“I am going to confide in you, Porfiry Petrovich,” the Wolfhound said, still looking out the window. There were no lights on in the room, and the walls were fast disappearing. Rostnikov was not sure that he wanted the colonel’s confidence.
“My position is largely ceremonial,” the Wolfhound said. “I know that. You know that. Ceremony is essential in a state in which people who represent us are often without …”
“Presence,” Rostnikov supplied.
“Presence, yes,” the colonel agreed. “And dignity. And pride.”
Rostnikov thought he detected a smile in the corner of the famous profile.
“I’ve made few if any enemies, Porfiry Petrovich. I am permitted an investigative staff, your staff, consisting of personnel who are not wanted in other departments but, for reasons I cannot always fathom, are too valuable simply to dismiss. We are permitted to function, investigate as long as we remain harmless, unthreatening to other investigative bodies. I’ll not ask you if you understand where I am going with this. You are always well ahead of me.”
“I’m not-” Rostnikov began.
“I have neither the time nor the disposition to listen to false modesty,” the Wolfhound said with a deep sigh. “I do not possess modesty, and I do not admire it in others. My political future is suddenly very promising, Porfiry Petrovich. If I-we-do not stumble. If the reforms continue, we may emerge with more than a ceremonial image. You understand?”
Colonel Snitkonoy turned, his face now hidden by shadows, and Rostnikov nodded.
“Good,” the colonel said. “Be careful. Since you have joined my staff, you and your associates, we have attracted attention, a new respect, but respect has a price. Be careful, Porfiry Petrovich. I’m late. I’m to be at the reception in one hour.”
“One last thing, Colonel,” Rostnikov said, taking the requisition form from his pocket and flattening it on the colonel’s desk. “I would appreciate your signature so I can obtain a few items to complete a minor investigation.”
The colonel moved to Rostnikov’s side and looked down at the requisition. He read the list and looked at Rostnikov.
“An automobile for the night,” he said. “A French folding ladder. A portable battery-operated copying machine. And a-”
“I can explain,” said Rostnikov.
“Do I want to hear the explanation?” asked the colonel.
“Probably not,” Rostnikov said.
“Then I will allow my curiosity to give way to self-interest.” He signed his name with a flourish. “Be careful, Porfiry Petrovich.”
The colonel looked down at his watch, turning his wrist to catch the last of the sun. The cue was clear, and Rostnikov headed for the door, opened it gently, and stepped into the light of the outer office, closing the colonel’s door gently behind him.
“The lights are out,” said Pankov, the colonel’s assistant, greeting Rostnikov at the door.
“Yes,” said Rostnikov, moving past the tiny man who patted the few strands of hair on his head in a fruitless effort to make them behave less willfully.
“He has had something on his mind for days,” said Pankov.
“It would seem,” Rostnikov agreed.
“Is he … in a mood?” Pankov asked, looking at the Wolfhound’s door.
Yes, the Wolfhound was in a mood, but what the mood was had been difficult for Rostnikov to determine. It was as if the colonel had a piece of information, something to say, something he could not bring himself to convey or was unable to speak. Rostnikov had been sure that he or one of his men was going to be warned off of an investigation, but the warning had not come, and that disturbed Rostnikov. A direct warning would make sense and could be dealt with.
“He is in a mood,” Rostnikov said, looking back at the obviously frightened man. “But an introspective one, a benevolent one.”
“He can-” Pankov began with a wry smile, but the smile and thought were erased by the colonel’s deep voice bellowing through the inner door.
“Pankov!” called the Wolfhound.
Pankov patted down his hair and hurried for the Wolfhound’s door, forgetting the inspector, who left the office with a requisition for the items he would need that night to break into the offices of the Lentaka Shoe Factory.
At the very moment, or close to it, that Pankov opened the door of Colonel Snitkonoy’s office and found himself in almost total darkness, four people entered an equally darkened barn in a wooded area on the outskirts of the town of Klin.
The four people were Boris Trush the bus driver, Peotor and Vasily Kotsis, and an Oriental-looking young woman of clear features who said nothing and wore a knowing smile.
Boris had sat in the backseat of the Volga between Peotor and Vasily, while the unnamed woman drove. There was not enough room in the backseat for three people. Thigh pressed against thigh. Garlic, tobacco, and sweat enclosed Boris, who was wearing worn farming clothes. The clothes were too large and smelled bad. Boris’s sweating and the proximity of his captors did not improve the situation.
And all the way to Klin, as they drove along the Leningrad Highway for more than fifty miles, Peotor waxed on about the history of the area.
“Boris, Comrade,” Peotor said confidentially, “I was a teacher of music. A teacher of music. And history. We are making a historic journey.”
Vasily reached down and checked the automatic rifle in his lap. Something clicked. Boris shuddered. Peotor paused and men continued. “The town of Klin was founded in 1318. A beautiful town on the high bank of the Sestra River.” He turned to look out the window at the rows of birch trees. “Have you ever been there, Boris?”
“No,” said Boris.
Vasily smiled at him.
“There are two impressive old churches in Klin, one built in the sixteenth century and another in 1712, both quite different in design. We may catch a glimpse of the newer church, baroque, not my preference. But it is not the churches that people go to Klin to see.”
“Tchaikovsky,” Boris muttered, his voice dry, cracking.
“Yes,” said Peotor, turning to look at the bus driver with a touch of respect.
“Tchaikovsky’s house still stands, unchanged, as it was, a museum,” Peotor said softly. “The Nazis occupied Klin in 1941, brutalized the house, but it was restored.”
“We can’t stop at museums,” Vasily said.
“I say where we stop,” Peotor responded gently. Vasily grunted.
“Who says where we stop, Boris? Tell my son,” Peotor said, pressing the issue.
“You do,” Boris said, unwilling to be in the middle of a battle between father and son.
“You do,” Vasily agreed with a sigh.
Peotor reached past Boris’s face to slap his son playfully.
“It is in Klin Pyotr Ilich composed
“Beautiful,” said Vasily sarcastically.
Peotor chose to ignore his son and, to Boris’s relief, said, “Our country can have this tranquillity, this sense of history, identity restored. We can do this, Boris.”
“We can,” Boris agreed. “Why are we going-?”
“Patience,” said Peotor.
“Shut up,” whispered Vasily.
The woman driving the car giggled slightly.
