“I know.” Rostnikov sighed, and then said to the Bulgarians. “Do not touch the toilet. Use the one at the end of the corridor. Above all do not tell anyone of this.” He put his fingers to his lips. “I’ll be back tonight to fix it.”
“But-” the woman began. The thin man tugged at her sleeve to quiet her.
“Security,” said Rostnikov, allowing Karpo to precede him through the door.
“We understand,” said the Bulgarian, rushing to close the door behind the two policemen.
As they walked down the corridor, Rostnikov said, “Are you curious about that?”
“No,” said Karpo, and the conversation ended.
Twenty minutes later, after getting his jacket and saying good-bye to Sarah, Rostnikov arrived with Karpo at the entrance to Petrovka in a yellow police Volga with a blue horizontal stripe.
Petrovka consists of two ten-story L-shaped buildings on Petrovka Street. It is modern, utilitarian, and very busy. It is prominent-everyone knows where it is-and so are the thousands of gray-clad policemen who patrol the city. The ratio of police to civilians is higher in Moscow than in any other major city of the world.
In spite of this, crime, while it does not flourish, exists. Files of
Which was why Procurator Anna Timofeyeva, a thick box of a woman, about fifty, spent at least fourteen hours a day, seven days a week in her office in Petrovka, trying to shorten the pile of cases on her desk. She looked quite formidable in her striped shirt and dark blue procurator’s uniform. She drank gallons of cold tea, did her best to ignore her weak and frequently complaining heart, and went on with her massive task.
Procurator Timofeyeva was in her second ten-year term of office. Before that she had been an assistant to one of the commissars of Leningrad in charge of shipping and manufacturing quotas. She had no background in law, no training for her position, but she was dedicated, reasonably intelligent, and, above all, a zealot. She was an excellent procurator.
She was behind her desk as always when Rostnikov entered her office after knocking and being told gruffly to enter. Then the ritual began. Rostnikov sat in the chair opposite her, glanced up at the picture of Lenin above her head, and waited. As always she offered him a glass of her room-temperature tea.
“Murder,” she said.
Rostnikov sipped his tea and waited.
“Poison,” added Procurator Timofeyeva.
Rostnikov looked down at his glass, hesitated and again sipped at the tea. He liked sugar in his tea, or at least lemon. This had neither and very little taste, but it kept his hands busy. Procurator Timofeyeva’s one vice was her taste for the dramatic in assigning cases.
“An American,” she went on. “During the night, at the Metropole.”
“An American,” Rostnikov repeated, shifting his left leg. Keeping it in one position for more than a few minutes always resulted in stiffening and at least minor pain.
“And two Soviet citizens. And a Japanese.”
“Four,” said Rostnikov.
“Let us hope our powers of addition are not taxed beyond this number,” she said, sipping her own tea.
“And the inquiry, I take it, is now mine?” said Rostnikov.
“It is yours, and it is, once again, delicate. The American was a journalist here for the Moscow Film Festival. The Soviets were businessmen. The Japanese was also here for the festival, but it is the American who causes concern. It seems he was well known in his country.”
“An accident?” tried Rostnikov.
“According to the preliminary medical report from the hotel, this poison could hardly have been an accident. So, you must work quickly. There are several thousand visitors in Moscow for the festival from more than a hundred countries. There must be no rumors of a poisoner, no panic to spoil the festival. It is an important cultural event, a world event. The Olympics as you know were successfully sabotaged by the Americans and their puppets. Moscow cannot be the scene of another such embarrassment.”
Comrade Timofeyeva’s knuckles were white as she clutched her glass.
“Forgive me, Comrade Procurator, but are not such fears a bit premature? This is but-”
“Sources have informed me that there may be those who wish to embarrass the Soviet Union during the festival and that this may be part of their scheme,” she said, looking over her shoulder at the portrait of Lenin as if to seek approval.
“In which case, would this not be properly handled by-” Rostnikov began, but she interrupted him again.
“The KGB wishes us to investigate this as a common crime and not a political one. I’m afraid, Comrade Rostnikov, you have gained a reputation for discretion in such matters.”
The meaning of this, Rostnikov well knew, was that if he failed, his enemies could throw him to the dogs. He was expendable, and this precarious state was becoming part of his life with each delicate case he handled.
“I understand,” Rostnikov said, rising. “I assume I am to go to the Metropole immediately. I am to keep you informed, and I am to work, as always, as swiftly as possible.”
She stood and took the empty glass from his hand.
“An American is dead, poisoned,” she said. “It is already an embarrassment.”
“And Karpo is to work with me?”
“If you wish,” she agreed, sitting again and already reaching for the next file on her desk. “But he must keep up with the rest of his case load.”
Rostnikov moved toward the door.
“If you need Tkach, yes,” she said.
He opened the door but paused before he stepped out. The next thing he was going to say would surely be dangerous, but it was worth saying, for he both liked and admired the homely, far too serious, and officious woman who sat behind the desk in this hot office.
“How are you feeling, Comrade Anna?” He spoke softly so that she could ignore him if she wished.
Her reaction was to yank off her glasses and glare at him angrily for an instant. But something in his look, the way he stood, the sincerity of his tone, got through to her, and she couldn’t sustain the anger.
“I am well, Porfiry,” she lied evenly.
He recognized the lie and smiled ever so slightly.
“Good,” he said and stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind him.
He knew that she would not take his inquiry as the false solicitude of the underling who coveted his superior’s job, for the facts were clear. Rostnikov would never be more than a chief inspector in the MVD, a position higher than might be expected of him considering his inability to control his tongue, his frequent impetuousness, and his politically hazardous Jewish wife-a wife who had no interest at all in either religion or politics. Fortunately, Rostnikov had no ambition; he was politically uninterested. His job was to catch criminals and occasionally punish them at the moment of capture. Usually, however, the game-and he saw it as a game-ended when he caught the criminals and turned them over to the procurator’s office for justice. It didn’t matter to Rostnikov whether the law was reasonable or not. The criminals knew the law and knew when they were violating it.
Beyond catching criminals, Rostnikov’s life was in his wife, his son Iosef who had recently been posted to Kiev with his army unit, weight lifting, reading American mystery novels, and, most recently, plumbing.
Lost in thought, Rostnikov turned the corner and found himself facing Emil Karpo, a startling specter.
“You’ll be needing me?” Karpo said.
“For now,” answered Rostnikov, continuing to limp down the corridor. “We are going to the Metropole
