was quite young, ultimately animals. A reasonable utopian ideal like Communism was probably beyond the conception of animals, even those wearing clothes.
Karpo had become a policeman to protect Communism and the state from the eroding effects of crime. Then, for several years he remained a policeman because it was what he knew how to do and he could lose himself in the work. Recently, he had come to a new commitment to his work. A woman, her name was Mathilde Verson, had been killed in the crossfire of a battle between two Mafias. She had been the meaning for his existence. Now his crusade was to rid the city of Moscow of as many as possible of the worst of the two-legged monsters who prowled the dark streets.
But psychics? Had Porfiry Petrovich given the assignment to him as some kind of joke? Rostnikov was not above such a joke. Emil Karpo was surely the wrong man to deal with people who believed in and studied such things. The world was tangible. Nature had its laws, even if we did not understand them. So-called psychic phenomena were strands of false hope that something existed beyond the natural world. Yes, some things called psychic phenomena were certainly explainable if the research and experiments were possible to demonstrate that they were natural and not supernatural. The problem might be that research did not exist to prove the natural where the unnatural seemed to be taking place. It mattered little to Emil Karpo. It was sufficiently challenging to accept the terrible reality of the tangible world in which he existed.
Rostnikov entered the room. Karpo did not have to look up. It was too early for anyone else, and the sound of the limping leg on the wooden floor was unmistakable.
The chief inspector entered the cubicle and stood before Karpo’s desk. Karpo put the top back on his pen, closed his notebook, and looked up. He was dressed as always completely in black: shoes, socks, trousers, and jacket over a pullover shirt.
“Are you aware that we had a storm, Emil?”
“I am aware, Chief Inspector.”
“Windows broke, trees fell, a bench flew down the street and into the darkness.”
Karpo nodded. “It seemed unduly loud.”
“Thunder and lightning. At this magnitude in the middle of the usually calm summer. Nothing like this has happened before. Perhaps at the parapsychology center you will witness things that haven’t happened before?”
“I do not expect that to occur,” said Karpo.
“I know. Do you like Spam?”
“No.”
“If you are here when Iosef arrives, please tell him to come to my office and wait for me.”
“I will be here till the institute opens at nine.”
“Keep smiling, Emil Karpo.”
“I do not smile, Chief Inspector.”
“I know,” said Rostnikov.
“And I know that you know,” said Karpo, without humor or emotion.
“We have too many levels to our conversations,” said Rostnikov. “Even the most trivial. I believe it is endemic to Russians. It comes from having a history in which survival is often dependent on being cryptic.”
“That is possible.”
“We will talk later. As always, take care of yourself. Today especially. Omens from the sky.”
“I do not believe in omens,” said Karpo.
“Which is one reason you have been assigned this investigation,” Rostnikov said as he nodded and left the cubicle.
He arrived in the outer office of the director one minute before his scheduled appointment. Pankov stood up and handed him a dark mug of steaming black coffee. Rostnikov took it with thanks. Pankov bit his lower lip, waiting for the chief inspector to taste the brew. Rostnikov did so. It was not foul. It was not good, but it wasn’t foul.
“Very satisfying,” said Rostnikov.
Pankov smiled, having lived through another of the thousands of ordeals in his daily life.
There was no time to sit and, besides, Rostnikov did not want to go through the trouble of sitting for less than a minute. The maneuvering of his leg was more than the moment of repose was worth, especially when he was holding a mug of hot liquid.
The door to the inner office opened and Pankov rose behind the desk to look at the director, who stood in the doorway.
“Pankov, sit down. Inspector, come in.”
Yaklovev left the door open and turned back into his large office. Rostnikov, still carrying his coffee, followed him and closed the door. The Yak sat at the far end of his conference table.
“Sit,” said the director.
Rostnikov placed his mug on one of the brown cork circles provided for drinks and eased himself down to one side of the director.
“Do you know a man, a cosmonaut, named Tsimion Vladovka?” asked the director.
Sasha Tkach made a sound, perhaps a groan, probably a reaction to the dinner of oversalted barley-and- beef soup his mother had prepared the night before. He rolled out of bed and tried to see the clock on the bed stand. Normally Maya would have awakened him by now. Instead he had been awakened by the electric crackle of nearby lightning and the sound of rain hitting the windows across the room.
It was late. He would have to hurry, to shave, take a cold shower in the little tile cubbyhole in the bathroom. To accomplish this he would have to get past his mother in the bedroom. Lydia, in spite of her loud snoring, was a light sleeper. He did not want to wake her. He wanted coffee, though he was sure the acid in it had been giving him stomach pain. Perhaps he would switch to Pepsi-Cola. He had appropriated a large supply from a tourist hotel that wanted no trouble with the police. There were six bottles in the refrigerator and a carton of them next to it.
Tomorrow, he told himself, tomorrow I’ll start drinking Pepsi-Cola. Today I need coffee. Who could deny me coffee in a life like mine?
Sasha was thirty-four, an inspector in the Office of Special Investigation. When he had begun as an investigator, he had been in the procurator’s office under Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov, who reported to Procurator Anna Timofeyeva. Looking a decade younger than his years, lean, handsome, with straight blond hair that often hung over his forehead, he had done undercover work, pretending to be a student, a naive computer salesman, a manager of killer dogs, a black marketeer, an innocent file clerk, and many other things, but now …
He looked around the living room-dining room-kitchen. It was empty. There was no Maya in the bed. The baby was not in the crib, though the crib was still there, and he knew his four-year-old daughter, Pulcharia, wasn’t in the next room. His wife, Maya, had taken the children and gone back to Kiev to live with her brother and his family, indefinitely.
Sasha took a deep breath, heard his mother snoring in the bedroom, folded the bedding and pillows, and closed the bed back into the sofa.
Sometimes, during the past few weeks, he had concluded that it was his own fault. He had staggered, fallen, been with other women, unleashed periods of brooding anger and sullen silence. In short, he had been less than a joy to his family. However, with “help, he had convinced Maya to give him one more chance, twenty-two days. She had reluctantly agreed, partly, he thought, because it had been a strangely specific number to choose.
She had remained the entire time and he had tried, really tried, to change. But change does not come easily. He had loved his children, held his wife in the darkness of night when he came home, avoided other women, and done his best, though his moods had still come. And at the end he had the feeling that it was she who was becoming sullen, that somehow she had taken on his moods of depression as if they had been a disease transmitted from one person to another.
He moved to the small sink in the kitchen area near the window and turned the water on, but not full blast. The pipes were noisy and there was a precise point, which he could never quite judge, when they would begin to rattle and shake. Porfiry Petrovich, who for reasons Sasha did not understand had a great interest in plumbing, had during his last visit to the apartment offered to look into the problem. Sasha had said he would let him know.
