Fall of a Cosmonaut

am sure he would prefer that nothing be wrong. Iosef, engage him. Tell Ivan Laminski of your exploits in the theater or in Afghanistan or with women. Smile, listen to him, and reassure him that everything is fine and that we will soon be going to St. Petersburg.”

Iosef nodded as they moved forward through the field. Rostnikov turned his head to Tsimion and said, “And you will come with me. We will talk calmly of farming. I will ask a question. You will answer. And we will improvise if your father comes out of the house.”

“I have grown accustomed to improvising,” said Tsimion.

“I like the smell of freshly harvested potatoes,” said Rostnikov as they cleared the field and neared the farmhouse. Laminski stood waiting. He adjusted his blue uniform as they approached. He said nothing, but there was certainly a look of curiosity in his less-than-brilliant eyes. Iosef moved toward the somewhat bewildered driver.

“What? …” Laminski began.

“I’ll explain,” said Iosef. “I made a mistake. There was no reason for me to go running after Inspector Rostnikov. He had forgotten to take some medication and I wanted to be sure he got it quickly.”

“Are there parts of Russia where potatoes grow better?” asked Porfiry Petrovich, loud enough for the driver to hear them.

“Different, not better necessarily,” said Tsimion. “There are different kinds of potato. In this region …”

And they were inside the door. Tsimion closed it behind them. They found Boris in the kitchen, alone with the corpse. Boris was sitting at the table, looking down at the body of the man who had called himself Primazon. The dead man was sprawled awkwardly, one leg straight, the other bent backwards in an L. He was on his back. His head was turned toward the nearest wall and he was looking upward at a spot where there was nothing to see. His umbrella lay a foot or so away.

Boris looked up at his son and the detective.

“He said he wanted to talk to Konstantin,” Boris said, looking at Rostnikov. “I could see in his eyes that he knew, just as I saw in your eyes that you knew. It was the way he said it. I was certain.”

Rostnikov sat in a chair and motioned to Tsimion to do the same.

“Where are the women, the child?” asked Rostnikov.

“Where? I don’t know. I think they are in my bedroom.”

“Did they see? …” asked Rostnikov.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” said Boris.

“My son says they did not.”

“Good,” said Boris.

“I think it would be a good idea for your son to go to them, comfort them, explain that our friend on the floor was here for bad reasons, but that everything will now be fine.”

Tsimion rose, nodded in understanding, and put his hand on his fathers shoulder. Boris put his hand on top of his son’s. And then Tsimion moved toward the bedrooms.

“Money is tight for our government security services,” said Rostnikov. “That umbrella has an ejection button. By pressing it … it is on the handle … by pressing the button, a very thin needle with a very lethal dose of poison pops out. Death is swift and looks like a stroke or a heart attack to all but the best pathologists. It is an effective but rather old means of murder. The Bulgarians used it a great deal. Too much. There are far better ways, but they cost more. And I think our dead Primazon preferred this method. Are you following me, Boris Vladovka?”

“Yes,” he answered, staring at the dead man. “I’ve never killed before.”

“I, on six occasions, have killed,” said Rostnikov. “It was, I believe, necessary in all six of those instances. At least it is what I have told myself. Four of those killed were Nazis during the war.”

“You are too young to have been a soldier,” Boris said.

“I was a boy soldier. There were many of us, some barely ten, some even younger. My leg was injured during the war.”

“You said four Nazis. The other two, the ones you killed?”

“I am a policeman. It happens. I am not proud of what I did, but it was necessary, and like you, Vladovka, I killed one of them with my hands. I believed I had to kill to protect myself and a very small child.”

Boris nodded and said, “And I must kill again. Yes, I must kill you and your son and Laminski and continue to kill every time someone comes to take my son or kill him.”

“I too have but one son, Boris,” said Rostnikov with a sigh. “I am afraid I would have to stop you. Besides, I think there is a better way. Killing us would certainly bring many more policemen here.”

“I see no other way,” said Boris.

“All right, let’s begin with your killing me. If you fail, we will talk about other, more sensible, ways of handling this situation.”

Boris rose from his chair, as did Porfiry Petrovich.

“You want me to kill you?”

“You have to start with someone. Come.”

Boris looked a bit dazed as he moved toward the policeman. Yes, he thought, if I am to protect Tsimion, I must start somewhere.

Vladovka was larger across and certainly taller than Rostnikov, and he had the power of a farmer who had labored all of his life. He reached out for the thick neck of the policeman. Rostnikov grabbed the farmer’s wrists. Boris Vladovka struggled to free himself as his son had only minutes before in the potato field. Boris pushed forward. Both men tripped over the corpse and fell to the floor. Still, Rostnikov held fast. They rolled away from the dead man over the umbrella and into the wall.

Their faces were inches apart. Rostnikov could smell coffee and the bile of fear on the other man’s breath.

“Now we try my way,” Rostnikov said gently as he held the larger man by his shoulders.

“We try your way,” Boris agreed.

“When we get up, rise carefully,” said Rostnikov. “Our dead friend pressed his umbrella button before he died. I think he meant to use it on you when he realized that you were going to kill him.”

Rostnikov let the bigger man free, and Boris moved to his knees.

“Then I would have been the one to die,” the farmer said with resignation.

“If he had used his weapon,” said Rostnikov, trying to sit up, “you would have been dead almost instantly. I would appreciate it if you would help me up. It is difficult …”

“You, oh, of course, I’m sorry.”

Boris stood and held out a hand. Rostnikov took it and with the farmer’s help got to his feet.

“You are very strong,” said Boris, stepping over the dead man and returning to his chair. “Would you like coffee?”

“Coffee,” said Rostnikov, moving back to his chair.

Boris nodded and moved to the stove. He touched the coffeepot.

“It is still very warm, but not hot … Shall I? …”

“No, warm will be fine.”

“Sugar? Milk?”

“Sugar, not too much. If your coffee is strong or bitter, a little milk would be nice.”

Boris nodded, filled a brown mug, dropped in a sugar cube, and went to the refrigerator for the milk.

While he finished preparing the mug of coffee, Rostnikov leaned over, picked up the umbrella, found the button, pressed it, and watched the very thin needle slide noiselessly back into its slot.

Boris brought two mugs to the table, handed one to Rostnikov and took the other.

“What,” asked Rostnikov, after taking a drink of the very strong and not very good coffee, “if our friend here were to be found tonight on a very dark street of a very bad neighborhood in St. Petersburg, beaten to death, neck broken, arm broken, many bruises, perhaps a broken rib, his money taken, his shoes taken, his watch taken, his umbrella taken, his clothes and dignity taken? What if his car were never found? The police would assume the car had been sold to what the Americans call a ‘chop shop.’ Unless the pathologist who examines the body realizes that he was dead before he was beaten, it will be assumed to be a routine mugging and murder. It is unlikely the pathologist, if one is even called in, will have that realization. Do you think our dead man might meet that fate?”