“This cover-up goes all the way up to Putin?”
“I do not think so,” said Rostnikov.
“And so they dropped the case on us.”
“Yes.”
“So we would be almost certain to find the murderer and we, not they, would be responsible for embarrassing the Prime Minister,” said the Yak softly, contemplating aloud. “If our suspect is indeed his nephew.”
The Yak no longer needed an answer to the question of why the evidence had not been destroyed. Tarasov and probably Misovenski were holding it as insurance should the Prime Minister need to be informed about his nephew. The situation was now one that required some caution. Colonel Yaklovev had long courted the rumor that he and Putin were judo workout partners. In fact, the Yak had, twice a week, left the office giving no information on where he was going, not even to Pankov. The truth was that the Yak indeed worked out at a judo club with a personal instructor, but Vladimir Putin was neither a member nor a friend. All that might change one day when Colonel Yaklovev was ready to ascend to a higher level of influence.
“I will see what I can discover about this Chenko’s claim of being a nephew to Prime Minister Putin. Why did Tarasov give this evidence about Chenko to you?” the Yak said.
“Because he does not wish me to open a closed case of suicide,” said Rostnikov, “which I believe was not a suicide but a murder.”
“Who was murdered?” asked the Yak, hands now folded atop the file.
“The wife of Major Aloyosha Tarasov.”
The Yak was silent for a long minute looking at Rostnikov, who continued to allow his fingers to draw without giving thought to the images. He had drawn the compact disc flat beneath the feet of the man with the hammer and soup can. Now he began writing on the disc itself.
“With your approval, I would like to move a very old couple from their apartment and into a hotel for a few days,” said Rostnikov.
“They are in danger? They are witnesses to Chenko’s crimes?”
“No.”
“Then. .?”
“I have need of their apartment.”
“Their specific apartment?”
“Yes.”
“You have my approval. I will order Pankov to draw whatever funds you may need. Keep me informed. Thank you, Chief Inspector.”
A sincere “thank you” from the Yak was almost unheard of.
The Yak rose. So did Rostnikov, looking down at what he had written, actually printed, in very small block letters: “Georges Simenon and Fyodor Dostoevsky.”
The plan for Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov was definitely inspired by the two authors. He was sure that if he could open the CD cover he had drawn and play what was on the disc, he would hear the two novels that his plan brought to mind.
When Rostnikov had closed the door behind him, the Yak moved to his desk and picked up his phone without sitting.
“Pankov, approve anything Chief Inspector Rostnikov requires and get General Misovenski on the telephone when the Chief Inspector leaves. Do not indicate to the Chief Inspector whom you are going to call. You understand?”
“Yes,” said Pankov in the outer office, where he was perspiring again. He looked up at Rostnikov, who stood patiently and told Pankov what he needed.
Rostnikov was reasonably certain that the Yak had just told the little man behind the desk that he wanted to talk to General Misovenski
“You will be attending the wedding party of my son and Elena Timofeyeva?” Rostnikov said.
“Oh yes,” said Pankov.
Forty-six years old and Pankov had never been to a wedding, not even that of his only sister. Trina, who had married only two years earlier, had made it clear that he would not be welcome. He made Trina uneasy and nervous. He made his mother uneasy and nervous. He made everyone he knew uneasy and nervous. And now the son of a man on whom Pankov spied on a daily basis had invited him to his son’s wedding.
Pankov reached inside his pocket for his handkerchief and realized that he was not sweating.
9
Ivan Medivkin parked the small pickup truck in a dead-end alleyway alongside the old gymnasium. The trip had been somewhat painful. It had required him to drive with his knees up high, almost against his chest. His foot wanted to fall heavily on the gas pedal. It was a strain to keep it from dropping and sending the little truck into a mad dash that was certain to cause attention and possible destruction.
He had worried the last fifteen kilometers. The gas gauge had insisted that the tank was nearing empty. He could not stop for gas without being seen and remembered. He was the Giant, Ivan the Terrible, the Man Who Would Be King of the Ring, the Man Wanted by the Police for Murder.
Ivan managed to get the door open and drop his feet to the ground. Then he bent over and came out of the truck crouching. Night was coming soon. There was still a pale wash of dying sun and long gray shadows.
There was a huge green Dumpster against a wall. The top of the Dumpster was open. Things scuttled among paper and garbage, and the smell was sweetly decaying. Ivan walked behind the truck and moved to a wooden door behind a trash can. Something scuttled in that too. Ivan pushed the trash can out of the way and tried the door handle. It was not only locked; it was also held in place by decades of not being used.
The door was wood, once a thick wood, now a wood decaying from the outside in. Ivan threw his shoulder against the door. The door shot open. The ease with which he had opened the door surprised him. He fell over into the equipment storage room, breaking the fall with the palms of both hands. Then he rolled on his side and looked around the room panting from the effort and surprise. Dim twilight through the doorway covered him.
Two heavy punching bags, both with holes that would leak sawdust if they were moved, leaned against each other in a corner, suggesting, at least to Ivan, a pair of dead bodies. A cardboard box stood against a wall, a thick rope dangling from it like a snake that had died trying to escape. A stationary bicycle faced the door, its chain broken. A few feet from Ivan Medivkin lay a deflated brown leather punching bag. The punching bag seemed particularly sad, a defeated head on its side with no eyes with which to see and no body to carry it.
Ivan had spent little time training in this gym in the early days of his career. He and Klaus Agrinkov had moved to the more upscale boxing facility on a one-block street off of Kalanchevkskaya. Ivan rose and moved to the door to the gym. This door had felt frequent openings and closings. He opened the door and stepped through, closing the door behind him. He could hear voices ahead of him down the dark, narrow corridor. He followed them and came to yet another door. This one he opened slowly, cautiously.
The gym was large, a great dank-smelling place. The ring was opposite where he stood in the doorway. Two men were sparring, young men. Both were small, fast. Ivan knew that without being told. Sitting in a wooden chair outside the ring, his back to Ivan, was his manager and friend, Klaus Agrinkov.
Ivan took a step forward and stopped. From the shadows on his right and left the familiar, and not unpleasant, smell of dank sweat engulfed him. He felt a sad murmur of mourning for his damaged career.
Something emerged from the nearby shadows. Two men. One man was large, well built, though not nearly as large or well built as Ivan. The other man looked less formidable. He slouched forward and wore a look of great sadness on his face. He wore round simple glasses with reflecting glass. He turned his head toward Ivan.
That was the point at which the well-built man lifted his hand to reveal a gun pointing at Ivan.
Ivan considered turning and running back through the open door. The man with the gun might shoot, but he
