“Comrade Bulgarin worked night and day,” she continued. “He is a glowing example of a revolutionary zeal that has been all but lost. He is a party member, a dedicated citizen, one of the
The woman sounded to Rostnikov as if she were reading a tract written in the 1930s.
“Almost a hero,” Rostnikov said to break the latest pause. “How long did he work there?”
“Only a few months. He had been transferred from a wristwatch assembly plant in Kalinin. But he was magnificent. There was a slowdown in April. Comrade Bulgarin helped to break it. We need him back,” she said. “Production and processing in leather and plastics have been down. There has been petty pilfering and-”
“Theft?” asked Rostnikov.
“A few tools, odd pieces of material. Minor, yes, but indicative of the morale crisis that must be overcome,” she said emotionlessly. “You might wish to allude to that in your report, Comrade Inspector. Certain people might wish to consider further changes in the administration of this vital factory. Our nation cannot function without well-made shoes in which to work.”
Rostnikov put the book in his pocket and followed the progress of a pair of uniformed MVD officers ushering a handcuffed man past Rostnikov’s office. The man wore an open-collared shirt with a tie dangling from his neck. The man was thin, with a belly. The man was smiling as if he held a secret that would protect him.
“It would be awkward without shoes,” Rostnikov admitted.
“You’ll put all this in your report?”
“In detail,” Rostnikov said. “Bulgarin had no family? No wife? No mother?”
“Correct,” said Raya Corspoyva. “He was wedded to his work. Fifteen, sixteen hours of work each day. Six, seven days a week.”
“A saint?” Rostnikov tried.
“A hero,” she replied. “Saints are for the decadent.”
Ten minutes after hanging up the receiver, Rostnikov was walking alongside Colonel Snitkonoy, who was on his way to the massive black Zil limousine with dark-tinted windows that would take him to a reception for visiting American businessmen. Normally the colonel strode through Petrovka and life with long steps, never looking to right or left. He moved slowly now, allowing Rostnikov to keep up with him, adopting the manner of a highly attentive superior listening to a sensitive report.
“… a series of thefts at the Lentaka Shoe Factory,” a clerk heard as she passed and received a nod from the Gray Wolfhound.
“And you wish to investigate personally?” the Wolfhound said conspiratorially.
“My staff is occupied with pressing matters that are fully documented in my day report, which will be on your desk when you return,” said Rostnikov softly. “I believe I can deal with this quickly. Our nation cannot function without well-made shoes in which to work.”
They stopped in front of the elevator, where the thin, smiling, handcuffed man with a belly was being attended by one of the two MVD officers.
“Boots,” said the Wolfhound pensively. “Does the factory make boots?”
“I don’t know,” said Rostnikov. “But I’ll find out.”
“Good,” said the Wolfhound, stepping into the elevator and facing front.
The MVD men entered the elevator with their prisoner and also faced forward. The thin, handcuffed man’s eyes met Rostnikov’s and the knowing smile suddenly disappeared, replaced by a look of panic. Rostnikov gave the man a small, wry smile and nodded almost imperceptibly. As the elevator doors closed, the man tried out a new smile, a slightly less mad smile of resignation.
Boris had driven the bus like a robot where he was told. The young man said turn, Boris turned. Right, left. It was hard to think of anything but the gun against his neck and the dead man who had been pushed down and out of sight by the man in the long coat. Boris was vaguely aware of passing the Yaroslavi Railway Station and heading away from the city on Rusakovskaya Street. A bus came toward him once and passed, and Boris thought the driver had a puzzled look on his face as he glanced at the out-of-route bus heading away from the city, but Boris had not looked closely. Perhaps it was only his imagination. Besides, did he really want to be discovered? What if the police did locate him, surround the bus? There would be shooting. What would the police care about the life of a loyal bus driver who had worked diligently for more than twenty-five years, who had never done anything to disgrace the company and had never missed a day of work for anything but illness and understandably bad reactions to vodka?
“Pay attention,” the young man said. “We turn here.”
Boris nodded. He couldn’t speak. His eyes went up to the mirror. The older man sat about halfway back in the bus, looking out the window as if he were on his way home from work.
Perhaps it would be better if the police did come. These men might simply be planning to kill him when they got where they were going.
“What’s your name?” the young man said. He was standing behind Boris and softly humming some foreign song.
“You already asked … Boris,” the driver said, amazed that he could get sound through his dry lips. A small drink. That’s all he needed. A very small one.
Boris drove the bus down a heavily rutted road in a broad field in which nothing seemed to be planted but miles of weeds.
“I … the road is too narrow,” Boris chattered.
“It is wide enough,” the older man in the back said softly, dreamily. “We measured. Drive slowly.”
“Drive slowly,” the young man repeated happily. “Are you excited, driver Boris? Afraid?”
“I have a large family, a wife, a mother, four children,” Boris repeated his lie. If the young man had forgotten his name, he might also have forgotten their earlier conversation about the children.
“Too many children, Boris,” the young man said. “Unpatriotic. You are not a good citizen.”
“They are all adopted,” Boris said. The barrel of the pistol clunked against his ear as the bus hit a wide dent in the road.
“Adopted?”
“Orphans,” Boris said.
“You’re a true hero of the revolution, Boris,” the young man said. “And you are a liar. There, to the right, that house there.”
Boris slowly turned the bus toward a small sagging wooden house in the open field. The road was even more narrow and difficult to navigate.
“You know what happens to heroes and saints, Boris?” the young man whispered. “If they are lucky, they become martyrs.”
FIVE
Emil Karpo’s head was aflame with pain. He ignored it. Or at least he worked through it. He was well aware that the pain was an impediment that even if ignored would take a toll, but he also knew that it would eventually- an hour, two or three at the most-pass. Perhaps the pill had had some effect.
He had purposely decided to walk in the hope that when he arrived at his destination the cool air would aid him and the pill would have time to work. He crossed Gorkovo to the City Hall side and moved south and downhill toward Red Square and came to a series of large, forty-year-old Victorian-looking apartment houses on the right.
He found the correct building and paused. In front of it, parked by special permit, was a black Zil, not unlike the one assigned to the Gray Wolfhound, but this one had gray curtains to hide the passengers from the gaze of the people on the street. The polished granite of the building that faced the street level in front of him came, Emil Karpo knew, from a quarry captured by the Soviet army at the end of the war against the Axis. The Nazis had planned to use the granite to erect a monument to celebrate the defeat of the Soviet Union. The building behind the granite facade and those surrounding it housed special people-bureaucrats, foreigners, including Americans and even Germans with business in Moscow, and upper-rank party members,
