“Remember,” Samsanov said, trying to regain control as Rostnikov gripped his arm and urged him into the hall. “You violated the order of the committee.”
“I will be most happy to address the committee on the subject,” said Rostnikov, making no effort to keep his voice down. “In fact I would welcome it. Please let me know when it will be.” He shut the door firmly on Samsanov.
Karpo was up by five on Sunday morning. The streets were almost empty, and the sky was still dark. It was his favorite time of the day, and he enjoyed the long walk to Petrovka Street.
Even at the noisiest of times, Moscow was comparatively quiet; the noise level was comparable to that of Saumur, France, or Waterloo, Iowa, rather than that of New York, Rome, Tokyo, or London. Part of this was due to the smaller number of automobiles, but part was due to the relative quiet of Muscovites. From time to time foreigners have attributed this quiet atmosphere to the fear of the people in a totalitarian state, but they have only to read accounts of Moscow streets before the current century to know that this is not true. No, while Muscovites can be given to hearty laughter and heated argument and even madness, they are essentially a private people. They drive their emotions inward where they build, rather than outward where they dissipate. And Russians are fatalistic. If a person is run over by a car, it is terrible, horrible, but no more than one can expect.
This tendency to keep things inside is perhaps to a large degree also responsible for the heavy consumption of alcohol in Moscow. The emotions have to be diluted, tempered, and released, or they might explode. Karpo had seen such explosions many times. He accepted it as the human condition. Every once in a while a human being, an imperfect mechanism at best, would malfunction, and clog up the machinery of the state. Such flaws had to be repaired or removed. They simply couldn’t be tolerated. Karpo saw himself as an expert in the maintenance of the commonweal.
As he walked, Karpo’s left arm began to throb slightly from the movement. He had several options. He could take one of the pills, which might affect his alertness and would do only a little to ease the pain. He could seek public transportation, a rather difficult thing to find so early on a Sunday morning. Moscow was the center of a godless state, but the concept of the Sabbath was so much a part of the Russian psyche that the government had eased its rules on Sunday and had gradually allowed it to become a day of rest. Karpo could have called Petrovka and had them send a car for him. After all, he was on official business, but to ask for a car would be an indication of weakness, and that would never do. He chose instead to accept the pain and walk on. He would think through the pain.
By six he was at his desk. The long, narrow room was not yet full, but Kleseko and Zelach were at their desks, and in the corner fat Nostavo was eating a piece of dark bread and talking to a uniformed officer, who stood nearby acknowledging the sage advice he was getting. Eating at one’s desk was forbidden, but many inspectors did so. The practice offended Karpo, who regarded any infraction of the rules as a threat to the entire structure. Lenin had said the same thing most clearly, and had led a most ascetic life. If one is willing to break a small rule, how will he know whether the next rule is also a small one when he breaks it? Soon the line between small and large is a blur and the individual becomes a detriment to the state. But Karpo did not report such offenses. There were too many of them. There were too many bribes, too many inspectors who took advantage of their privilege.
Zelach looked over at him, and Karpo nodded in recognition. Then Zelach looked away. Karpo picked up the phone and dialed.
“Kostnitsov, laboratory,” came the voice after a long wait.
“Karpo.”
“So, I’m here,” said Kostnitsov. “The sun is coming out over the Kremlin Wall, my wife is turning over for another few hours’ sleep, and my daughter is who the hell knows where.”
“Do you have the report ready?” said Karpo.
“Would I be in my laboratory now if I had no report? Would I have gotten myself up in darkness, cut an acre of my chin shaving in a daze, traveled without food to say I had nothing?”
“I do not know you well enough to answer such questions,” said Karpo.
“I’m talking human nature, not Boris Kostnitsov. Sometimes, Inspector Karpo, I despair of you. Come on up to my office. That is the least you can do. No, wait, the least you could do in addition to coming to my office is to bring me some tea.”
With that, Kostnitsov hung up. The assistant director of the MVD laboratory had no fear or awe of Karpo, no respect for his reputation. Others shied away from the Vampire and limited their contacts with him, but Kostnitsov had always treated him as he treated others, with no respect at all.
In a rather strange and inexplicable way, Karpo liked the man. So, as he would for no other-with the possible exception of Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov, who would never ask-Karpo made his way to the darkened cafeteria, boiled some water, and made a cup of tea. Then he took the elevator to the lower level, which housed the laboratory.
There was no name on the door, only a number. Knocking was awkward. Karpo shifted the hot cup to his left hand, which he could only raise to his waist. He knocked with his right.
“Come in,” shouted Kostnitsov. “Come in, Karpo. Why are you knocking? I told you to come down. What do you think I’m doing in here? Performing lewd acts with laboratory specimens?”
Karpo opened the door, walked across the hard tile floor, and placed the cup on the walnut desk in front of Kostnitsov. Kostnitsov was somewhere in his fifties, medium height, a little belly, straight white hair, and a red face more the result of his Georgian heritage than of his intake of alcohol, which was moderate. He wore a blue lab jacket and was holding a gray envelope.
“Sit,” he told Karpo and reached for the tea, which he drank in a single gulp. “Not enough sugar. How am I to get through this morning without dextrose?”
“I don’t know,” said Karpo, taking a seat across from the desk.
Kostnitsov sucked in his cheeks and examined Karpo.
“Has anyone ever told you you are a most humorless man?” he asked.
“Four times,” Karpo replied. “You have a report ready for me.”
“And an image to protect,” Kostnitsov said with a glower. “You’ll have to tolerate my eccentricity. It is all I have to keep me going in this mausoleum. You know what I really wanted to be in this life?”
“No.”
“A soccer coach. Here is your report. Do you want me to summarize it for you?”
“Yes.”
“Death was definitely caused by an irradiated liquid dosage of psittacosis bacilli,” said Kostnitsov, looking at the report. “An unnecessarily flamboyant method for murder. The means available to someone to commit murder by poison without resorting to exotic potions smuggled into the country is almost infinite. Your murderer is a showoff. He is-”
“She,” corrected Karpo.
“She was signing her crime with a flourish,” said Kostnitsov.
“Where could she get this psittacosis material?” Karpo asked, commanding his arm not to throb.
Kostnitsov’s grin was broad and manic, revealing rather poorly-cared-for teeth.
“Only one place as far as I can tell,” he said, tapping the report before him. “The Suttcliffe Pharmaceutical Company in a place called Trenton, New Jersey. How she stole it or why is beyond my knowledge, but, as far as I know, Suttcliffe is where Dr. Y. T. Yui is working. He is the foremost authority on the disease which, incidentally, normally affects parakeets, parrots, and other jungle birds. It can be passed on to man, but this happens rarely. Of course you must understand that the strain which killed your Mr. Aubrey and the other three gentlemen was carefully nurtured for this destructive purpose. Suttcliffe is well known for its private work on biological warfare.”
“I see,” said Karpo when Kostnitsov paused to scan the report for other pertinent information.
“Has this charming woman used the poison since the murders at the Metropole?”
“I think not,” said Karpo. No, he doubted she would use it again. He understood her more with each bit of information. She considered herself a professional, perhaps even an artist in terrorism. Once she had used a method, she would not repeat it-at least not without introducing some striking variation.
“Karpo,” Kostnitsov said, handing the report to him, “that concoction appears to be amazingly virulent. I would guess that even if an expert in virology had been at his side the moment your victim took it, he could have
