on his desk made last winter by a sickle, the murder weapon in the case that first brought Rostnikov in contact with Colonel Drozhkin.
In ten minutes, it would be nine o’clock, time for Tkach and Karpo to come to his office for a meeting. The ten minutes gave him just enough time to hide the tape of his conversation with Drozhkin, see Procurator Timofeyeva, and on his way shout to that blini-head Zelach to find Mrs. Aubrey.
When he entered Anna Timofeyeva’s office two floors above, he was disturbed to see how pale she looked. She was definitely ill. She had told him to report as soon as he returned to Petrovka, but he found it difficult to concentrate on his account of the interchange and nuances of the meeting at KGB headquarters. He doubted if her office was bugged, but it might be.
She sipped her tea, nodding at crucial points, her breath heaving in and out.
“Anna,” Rostnikov said, stopping in the middle of a sentence, “I must call an ambulance for you.”
“No,” she said gasping for air. “I have a pill. Give your report and leave. I’m very busy.”
The look in her eyes filled Rostnikov with a deep and sudden sadness. She was frightened, and Rostnikov
