believe in organizations.”
“Did he talk about the Jews?” Rostnikov asked, finishing his tea and handing the cup and saucer to the woman. He nodded at Zelach to do the same.
“We didn’t know what he was doing,” said the man.
“He did say once,” the woman recalled, “that he thought the Jews, who had been supposedly chosen by their God, had the longest history of suffering of any people on earth. The comment came, as I recall, when my husband commented on a news report about Israel. I argued with some vigor that the Russian people had suffered as much as the Jews.”
“You had this conversation recently?” asked Rostnikov.
“A few days before he was murdered,” said Ivan, head up. “We want the murderer caught. If the state does not execute him when he is caught, I will execute him. If the state does not find him, I will find him.”
Rostnikov believed him, at least believed that the proud man would try to see that a life was taken for the life of his son.
“Igor was our only child,” the woman said, touching her husband’s arm lightly.
“Can you tell us about his friends? Names? Addresses?” asked Rostnikov, notebook out. “Perhaps they can help.”
The woman gave them two names, Yevgeny Tutsolov and Leonid Sharvotz. She didn’t know where they lived, but she had the impression that they lived together. She also remembered that Igor had said that his friends’ families, had originally come from Saint Petersburg, as had theirs.
“We never saw his friends,” said the man. “My wife and I suggested that he invite them here. He never brought them. I’m surprised my wife remembered their names. I am not good with names and numbers. But I remember faces.”
He looked up at the portrait of his great-great grandfather and then back at Porfiry Petrovich.
“May we see his room?” asked Rostnikov.
It was a polite question to grieving parents. In fact, Rostnikov needed no authority other than his own to search the house.
“Yes,” said Ivan Mesanovich, pointing to a door over his right shoulder.
“Please,” said the woman. “Do not change anything. We want to keep it as it is for a while.”
Rostnikov nodded. He had the sense that it would be a long time before the woman would bring herself to change the room. This was a family that worshiped the shrine of a lost aristocracy. They would worship both the memory and the room of their dead son, keep it neat, clean, a memorial. He had seen such things before.
Zelach followed Porfiry Petrovich, who limped into the dead man’s room. It was small. It was neat. There was a chest of drawers, a small closet, and a neatly made-up bed with two pillows. The pillowcases were completely unwrinkled. Above the head of the bed hung a framed photograph. Rostnikov recognized the building in the photograph. Zelach thought it familiar.
“The Hermitage,” Anya Mesanovich said from the doorway.
“Has it been up long?” asked Rostnikov.
“Less than a year,” she said. “Before that there was a large poster of a woman in a bathing suit. He said her name was Demi Moore. She was an American actress. He knew we didn’t like it, but we never tried to get him to take it down. And then, one day, it was gone and the Hermitage was there.”
Her last words were said with pride. “We will be gentle, and quick,” said Rostnikov. “You may certainly watch.”
She did, from the doorway. Zelach was uncomfortable but he did his job, going through the chest of drawers while Rostnikov took the closet so that he would probably not have to bend down. There wasn’t much in the closet. The dead man had few clothes. What he had was clean and relatively unfrayed, but there was little. Zelach found the same in the drawers. In the bottom drawer he found a book. He showed it to Rostnikov, who took it. It was thin but in good shape, quite old, and in French. The title, as far as Rostnikov could tell, was
“May we borrow this?” asked Rostnikov, knowing, once again, that he really didn’t need their permission.
“You’ll bring it back?” asked the woman.
“In two or three days,” said Rostnikov. “I give you my word.”
“And what is your word worth?” asked Ivan, suddenly appearing in the doorway, showing a tinge of anger at the violation of his only son’s room.
“In my work,” said Rostnikov, handing the book to Zelach, “it is all I have.”
When they got back to Petrovka, Rostnikov settled behind his desk, Zelach across from him. Rostnikov was turning the pages of the book, looking at the pictures, understanding only a drop of the text.
“Well?” Rostnikov asked.
Zelach didn’t know what to say.
“What did you think?” Rostnikov prompted.
“I don’t know,” said Zelach.
“What do you think we should do now?” Rostnikov persisted, still thumbing pages.
“Interrogate the dead man’s friends?” said Zelach.
“Precisely,” said Rostnikov. “What did we see at the Mesanovich apartment?”
“Old things,” said Zelach, knowing there was something Rostnikov hoped he had observed, but not sure of what it was. “An old banner, an old portrait, old furniture, that book, the photograph over the bed.”
“Excellent,” said Rostnikov, reaching for the phone.
It took him only ten minutes to get through to Saint Petersburg, another five minutes to locate the security office, and another seven minutes before General Snitkonoy came on the line, his voice as deep and confident as ever.
“Inspector Rostnikov,” he said.
“General,” answered Rostnikov. “May I congratulate you on both your promotion and the responsibility the state has given you.”
“Thank you,” said the Gray Wolfhound. “You have a purpose other than social in calling?”
“If you would be so good as to help me with a case,” said Rostnikov, watching Zelach’s puzzled face and shifting his false leg by dragging it across the floor under his desk.
“Of course,” said the general.
“Pavel Pestel,” said Rostnikov. He spelled out the name. “Supposedly a member of the czarina’s guard, an army officer, probably in the 1850s or 1860s. Whatever can be discovered.”
“I will have a good man on it right away,” said Snitkonoy. “What has he to do with the Hermitage?”
“I don’t know,” said Rostnikov. “Maybe nothing.”
“I shall have someone call you back,” said the general.
“Thank you, General,” said Rostnikov, hanging up.
Although Zelach said nothing, the look on his face said “I don’t understand.”
“See if you can find Tkach,” suggested Rostnikov, returning to his book. “He reads French.”
Zelach got up.
“After General Snitkonoy’s people call back with the information, we will visit the two friends of the dead man as you suggested,” said Rostnikov.
Zelach’s look of confusion turned to one of slight satisfaction as he left the room.
Tkach and Elena Timofeyeva had just returned from Trotsky Station, where Magda Stern had been unable to identify any officer as the one who attacked her the night before. None even looked like a possibility. The men, about half in uniform and half in civilian clothes because they were supposedly off duty, filed out disgruntled, tired, and puzzled.
They would move on to another station or two the next day. Elena was setting it up. They would start with those nearest the District 37 and work their way out. On the way back to the station, Elena had come up with a plan. It had been a good one, but one that would keep Sasha away from home for a number of nights. He had told her his plight, and she had suggested that they go to Porfiry Petrovich.
So, when he entered Rostnikov’s office, the senior inspector looked up and said, “No luck.”
“No,” said Tkach, who then told Rostnikov the plan.
