badger had fled.
“So,” the old man shouted, “go, take your gun and shoot that thing instead of some innocent dog!”
“I will!” the massive man shouted back.
And the old man led the dogs out, closing the door behind him.
Now the young guard was alone, or thought he was alone, with a dangerous unknown animal, an animal that the guard was afraid might be the more intelligent of the two.
The guard moved cautiously forward, heard a sound to his right, and decided to retreat through the door, which he closed firmly behind him.
The moment he was gone, Rostnikov, Karpo and Tkach were up.
If the guards went back to their normal rounds, the policemen had twelve minutes to complete their task. Karpo moved back to the files with his flashlight. Rostnikov opened the door to the office and with Tkach holding the box stepped into the factory. Rostnikov moved instantly to his right toward the office of Raya Corspoyva, and Tkach opened a heavily wrapped cow’s heart that Rostnikov had carried in his toolbox.
Ten minutes later, the badger was safely in the box with his well-earned piece of meat and the three men were climbing out of the window of Lukov’s office.
Rostnikov had just closed the window when they heard the voices of the two guards arguing loudly in front of the building.
There was no way they could get across the open field to the fence, get the ladder up, and be over before the guard turned the corner. ‘ Neither was there time to open the window and get back into the factory.
“Wait,” Rostnikov whispered, motioning them back against the wall.
Karpo held the ladder. Tkach held the box with the badger. Rostnikov handed Karpo the copier and the toolbox and moved to the corner of the building as quickly as he could. He stood back in the shadows as the young guard mumbled to himself.
As the guard turned the corner, Rostnikov stepped behind him and grasped him in a bear hug. The man struggled, grunted, and tried to shout, but though he was a head taller than Rostnikov, he couldn’t escape the older man’s grip. They danced away from the wall in a circle. Rostnikov lifted the man and squeezed, squeezed until his hands went numb, squeezed ignoring the hands and nails that tore at his fingers, squeezed until the man went limp and unconscious. Only then did Rostnikov let him down gently to the ground and pause for an instant to be sure the man was still breathing. Karpo, meanwhile, had set down the ladder and stood at the corner of the building, waiting to see if the old guard would show up. According to his calculations, if the old man had not heard the struggle, he would be coming around the corner in five minutes. The old man did not come running. Rostnikov picked up the ladder, and the three men hurried to the fence.
They were in the car and driving away when, through the rear window, Sasha saw the old guard round the corner, spot his fallen fellow, and run toward him. What Sasha did not see was the Chaika parked a quarter of a mile away, a Chaika with its lights out that followed them at a safe distance.
When they were headed back to the center of Moscow, Rostnikov said, “Emil?”
Karpo reached into his jacket and removed three sheets of paper. One sheet was the copy of a typed letter. The other two were copies of delivery orders. Rostnikov took them and joined them with a paper clip to the copies of papers he had made from items in the files of Raya Corspoyva. He would have to look at them carefully, to consider what he had, but even at this point Rostnikov was sure that he held in his hand enough evidence against a ranking KGB member to ensure his own death and that of Karpo and Tkach.
“The guard?” Sasha said.
“I’ll deal with that, Sasha,” said Rostnikov. “And I will return everything to Petrovka and the badger to the Ferlonika research lab.”
“A request, Inspector,” Sasha said as they neared his street. “I need a meeting permit for a small group, a public meeting permit. It concerns a lead in the bus case.”
“I’ll speak to Pankov,” said Rostnikov. “Now a question: Where were you tonight?”
“At home in bed,” said Tkach.
“And you, Emil?”
“The same,” Karpo said, turning onto the Outer Ring Road.
Rostnikov leaned back, tapping his fingers on the sheaf of papers in his hand, considering his next move.
Within ten minutes of that moment, Sasha had entered his apartment, kissed the sleeping Pulcharia, taken off his clothes, and slid into bed next to Maya, who murmured, “Where were you?”
“Toilet, thinking,” he said, realizing that he was very awake and very excited.
Maya’s hand reached over languidly to hold him and wandered below his flat belly. In the light they left on in the kitchen alcove, Sasha could see the smile on Maya’s face. Her eyes opened dreamily and he pulled her gently to him and kissed her quite deeply.
Within twenty minutes of that moment, Emil Karpo was at the door of his apartment. He checked the thread and hair to be sure no one had entered in his absence, went in, checked the placement of the key objects, and removed his clothes. Emil Karpo always went to sleep instantly upon lying back. He used no pillow and nothing to cover himself.
Before he lay back this night, however, he told himself that he had made an error in visiting the room of Yuri Vostoyavek. There would be no such mistakes in the morning. He reminded himself to awaken in four hours. He could sleep no longer. There was no time.
Within the hour Rostnikov had returned the ladder, the badger, the copying machine, and the automobile; had hidden the papers he had taken from the Lentaka Shoe Factory, and had located a taxi, which was now taking him home. The driver was, fortunately, not a talker. He was sullen, tired, and perhaps just a bit drunk, which was perfectly fine with Porfiry Petrovich, who was also very tired.
When the phone rang slightly after two in the morning, the KGB officer picked it up before the echo of the first ring ended. He was expecting the call, had been lying awake in bed. He was alone. His wife had long had her own room, which he could visit when he wished, though it had been some time since he wished or, for that matter, since she had wished him to do so.
“Yes,” he said.
“Set,” said Vadim. Next to him was the man who had driven the Chaika. Vadim could say no more on the phone, was permitted to say no more. In the morning he would give a full report.
“Good,” said the KGB officer and hung up the receiver.
As he lay back, knowing he could not and would not sleep, the KGB officer went over his plan once again and then once more before he decided to move to the kitchen for coffee and the reward of a small piece of Italian chocolate, an indulgence he allowed himself secretly and infrequently, an indulgence he believed he now deserved.
It was almost three in the morning when Porfiry Petrovich woke up and reached over to touch Sarah. At first, when he touched the cool, smooth pillow he thought she must be in the washroom or the living room, getting a drink. Sometimes Sarah had difficulty sleeping. She never woke him. Iosef had inherited his mother’s occasional sleeplessness. Rostnikov never had trouble sleeping. When his head touched the pillow he was asleep in less man a minute. He could not take naps during the day even when he worked several days without sleep. The nap would only leave him in a weary fog.
When he realized where Sarah was and that he was alone in the apartment, Rostnikov sat up, got out of bed, turned on the light, and looked back at the empty pillows. It was too early to stay up, to read. He thought of his weights, moved into the living room, opened the cabinet in the corner, and pulled out his fifty-pound iron dumbbell. In his pajamas, he sat on a kitchen chair doing curls dreamily, wondering why he was up.
Unfinished business, he thought. And then he let his mind go to silver, a silver he once saw on a door beyond which had been an old man who had told him a terrible secret. The secret had led to a man who had killed seven people.
The sweat would not come. Rostnikov continued.
Perhaps he should read the section in the new book, the section on installing double bends in sink tubing. He imagined copper tubes curling into the bowels of his building, the bowels of the earth, twisting and turning in a pattern that made no sense to him but that some hidden building had concocted to keep Rostnikov forever guessing, forever following the twists and turns he had … and then he understood.
