Fall of a Cosmonaut

the doors and there immediately came the sound of people outside talking. It was likely, thought Iosef, that this was the singularly most interesting event they had witnessed in years, possibly in their lifetimes.

Primazon looked around with approval.

“They probably show movies here,” he said. “Old movies. I love old movies. I collect videotapes. Mostly American, but I like the Russian biographies. The admirals, scientists. All long, ponderous. You can live a lifetime watching one of those old biographies. Shall we sit?”

Primazon had taken over, serving as host, smiling genially.

Porfiry Petrovich moved back to the table where they had sat and joined Anatoli Primazon, who had already sat and placed his umbrella on the table. Iosef chose to stand.

“I must thank you, Porfiry Petrovich,” he said, leaning forward and, for no reason Iosef could discern, speaking in a whisper. “If you had not come to St. Petersburg, I would not have had the opportunity to attend the burial services. You know Putin was there? He spoke, apologized for the murders, more than eighty years ago, all murdered. Official Russian Orthodox service. Priests with those tall white hats with the crosses pinned in the center. Everyone stood. The service was, as you may have guessed, long. Have you ever been inside St. Peter and Paul Cathedral?”

“No,” said Rostnikov.

“No? You should stop on your way back. Beautiful. Glass chandeliers. High-domed ceilings, Pink-and-blue walls. And pomp? Gold-robed priests, black-suited descendants of the Romanovs, all holding the thin candles. A choir sang the Orthodox requiem for the dead, priests filled the air with incense. At the original burial several years ago, royalty from all over the world, the English sent the Prince of Kent. And the nineteen-gun salute when they lowered Nicholas’s coffin. Only nineteen instead of twenty because he had abdicated. An irony there? We force him to abdicate and then when we repent we fire only nineteen shots. The shots echoed off the buildings, frightened birds flew, thousands watched. The Neva wept. I exaggerate, but it was a scene to remember, to tell one’s grandchildren. Unfortunately, I have no grandchildren, but I do have a son, a teacher in Minsk.”

“It sounds as if it was a moving experience,” said Rostnikov, adjusting his leg.

“I did not kill Vladimir Kinotskin,” Primazon said, suddenly quite serious. “As you can tell, I have great reverence for history, for the past. History is my passion. What else is there but family and history? I would not kill a man before the house of Lermontov.”

“Would the lobby of the Russia Hotel be an acceptable location for murder?” asked Rostnikov.

“Oh yes, certainly. It has no history, not yet. We will all be long gone like the czar and his family before it deserves such reverence,” said Primazon.

“But you know who did kill Kinotskin?” asked Rostnikov.

“I know why,” the man said with a smile, “and I am waiting for you to find out who.”

“Then,” said Rostnikov, “let us now ask why.”

“Splendid,” said Primazon, sitting back, still whispering. “Then that will leave us only who. Perhaps I should tell you who I am and what I do.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Rostnikov.

“My task is not to kill cosmonauts but to protect them,” he said. “My small group is part of the Space Security Organization. We protect the launch sites and villages where cosmonauts and visiting astronauts and others are trained and housed. My small group is assigned to the present and past cosmonauts.”

“Who would want to harm cosmonauts?” asked Iosef.

Primazon looked up as if he had forgotten the younger “presence.

“Who? I think we have ample evidence that someone would, don’t we? We have a murdered cosmonaut and others who have died under some suspicion. Why would one want to harm cosmonauts? Terrorism? Insanity? Revenge?”

“Revenge for what?” asked Iosef.

Primazon shrugged. “We have a list of hundreds in the space-exploration program, a list that goes back before 1957. Hundreds have been terminated for incompetence, mental illness, as scapegoats for missions or experiments that went wrong. See, I am being honest with you.”

“I appreciate that, Anatoli Ivanovich,” said Rostnikov.

“Then I will be even more honest,” the umbrella man said, still whispering. “I have not done a particularly good job in the current situation. Only one cosmonaut remains in Russia of the six involved in that troubled mission. The two who are out of the country are being protected by my colleagues.”

With this, Primazon reached into his jacket pocket and dramatically pulled out a photograph, which he turned toward Porfiry Petrovich.

“Tsimion Vladovka,” said Primazon.

Rostnikov had the same photograph in his small suitcase. He had looked at it, memorized each feature and detail. Primazon turned the photo to look at it himself as if for the first time and said, examining the picture, “I must save him, you must find him. There is none better than you for such a task, or so I have heard. I’ll be honest again. If something were to happen to Tsimion Vladovka, I might well end my career by cleaning the statues of poets and authors in the squares of Moscow.”

“And since you could not hide in such a small village as Kiro-Stovitsk …” Rostnikov began.

“… I decided to face you honestly,” finished Primazon, patting his umbrella.

“And at some time, if we find Vladovka and he is safely back in Moscow and under your protection, and I tell you who killed Vladimir Kinotskin? …” Rostnikov tried again.

“Then perhaps I will be in a position to tell you why someone does not want these cosmonauts to live,” said Primazon. “I must ask. Why have you come here?”

“Instinct,” said Rostnikov.

Primazon nodded in understanding.

“Instinct and a belief that Vladovka would not disappear forever, if the choice of disappearance were his own, without making some contact with his family,” said Rostnikov.

“Yes, yes,” said the umbrella man, nodding his head. “He is such a man. I understand. It might be dangerous to see them in person, but such a man … Well, is there some place we can spend the night here? It’s getting late and you have work to do.”

“I don’t know,” said Rostnikov. “Perhaps Iosef could …”

“No, no,” said Primazon, rising and holding out his hand, palm open and facing down to keep father and son in place. “I will take that responsibility. I am, after all, the intruder, and I owe them some explanation.”

“And what will that be?” asked Rostnikov.

“Something novel, unexpected,” the man said, tucking his umbrella under his arm. “I shall tell them the truth. Are you coming?

“We will be there in a moment,” said Rostnikov. “My leg is causing me a bit of difficulty. Iosef can help.”

“Your leg? Oh, yes, I had forgotten. War injury. You have medals?”

“I have medals,” said Rostnikov. “Everyone has medals.”

Primazon nodded again and went down the short aisle and out the doors, closing them behind him.

“There is nothing wrong with your leg?” said Iosef.

“Nothing,” said Rostnikov, still sitting.

“Then? …”

“I wanted to talk to you briefly before we join our new friend on the street as he charms the populace.”

“You have some idea of where Tsimion Vladovka might be?”

“Yes.”

“And,” Iosef continued, looking at his father, who was now rising, “you know who killed Vladimir Kinotskin?”

“Oh, yes,” said Rostnikov, patting his son on the cheek. “The killer just walked out of here with a smile on his face and an umbrella under his arm.”