Rostnikov was in the middle of the downside of a right-handed curl, his elbow resting on the table. He let the weight down and paid attention while his mind laid out the truth.
Yes, it was so. It explained everything.
He put the dumbbell away carefully, respectfully, closed the cabinet, turned off the light, and went back to the bedroom. He would be able to sleep now.
ELEVEN
Yuri Vostoyavek did not tell his mother about the dream of the gaunt man for two reasons. First, he did not wish his mother to know that he had experienced a nightmare and might be seeking her sympathy. Elena Vostoyavek was already too anxious to provide her sympathy to her only son. Second, and perhaps more troubling and important, Yuri was not completely sure that it had been a dream.
It had seemed so tangible, so … and then he remembered. He remembered as he put on his shoes and heard the water running in the small bathroom.
“Mother,” he called, pausing with one shoe on, “in the night, did you call out to me?”
“Call out? Yes. You knocked over the clock.”
“But the clock wasn’t on the floor this morning,” he said.
Elena turned off the water and came into the combination living room-kitchen-bedroom.
“I picked it up early this morning when you were asleep,” she said, looking at him as she adjusted an earring. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?”
Yuri stood up quickly, his face pale.
“Wrong? Why are you always asking what is wrong? Nothing is wrong. It’s depressing to … I’m sorry.”
“Does it have to do with …?” she began and then stopped.
“Do with what?” Yuri asked, pausing at the door.
“Do with that girl?” she said softly, hoping he wouldn’t be angry, sorry that she had said it.
“I don’t know,” he said, and left the apartment.
And that answer from her son, that moment of doubt frightened Elena Vostoyavek more man the anger of her son had ever done.
Just before dawn, Porfiry Petrovich had eaten two slices of bread with currant jam and drunk a quart of something called celery-banana juice. He had made his call to Petrovka, asking if there had been any reports of break-ins during the night. He did not explain himself to the clerk. He did not have to. He simply gave his name, rank, and access code.
Then, with the receiver cradled under his ear as he put on his pants, Rostnikov listened to the list of break- ins throughout Moscow. The Lentaka Shoe Factory was fifth on the list, but Rostnikov waited until the clerk had read the full twenty-six. He then requested a full printout on his desk within the hour.
Moments later he had Raya Corspoyva, the party representative at the Lentaka Shoe Factory, on the phone.
“Comrade,” he said with concern, “I’ve just received the morning report and note that an attempted break-in has taken place.”
“It was nothing, Inspector,” she said. “A mistake.”
“It seems strange coming so closely on my visit,” he said. “Are you sure this has nothing to do with my inquiries?”
“Nothing,” she assured him. “A mistake. Nothing is missing. There is no sign of entry. Had I been here I would have stopped the guard from reporting. I will admit, however, and I hope this does not get into the record, that one of our night security guards got a little drunk and thought he saw someone. Even claimed to have been attacked, though he couldn’t identify an attacker.”
“Drunk, on duty?” Rostnikov said.
“They have been dismissed,” she replied.
“And that is all there is to it?”
“That is all,” she said. “You have my word as party member, Comrade.”
And, Rostnikov noted, your word does not include the death of a guard dog and the mauling of another.
“Thank you, Comrade,” he said. “You have relieved my anxiety.”
A few minutes before seven that morning, Sasha Tkach had stood just outside the Arbat Metro Station no more than twenty paces from where Emil Karpo had stood the day before when he followed Yuri Vostoyavek. The sun had been bright, the air cool. Though Sasha was tired, he felt as if the world might be considering at least a neutral attitude toward him.
He had begun the morning at six in the Petrovka office checking the computer for licenses issued to flower sellers. There were several Sonias, none of whom was authorized to sell on or near the Arbat.
Yes, the old man could have been lying to him, but Sasha didn’t think so. The man wanted the permit to meet, and Sasha, with Rostnikov’s help, would deliver it if he found Sonia.
He began making inquiries of vendors and received the description of several flower vendors, though no one knew their names. A one-armed man selling shoelaces in front of a shoestore told him of a girl who might have been named Sonia who usually came to the square around ten to sell flowers. By the time he received this information, it was a few minutes to nine. He bought a copy of
Porfiry Petrovich did not immediately go to Petrovka that morning. In fact, he called in a second time asking to be switched directly to Pankov. He told Pankov that he would be investigating the shoe factory pilfering and would be in sometime in the afternoon to report.
Since Porfiry Petrovich had not once in the several months he had worked for the Gray Wolfhound offered any kind of report to Pankov, the little man was genuinely grateful.
“I will be here and waiting,” Pankov said with dignity.
Rostnikov hung up. The copies of documents he had made were in an envelope securely taped to the bottom of the lower right-hand drawer of Pankov’s desk. Rostnikov had read them carefully the night before. The link to Nahatchavanski was subtle and circumstantial but evident to a careful observer. Substantial payments had been made to a man named Stylor for “services.” Stylor had, in turn, taken this money for unspecified services and turned it over to a fund to establish a memorial for casualties of the Afghan campaign. Gregor Nahatchavanski was the director of this campaign. The documents indicating this link had been clipped together, making it clear that Raya Corspoyva was providing herself with a bit of insurance, a dangerous bit of insurance.
Before he had come home the night before, Rostnikov had used the computer files to verify that Igor Stylor was Gregor Nahatchavanski’s brother-in-law and that Igor Stylor was a low-level clerk in the Office of Housing. He also verified that a fund to establish a memorial for Afghan casualties did exist but that to date only a small amount of cash had come in for the fund, which had received very little public attention.
After working out with his weights, taking a quick, cold shower, and dressing, Rostnikov walked to the Metro station and took a train to Sokol Street. One of the items he had found in Lukov’s office was the home address on Sokol Street of Ivan Bulgarin.
Rostnikov had no trouble finding the address. It was one of a dozen similar five-story apartment buildings on Sokol. He entered the lobby, ignored the scribbled obscenities on the wall, and searched for the name of Ivan Bulgarin. He did not find it. He did find a door with the name “Mariya Kartonya, Director,” written on a gray card. Beyond the door people were arguing loudly. Rostnikov knocked at the door and waited. The argument within continued. Rostnikov knocked again and heard someone come to the door. The door opened and Porfiry Petrovich found himself looking into the face of a small, fat woman in a black dress. The fat woman, who could have been any age from thirty to fifty, had her hands on her hips and did not look pleased to have a visitor.
“What?” she demanded.
Behind her a man shouted. The fat woman turned and screamed at the man to shut up.
“Police,” said Rostnikov, showing his card.
