come over him? He knew he couldn’t and wouldn’t stop. He knew that the pitiful whimpering of the women or their stunned silence tormented him. And he feared that with each attack he grew more violent, out of control, feeling a monstrous anger. But he could not stop. He had, he knew, been given a nickname, the Shy One, but that might well turn into a more tainted name in the future.
But now he simply planned and hoped that the thing that had taken him would pass as it had come and he would learn to live with or even forget what he had done in the past and what he planned to do this very night.
The second man was named Yevgeny Tutsolov. He lived with another young man named Leonid Sharvotz. Both men were in their late twenties. Late the night before, a third man, Georgi Radzo, who was almost fifty, had sat on a chair in the small room looking at Yevgeny silently. The older man was extremely powerful from more than twenty years of loading heavy crates onto trucks. Each day he loaded for nine hours with an hour to eat lunch. He was still loading trucks, but that should soon end. Yevgeny had sat soberly, calmly as the older man had bandaged his shoulder.
“The bullet went through,” the older man had said. “I think you will be all right. It didn’t strike anything vital and slid over the bone and out.”
Yevgeny Tutsolov had wanted to curse, but instead he shook his head and said, “The unexpected. Always the unexpected. I kill the Jews, lay them out. It all goes well and then there is this madwoman pointing a gun at me.”
“It didn’t go well,” the other young man, Leonid, said, seated forlornly on his bed. “Igor … you killed Igor.”
“It was necessary,” Georgi said. “Yevgeny had no choice.”
“The one who shot you, she didn’t get a good look at you, did she?” asked Leonid as the older man sat back to inspect the bandage he had put in place. He had seen far worse injuries on the loading dock. He nodded, satisfied with his first aid, and the wounded Yevgeny put on a clean shirt that buttoned in front. Putting it on was not particularly painful. He was sure he could work his shift the next day.
“It was dark. She was too far away. Even if she saw my face in the light from a streetlight, I’m sure she was too frightened to see clearly. If she had been closer, I might well be dead now or wounded and in the hands of the police. I don’t like counting on luck.”
Yevgeny’s luck had indeed been bad. Herding the four men down the embankment, he had cracked his knee on an unseen rock covered by snow. He had been forced to limp through the execution.
It had taken a good part of the savings of all three men to purchase the AT-9, the American 9mm semiautomatic carbine, that Yevgeny had used. The carbine had the advantage of being relatively light and small. It had also been expensive, even in today’s Moscow gun market. He had killed the first two Jews with it a week earlier, and it had handled perfectly. And he had killed the other three Jews and Igor with barely a second of panic when the weapon seemed to jam, only to come alive when Yevgeny hit the bullet cartridge firmly into place with his gloved palm.
That had been the night before. Now, in the morning, the powerful older man was at the loading dock where he worked, and the two young men were alone. The wound had throbbed slightly, and his knee had been sore enough to wake him once or twice, but the slayer of the four young men on the riverbank had managed to sleep. He dressed and prepared for his day, confident that he could hide the wound on his arm and that he would not limp.
“Will this be enough?” asked Leonid, who was tall and thin with a decidedly boyish face that had been passed down for generations in his family.
“Enough?” asked Yevgeny.
“Will the Jews go now?” the young man asked.
Yevgeny Tutsolov shrugged. He could feel the shrug in his wounded shoulder.
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” he said. “They are stubborn. Jews are smart and they have learned to survive. I think it will take more. I think it will require the particularly gruesome death of the Israeli rabbi.”
“Belinsky,” said Leonid, who wanted to ask why it had been necessary to kill Igor. He wanted to ask but he was afraid. Yevgeny and Georgi had felt it necessary to kill the man who had been their partner, who had helped plan the murders, whom they had known for many years. Leonid was aware of the reasons. The reasons were good, but were they good enough?
“Belinsky,” Yevgeny confirmed. “Before we kill him, we will try a good beating. A good beating may make him less enchanted with organizing the Jews of Moscow. Killing him might make him a martyr, but I think, ultimately, we will have to kill him.”
Within two miles of where Rostnikov was giving his report to his new superior, in an upscale apartment building on Chekhov Prospekt half a block from the Rossia Cinema, another man stood before a worktable in the tiny room off his bedroom, a room he kept locked and for which he alone had a key.
Alexi Monochov lived with his mother and sister. The sister had Down’s syndrome, which was still popularly known as mongolism in Russia. Nonetheless she was able to hold down a simple job not far from the apartment, though they did not need the money.
Alexi’s father, whose name was Ivan, had secured for the family a large apartment and a steady and more than adequate income before he died. The father had worked in the Bureau of Energy. When he was told that he was dying of prostate cancer as his father had before him, Ivan had begun taking home documents that were buried in the files. He copied them. He hid the originals. Then he systematically took the copies to fourteen well- to-do government employees and businesspeople and threatened to release the documents, which would certainly send the men to prison or maybe to their deaths. Ivan had been sensible enough to demand a not unreasonable monthly amount from each of the men to be paid to his widow. The documents would be sent to the proper authorities if anything were to happen to any member of his family or if the money should stop. None of the men had any idea that any others were also being blackmailed.
In the old Soviet Union there might have been questions about the sudden solvency of Ivan’s family, but one of the men on Ivan’s list had seen to it that such questions were not asked, and in the new Russia nobody cared about where people got their money. Illegality was simply assumed.
Now, with his sister and mother out of the house shopping and his bedroom door locked, the son of Ivan selected the proper tool, a tiny eyebrow tweezer.
He worked slowly, carefully, with a certain pride in his skills and secure in the knowledge that what he was doing was right. He completed his task and left his workroom, locking the door behind him. His mother and sister had not returned. That was good. He dressed warmly, put on his boots, and left the apartment.
The nearest mail drop was two blocks away. He walked six blocks down Gorky Prospekt to Mayakovsky Square. It was there, at the Belarus railway station, that he mailed his latest letter bomb.
It took Rostnikov, with the help of his son and Elena Timofeyeva, no more than twenty minutes to move into the office that had belonged to Major Gregorovich. It was Yakovlev who had insisted on the immediate move. Rostnikov understood. Take command, make changes. Show who is in charge and how things will work.
Porfiry Petrovich’s office was directly across the hall from the room that had been divided into cubicles where the investigators of the Office of Special Investigation worked and where Rostnikov, until this morning, had himself worked.
For Rostnikov, the primary virtue of the office was the view from the window into Petrovka Street, where one could see the trees, buses, vendors, police vehicles, and pedestrians.
On the desk was a telephone, a large plastic container of plastic paper clips, a pad of paper, and a black cup filled with sharpened pencils.
The wooden desk chair was swivel mounted. Rostnikov resolved to give it a try, but he felt certain that he would eventually go back to the solid, heavy wooden chair that would play no tricks on him. On the other side of the desk were three chairs facing where he now sat.
In the corner of the room was a steel three-drawer filing cabinet that had no locks. It contained about fifty new, quite empty files and those that Rostnikov had brought with him from across the hall.
Alone in his office, Rostnikov considered removing his prosthetic leg, giving the stump a rest and a massage. But that would require pulling off his pants.
While he was considering this, the phone before him rang. He picked it up and simply said, “Rostnikov.”
“You’ve been promoted?” said the voice. “I called your old office and talked to someone named Zelach who
