suspected that she was having a heart attack.
“Overwork,” she said.
“I’m calling the police ambulance,” he said, reaching for the phone.
“Porfiry,” she gasped, pulling a brown bottle from her desk and extracting a small pill, which she put under her tongue, “they’ll carry me out on a stretcher, past everyone. I…it would be a humiliation.”
“I’ll accompany you, Comrade,” he said, taking the phone.
“I do not wish to show weakness,” she said, gritting her teeth and willing the pain to go away, but it would not.
“Our bodies are weak,” said Rostnikov, dialing. “There is only so much we can do about it. What we can do is face the inevitable with dignity.”
Through the pain, Anna Timofeyeva smiled. “You are a comforting mongrel, Porfiry Petrovich,” she said.
Rostnikov told the medical aides to hurry to the office, explaining that the procurator was probably suffering a heart seizure. He hung up, and turned to Anna Timofeyeva. He wanted to take her hand, but held back, knowing she would not want that. When Ivan Kolenko was knifed, Rostnikov had held the hand of his dying colleague, though the two had never been friends. But Kolenko was a man, and in this society where the sexes were supposedly equal, he did not have the burden of proving his strength as did Anna Timofeyeva.
They said little while they waited for the medical aides. He offered her some tea which she refused. They could hear the aides coming down the hall.
“Porfiry,” she said, softly gasping, “I must ask you a favor. If they take me to the hospital, will you go to my apartment and take care of my cat? His name is Baku.” The request took a great deal out of her.
“Of course,” he said lightly. “I am very fond of cats.” Rostnikov knew that he lied well. In truth, he detested cats almost as much as he hated dogs. No, it was those who insisted on keeping them whom he had always disliked. The animals themselves were the extension, the manifestation. For the first time, he saw in Anna Timofeyeva’s face something of the need one might have for an animal.
They said no more on the subject, and she insisted on rising and lying on the stretcher. The two young men who came for her were properly respectful of her bulk and title. As they carried her out, she raised a hand and said, “No, Rostnikov. You stay here and continue the investigation. If I survive, you can see me at the hospital with a report.”
Rostnikov smiled. This wasn’t a posture, but the real procurator coming through. The meaning of her existence was in her job, and she was not going to let her own dysfunction hold back the apprehension of enemies of the State.
“I will report to you at the hospital,” he said, stopping in the hall as the stretcher-carriers hurried away. Heads came out of offices. Murmurs were heard along the way, and Rostnikov lamented the fact that on the four flights down to the main floor Anna Timofeyeva would have to face the thing she so dreaded, the public display of her weakness.
“What happened?” demanded a senior procurator in a nearby office.
“Comrade Timofeyeva has had a heart attack,” he answered.
The senior procurator, an old man with a bent back, immediately touched his own chest and backed away. “She will be all right,” the old man said, retreating to his office. “She is quite strong.”
Rostnikov nodded and went slowly back to his cubbyhole. Karpo and Tkach were squeezed inside opposite his desk. He sat down facing them.
He did not want to tell them about Comrade Timofeyeva, but he had to. Neither commented, and so he returned to business.
“Now we turn-” he began, but there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” he said, and Zelach stuck his head in. His face was pale.
He’s going to tell us that Anna is dead, thought Rostnikov.
“Inspector,” said Zelach. “I don’t understand. I have found Mrs. Aubrey.”
“That does not sound difficult to understand,” Rostnikov said impatiently. “Send a car for her. I want to talk to her here.”
“We can’t,” said Zelach, looking for help from the impassive Karpo and curious Tkach. “She’s in Australia.”
“How did she get to Australia?” Rostnikov asked, bewildered.
“She has been there for five years,” explained Zelach. “They have been separated for five years. She is a photographer for a newspaper in Sydney.”
“I see,” said Rostnikov, and a wry smile came over his face.
The woman who had audaciously introduced herself as Aubrey’s widow was an imposter. Things were a little clearer. He would have to find that dark-eyed woman and ask her some very important questions.
SEVEN
“So,” said Rostnikov, fingering the scratch on his desk, “where is she?”
Zelach had quietly departed, closing the door behind him.
“Who is she?” answered Tkach.
“What is she?” added Karpo.
“We have no lack of questions,” Rostnikov sighed. “We will begin with the usual routine-checking the hotels, circulating a description. Tkach, you get Zelach and someone else on it. Check Intourist for names of tourists of the right age and general description. We don’t even know her nationality. I’m sure she was not Russian. She’ll have changed her appearance. Hair may be short, blond or red, possibly curly. She may be wearing glasses. Most likely someone is harboring her. She took a chance posing as Mrs. Aubrey. Why?”
Tkach had no idea.
“She wanted to find out what Aubrey had discovered and what we knew about World Liberation,” said Karpo. “To find out if we were a threat to her plans.”
Rostnikov nodded. There was no smile now.
“Whatever she is planning, it has to be soon,” Tkach added. “She can’t hide here indefinitely. The longer she waits, the more likely she is to be caught.”
“So,” said Rostnikov, looking in his top drawer for something to put in his mouth, a throat lozenge or piece of hard candy. There was nothing there. “While normal channels are being pursued, we continue our investigation. I will talk to the German. You, Tkach, talk to the Englishman. Call his hotel first and find out if he speaks Russian or French. Emil Karpo, you direct the search for the woman who posed as Myra Aubrey.”
It was a dismissal, and the two men left Rostnikov looking glumly at his telephone. He finally picked it up, mumbled a curse, and dialed the number of the KGB. He had to pass on to Drozhkin the news about the imposter. It was several minutes before Drozhkin took the call. Rostnikov could tell that the conversation was being recorded. He heard no click and had no prior knowledge, but he assumed that all calls to the KGB would be recorded, and the tone of the conversation made him certain of it.
“Colonel Drozhkin,” Rostnikov said, “I wish to report to you that the woman who claimed to be Mrs. Aubrey, the wife of the dead American, has been shown to be an imposter.”
“I see,” said Drozhkin slowly. “You actually talked to her, questioned her?”
“I did.”
“And where is she now?” Drozhkin went on.
“We do not know,” said Rostnikov.
“She, then, is your murderer,” Drozhkin said.
“And very likely the key to whatever World Liberation plans to do in Moscow.”
Drozhkin’s pause was brief. There should have been no hesitation at all. Perhaps age was working against him.
“There is as yet no evidence to link our knowledge of that group with the murder of your American.”
Yes, thought Rostnikov,
