Rostnikov carefully hid his relief. The colonel’s question told him that he might well have won the battle. “What would my reason be?” Rostnikov said. “To punish you? To embarrass my country?”
“No,” said Drozhkin. “Your word is not enough. I risk a great deal if I agree to this scheme, perhaps even… No, your word is not enough.”
“There’s nothing else I can give you,” Rostnikov said, stopping to touch the colonel’s arm. Drozhkin moved away from the familiarity.
“Your son,” Drozhkin said, and Rostnikov could see that a smile was forming in the corners of his wrinkled mouth.
“My-”
“Your son will remain in the Soviet Union where I can watch him,” the colonel explained.
“A stalemate,” sighed Rostnikov, biting his lower lip.
“A stale-” Drozhkin began and looked at the chief inspector. “You knew I would propose this, didn’t you? You expected this?”
Rostnikov did not reply.
“We should have recruited you into the KGB long ago,” he said.
“I appreciate the compliment,” said Rostnikov. “Do I take it that you agree to my proposal?”
“You are not concerned for your son?”
“I’m concerned,” said Rostnikov, “but he has committed no crime, and he is unaware of all this. He is an innocent Soviet citizen in your care, and I’m sure you will take care of him. Once my wife and I leave, his safety will be your responsibility.”
Rostnikov had not anticipated Drozhkin’s reaction. The small man stopped and began laughing. He laughed, a hacking little laugh, until he choked and Rostnikov feared that he might actually die on the street and ruin the well-laid plan.
“You are threatening me?” Drozhkin finally spat out. “You’re going to come back from some capitalistic country in the dead of night as a tourist and beat me to death or release your tapes and papers?”
A young woman passing by wearing a white T-shirt with “Dallas Cowboys” stenciled on it gave the colonel a curious look and walked on.
“It can be done,” said Rostnikov.
“There is nothing more to say,” Drozhkin said. “Go back to your job, your home, and worry.”
“It is imperative that I have a decision on this within a month,” said Rostnikov.
“Or what?” asked the colonel, stepping away from him. “Do you know what will happen to you and your wife if the material is released?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov, “the same thing that will happen if it is not released and I remain here. This conversation commits me, Colonel. You know it, and I know it. We are too old to play such games, and we have other work to do.”
“I will not be denied the last word, Chief Inspector,” said the colonel. “I’ll do what I can to stop you.”
With that, the colonel turned and walked quickly back toward Dzerzhinski Square.
In the Moscow office of
Somewhere a committee of Party members was meeting to determine what to tell Ivanov to pass on to Shisko. Viktor drank a cup of coffee, knowing it was not good for his weak bowels, and checked his watch. His lunch would be late today.
People moved around him from desk to desk, talking, working, writing, but the level of sound was low, quite unlike the bustle of the newsroom in the American movies he had seen. Viktor had never visited an American newsroom, but he had seen
When the call came at a little before one, Shisko took it, wrote down the information on lined paper, asked two questions, and promised to call Comrade Ivanov back in less than an hour with the story for his approval.
Viktor was surprised at the information Ivanov had given him. Rarely had such a story made the news, though he well knew such things happened. By two o’clock he had finished the story and called Comrade Ivanov, who checked it with someone else and called Viktor back at three-thirty. At that point it was decided that the story could run:
MOSCOW, July 23 (Pravda)-English filmmaker James Willery, 36, was killed in Moscow when a gas main exploded destroying a wall in the Zaryadye Cinema today. The gas main defect also caused a small eruption almost immediately after the explosion in Red Square though little damage was done.
Screenings scheduled for the Zaryadye Cinema for the Moscow Film Festival now under way will be held in the Metropole Cinema until repairs can be made, which should take no more than two or three days.
The gas mains that caused the damage were part of a system that remains from before the Revolution. The few hundred feet of piping that failed will be replaced immediately to ensure that such an accident will not occur again, according to the Moscow Energy Board.
Willery, whose film
was shown at this year’s festival, was a prominent socialist filmmaker who had been invited to the festival because of his innovative approaches to socialist film.
No one else was injured in the accidents.
Lieutenant Galinarov sat at his small desk absorbed in the duty roster in front of him. His head was cradled in his hands as if he were deep in thought. Iosef Rostnikov concluded that he was trying to give the impression that he was deep in thought over who would be responsible for barracks duty today or whose turn it was to pick up fresh sheets on Tuesday.
Iosef stood patiently before the desk and waited while Galinarov played out his scene. For three or four minutes Galinarov examined the sheet, grunting occasionally, feigning concentration, or reaching for a drink from the glass nearby, which he kept filled from a bottle of Pepsi Cola, but which, Iosef was sure, did not contain Pepsi.
“Yes,” he said finally, taking a drink and looking up, “it can be done.”
Iosef said nothing.
Galinarov’s next move was to examine Rostnikov from head to boots.
“You have finished cleaning your weapons?”
“I have, Comrade,” Iosef said.
“And do you have any outstanding obligations for the next four or five days?” Galinarov asked.
“My only obligation is to remain alert at all times and be ready to be transported to wherever my unit might be needed in five minutes’ notice,” Iosef said. It was the required response, but he could not discern why Galinarov was putting him through this secular catechism.
“That is good, Corporal,” Galinarov said. “And do you remember what you are to say when questioned by civilians or if the subject of your tour in Afghanistan is brought forth?”
“That all discussion of that subject is military and confidential and that I can say nothing of it,” answered Iosef.
Galinarov nodded and then looked back down at the duty roster. “I suppose it can be arranged,” he sighed. “Rostnikov, you are to receive four days’ leave to visit your parents in Moscow.”
“For that I thank you, Comrade Lieutenant,” Iosef said, knowing that Galinarov surely had nothing to do with the granting of such leave and certainly, if given the opportunity, would have fought it. The business of examining the duty roster to see if he could let Iosef go was a childish attempt at reminding Iosef of his authority.
Galinarov reached under the duty roster, removed a folded sheet containing orders for leave, and tapped the sheet against his palm as if still considering whether to grant this favor.
“I’m not sure you deserve this, Rostnikov,” Galinarov said. Iosef looked into the man’s eyes and could now see that he had been drinking heavily. It was a bit early on a Monday evening to look as far into alcohol as the lieutenant did, and Iosef concluded that the order to give his hated underling leave had been most painful.
“I think you are right, Comrade,” Iosef said somberly. “I don’t deserve this. Since you do not want me to
