Death of a Dissident

CHAPTER TWELVE

The night had been long for Rostnikov and Tkach as they dozed in his office. However, Rostnikov thought, it had been a much longer night for Sonya Granovsky and her daughter-if she were still alive-and for Emil Karpo, and even for Ilyusha Malenko.

The sun had not yet come up, but Rostnikov’s watch told him it was five in the morning. He looked at Tkach and was surprised to see the stubble of a yellow beard that made the junior inspector look even younger.

“Let’s shave,” Rostnikov said, clearing his throat. “I have a razor in a drawer here someplace.”

Rostnikov leaned over to open a drawer and discovered that the pain in his leg had neither gone away nor eased. He found the razor and handed it to Tkach, who took it with a nod and left the room.

As soon as he was gone, Rostnikov picked up the phone and called his home. Sarah answered before the second ring.

“I’m still in the office,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t tell you last night, but I have reason to believe that Iosef may be on his way back to Kiev or possibly on his way here.”

“How could you…” she began and stopped. “I don’t care. Is it true?”

“I think so,” he said quietly. “We’ll know soon.”

“What did you have to do to get this information?” Sarah said with sympathy.

“Nothing I don’t have to do every day of my life,” he said. “Now I must go back to work. I’ll let you know if anything…if I learn more.”

“You’ll be careful, Porfiry,” she said.

“About what?” he chuckled.

“I don’t know,” said his wife and hung up.

Tkach came back in five minutes, clean-shaven and bearing hot tea and hard rolls. Rostnikov ate quickly and took the razor.

“Can I use the phone to call my wife?” he asked Rostnikov, who limped painfully to the door.

“Call,” said Rostnikov.

His leg would not bend without great pain, so he marched stiff-legged past the desks of the few junior officers who were either still on duty from the night before or had come in early. A phone rang, and Zelach picked it up about fifteen feet in front of the slow-moving Rostnikov.

“Yes,” came the officer’s voice. “I understand. The location. Yes. Inspector.” Zelach had his hand over the mouthpiece as he called to Rostnikov. “I think we have a woman on the phone who had her car taken by Malenko.”

Rostnikov hobbled over to the desk and grabbed the phone.

“Yes,” he said swiftly.

“My name is Vera Alleyanovskya, and my car was stolen last night by a mad young man with a young girl.”

“Where did this happen and why didn’t you call us earlier?” Rostnikov said, motioning for Zelach to go to his office and get Tkach.

“I almost died in the woods,” she explained. “Some people on a farm took me in. They had no phone.”

“Tell me where you are, and I’ll have a man out there to pick you up immediately.”

She told him, and Rostnikov hung up just as Tkach moved to his side.

“Another chance, Sasha,” he said. “Take Zelach and a car and find this woman whose car was stolen. Try to follow Malenko’s trail.” Tkach nodded and motioned for Zelach to get his coat.

What, thought Rostnikov, is Malenko doing out there? The thinking of this madman still eluded him. He headed for the washroom, to shave. He would worry later about thinking.

By six in the morning, Emil Karpo was prepared for surgery. He lay in the preparation room next to another patient, a woman who, he heard, had a stomach cancer. They said nothing to each other. Karpo’s arm had ceased to hurt. It had no feeling at all, which allowed Karpo to channel his thoughts elsewhere.

“Emil,” came a voice through his thoughts. He looked up at Rostnikov, whose eyes were heavy with sleeplessness.

“Inspector,” said Karpo, his mouth surprisingly dry. He tried to lick his lips but there was no moisture. “They are going to take the arm.”

“I know Emil,” said Rostnikov.

“It will be a great inconvenience,” said Karpo, growing drowsy.

Rostnikov laughed. The sick woman prepared for surgery looked at him, as did a male nurse.

“A great inconvenience,” agreed Rostnikov. “I’ve asked Procurator Timofeyeva to assign us together permanently. You are too valuable an officer to lose over a disability. Many of us operate under disabilities. My leg…”

“I will be pleased to serve with you,” said Karpo, fighting sleep. “But there is something else. Something I have figured out that will be of value. How long will I be asleep from this procedure?”

“The doctor tells me it will be six or more hours before you can speak,” whispered Rostnikov.

“Too long,” said Karpo, his voice fading. Rostnikov had to lean forward to hear his words. “The sickle.”

“The sickle?”

“Yes,” said Karpo weakly, “the sickle. A rusty sickle and a rusty hammer. We thought it was political, but the hammer and sickle are more than a symbol. They are a symbol of something. The union of agriculture and labor. And you said Malenko was carrying a rusty scissors. Hammer, sickle, scissors. Tools, old farm tools. They are not political symbols. They are memories of his childhood. He was raised on a farm until he was ten, his father’s farm.”

“How can you remember such things?” Rostnikov shook his head.

“My job,” said Karpo, his voice fading. “My job.” And he was asleep.

Rostnikov moved away and took a doctor by the arm. The doctor was busy and glared at the inspector. But something in the heavy man’s eyes and the firmness of his grip made the doctor stop and pay attention.

“Is his life in danger?” asked Rostnikov softly.

“Yes,” said the doctor, who was dark and seemed foreign in some way. “But he will most likely survive. He is a very strong, determined man.”

“Yes,” agreed Rostnikov, letting the doctor’s arm go.

Rostnikov left the hospital and got back into his waiting car. Michael Veselivitch Dolguruki turned on the engine and drove into the street.

“May I ask Chief Inspector, how Sergeant Karpo is?” said Dolguruki.

“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “He is improving.”

Ten minutes later Rostnikov was at the office of Sergei Malenko’s factory. It was a large factory with machines and a modest office, but Malenko was not in the office. His secretary, a young man, informed Rostnikov reluctantly that Malenko was at a meeting with some foreigners at the Praga Restaurant. Rostnikov was welcome to wait, but Rostnikov had no intention of waiting. Natasha Granovsky might still be alive. He went out of the factory and stepped into the silence of the street. It was only then that he realized how noisy the factory had been and understood why Sergei Malenko had been so slow to respond to him during the interview at his dacha. He was probably partly deaf. The price Malenko had paid for his success was mounting.

Rostnikov felt uncomfortable at the Praga Resturant. He did not normally go to resturants. Only once a year did he, his wife and Iosef go to a restaurant and that only on Iosef’s birthday. It had been delayed this year because Iosef had been unable to obtain leave at his birthday.

The waiter at the door greeted Rostnikov and asked him if he wanted a seat.

“No,” said Rostnikov, afraid that his leg would lock if he sat. “I am looking for Sergei Malenko. Police business. Tell him Inspector Rostnikov must see him.”

“Very good, Inspector,” said the man and walked away. Rostnikov stood in the small lobby, watching the lunch eaters and listening to the pleasant hum of soft conversation in the darkened dining room. Maybe he could afford to take Sarah and Iosef here. The extra weights could wait. He could make do for another year.

The waiter, a particularly thin man, came back with rapid step and came very close to Rostnikov.

“Comrade Malenko asks that you wait here. He will be done in no more than ten or fifteen minutes.”

“In ten or fifteen minutes, a fourteen-year-old girl can be dead,” said Rostnikov walking past the waiter and heading across the restaurant dining room toward the door from which the waiter had come after bringing Malenko’s message. He bumped into a chair protruding into the aisle, and a man with a dark suit and black eyes turned to say something and then changed his mind.

Rostnikov did not hesitate at the door behind which he heard voices. Nor did he knock. He pushed it open and found himself facing five men seated around a table. One of the men was Sergei Malenko, who stopped in mid-sentence and stood up angrily.

“You will have to wait, Inspector,” he said.

The table was set with a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka, caviar, baked veal, and potatoes steaming in the well heated private room.

“I cannot wait,” he said firmly. “I am sorry, gentlemen.”

“These gentlemen cannot understand Russian,” Malenko said with a smile and a nod at the men.

“Good,” said Rostnikov. “I need some answers from you very quickly.”

“You will be sorry for this, Rostnikov,” Malenko said without losing his smile.

“Not as sorry as you will be if you fail to answer me.

“Ask your questions quickly and then leave,” said Malenko patiently.

“You lived on a farm before all this,” said Rostnikov.

“That was a long time ago,” said Malenko. “Eighteen, twenty years ago.”

“That was where your child was killed by your wife?”

“Yes,” said Malenko, unable to keep up his false front and glaring at the policeman.

“Where is that farm?”

“North of the city, beyond Druzhba. A farmer named Breask or something like that owns it. Why do you ask?”

“I think,” said Rostnikov, “that your son may be heading there. I think he may have kept some tools of yours from that farm and is now using them to kill people, kill people who he thinks betrayed him. Does that make sense to you?”

“No,” said Malenko, his dark face turning pale.

The four other men in the room looked at the two antagonists in confusion.

“He has a young girl with him,” said Rostnikov. “Give me complete directions for getting to the farm, and give them to me quickly.”

Rostnikov handed a notebook and pencil to Malenko, who sketched a map and handed it back to the policeman.

“Thank you. Would you like to come?”

“No,” said Malenko sitting back down. “I…no.”

Rostnikov turned and left the room.

Tkach and Zelach had found the abandoned car with the help of directions from Vera Alleyanovskya. Forty minutes later they found the trail of footprints in the snow. It was faint and had been obscured here and there by falling and drifting snow, but it could be followed.

“This is ridiculous,” mumbled Zelach an hour later. Their car had been left on the road behind Vera Alleyanovskya’s vehicle, and with each step they moved further and further from it.

“But necessary,” replied Tkach, moving forward.

An hour later they found the farmhouse where Malenko and the girl had stopped and they found the reluctant farmer.

“I’ll talk,” Tkach whispered to Zelach as they approached the man who stood in the door, axe in hand.

“Comrade,” shouted Tkach, letting a sob enter his voice. “We are looking for my little sister. She was taken by force by a man she doesn’t want to marry. We have reason to believe he brought her this way.”

“Go to the police,” the farmer said, fingering his axe.

“The police,” cried Tkach. “I want nothing to do with the police. This is a private matter, a matter of honor.”

“The police are trouble,” agreed the farmer looking suspiciously at Zelach.

“My brother,” Tkach explained.

The man nodded.

“The man looked a bad sort,” the farmer said. “Girl did look frightened. He asked me how to get to a village near here. Come in. I’ll tell you where he went.”

“Michael Veselivitch Dolguruki,” sighed Rostnikov, “you are an outstanding driver. I applaud your skill under difficult conditions, but we can do the girl no good if we do not arrive at our destination.”

The police Volga had careened down the highways and back roads into the late afternoon. On one occasion the car had come very near overturning on a skid. On another occasion, a remarkably fat woman had to leap off the road in front of the car with a dexterity that made Rostnikov blink with wonder.

“I’m sorry, Inspector,” Dolguruki said, keeping his eyes on the road, “but I thought you told me to hurry.”

“Hurry, hurry,” sighed Rostnikov, waving his hand in the air.

Rostnikov was worried about the girl, true, but he was also worried about how he might explain the destruction of the automobile. His body and that of the driver could be repaired by doctors. Doctors in Moscow were good and there would be no cost. But to repair an automobile. Ah, thought, Rostnikov, that may be much more difficult.

With that thought, another car joined them on the narrow road and slid in front of them. Rostnikov’s driver hit his brakes and went into a skid that appeared certain to result in crash into the second car. Rostnikov sucked in his breath, braced himself with his good leg, and gripped the door handle. The second car had stalled in front of them, and slow motion took over Rostnikov’s consciousness. His car moved as if through water. The movement took the length of a war and the time of a sneeze, but ended without a collision.

Rostnikov and his driver leaped out to confront the other car’s occupants. There was no more than an inch or two between the cars.

“Tkach!” Rostnikov shouted, watching his breath form a cloud.

“Inspector!” shouted Tkach back as he stepped out of his car. Behind the young detective, Rostnikov could see the outline of Zelach. “We know the village where Malenko has taken the girl.”

“And you think I am just riding around out here to witness the magnificent efforts of farmers preparing their futures?” sighed the inspector.

“No, I-” began Tkach.

“Never mind,” Rostnikov interrupted. “Let’s turn your car and get it going in the right direction. “Zelach,” he shouted, “get behind the wheel. We’ll push.”

Rostnikov, Tkach, and the driver pushed the car as Zelach gently started the engine. Its rear was firmly locked in a bank of snow blocking the road.

“Out of the way,” Rostnikov shouted, pushing Tkach and Dolguruki. You, Zelach, out of the car.”

“You have an idea, Inspector?”

“I have a challenge,” Rostnikov grinned, but it was a grin without joy. Zelach scampered out of the car and joined them in the road. Far off the road was a house with a chimney puffing little clouds of grey smoke. Somewhere in the distance across the reaches of snow a cow bellowed, and on the road Rostnikov moved to the rear of the stalled car. He took off his gloves, rubbed his hands on his coat, concentrated, took three deep breaths, held the last and put his hands under the bumper. With knees bent and back straight, he began to lift, his face turning red with the effort, a dry chill freezing moisture on his nose. He imagined the extra weights he had been unable to purchase. He imagined himself at the park championships lifting for the first place medal, he imagined himself at the Olympic games breaking a world record, and he rose. He could feel the pressure in his groin and knew his bad leg was wobbling dangerously, but he rose. The rear of the car came up and he pushed forward, letting it go. The car bounced twice and rested free of the snow bank. Rostnikov gasped for air and tried to speak to cap his moment, but it was difficult to get the words out. Instead, he slumped forward and put one hand against the now free car and pulled in short gulps.

“Don’t…stand…Let’s get going.” He waved his hand violently at the three men who watched him. Dolguruki, the driver, was the first to respond. He hurried to his car. Tkach and Zelach moved quickly into their car, and Rostnikov stood up to allow them to pull away. As they started up the road, Rostnikov shuffled back to his Volga and got in the front next to Dolguruki.

“You are deceptively strong, Inspector,” said the driver starting the car. The car in front of them was clearly in sight.

“Is that a compliment?” asked Rostnikov, damning himself for being unable to catch his breath.

“Of course,” said the driver.

Rostnikov shrugged.

Fifteen minutes later, both cars pulled into the village of Svenilaslav. The village itself was only slightly larger than a small farm and consisted of one two-story village store, a government grain trading center and a small brick one-story building that served as the village center.

Inside the brick building, Andrei Froskerov, who had recently celebrated his eighty-first birthday, was trying to decide if he was going to steal one of the chairs from the meeting room. He had stolen one a year earlier and sold it ten miles away to an engineer, but Comrade Scort had looked at him suspiciously for months. Not having been caught had given Andrei Forskerov courage. Besides, the engineer had told him that he could use a matching chair. He might even pay a few hundred kopecks. Froskerov was alone in the building, as he often was. His task was to keep it clean, which he did, and to protect village property, which he did not do.

He had definitely decided to take the chair and had one hand on it when the three men burst into the room. One was a burly man with a limp and the other two were young, determined-looking men.

“I wasn’t taking it,” cried Froskerov, recognizing policemen when he saw them. “I was cleaning it.”

“Cleaning it?” asked Tkach.

“Yes,” said Froskerov, whipping a ragged cloth from his pocket and attacking the upholstered chair.

“That’s nice,” Rostnikov said softly. “You may continue to do that, old father, but we must know-”

“I’ve never taken anything from the village, from my country!” cried Froskerov as he vigorously worked at the material with his cloth. “I’d rather die, here on the spot: May God strike me down. Wait, there is no God anymore. Forgive me, I’m an old man, but I’m a good worker.”

Tkach looked at Zelach who looked at Rostnikov who spoke softly.

“Malenko.”

“Malenko,” agreed the old man.

“You remember Malenko?” Rostnikov went on. “You were in this village when he was a farmer.”

“Ha,” shouted the quivering old man. “I have always lived here. I’ve been here all my life except for the war. The Germans got me. I was a prisoner in some place in Poland. I have a scar.”

With this he threw his cloth on the table and lifted his shirt to reveal a ridged scar that went from his navel to his scrawny rib cage.

“You are a hero of the state,” said Rostnikov. “Malenko.”

“I knew him,” said the old man, tucking his shirt in.

“Where was his farm? Where is it? Who lives on it?”

“It is not his farm,” said Froskerov. “It went to the collective and then Max Rodnini. I didn’t think he should get it,” the old man whispered loudly. “He’s really a Hungarian, but no one asked me then and no one asks me now, and I am not one to give my advice to those who do not want it. Eighty years of experience should count for something.”

“He could be killing the girl right now,” Tkach whispered frantically.

Rostnikov put up a hand to quiet the detective.

“Killing? Who?” Froskerov said looking into the three faces in panic. “Rodnini, the Hungarian? I knew he’d kill that wife of his some day. I saw her hit him once with-”

“Father,” Rostnikov tried again. “You must tell us now, right now, how to get to Rodnini’s farm. You must tell us and we will go, or I must ask you what you were taking from here when we came in.”

“Taking, taking?” laughed the old man. “Me taking? Ha. Don’t make me laugh.”

“Rodnini. Now,” demanded Rostnikov.

“Down the road, to the right, second farm, the one with the broken truck in the driveway.”

“Thank you, old father,” Rostnikov said, turning.

Froskerov looked puzzled.

“Are they rounding up Hungarians?” he asked, but he got no answer. The three policemen were out of the door. He thought he should inform someone about this curious visit but could think of no one to tell. The members of the village council were on their farms except for storekeeper Putsko, who was in Moscow picking up supplies. He would tell Putsko when he returned, if he could remember all of what had happened. He sat heavily in the chair that he had planned to steal and began working out the story of how Rodnini had murdered his wife and been carted away by three policemen who were rounding up Hungarians for a purge. Under the circumstances, he certainly could not steal the chair, at least not for another few days.

The sun was behind the cloud cover on its way down when the two cars stopped. They were several hundred yards from the farm and could clearly see the wreck of a truck in the driveway. The truck was a model Rostnikov had been taught to drive when he had been in the army, but he had never had the opportunity to get behind the wheel.

The meeting in the road was chilled by a rising wind across the fields that sent swirls of loose snow dancing on the packed, unbroken surface.

The two junior inspectors and the driver looked at Rostnikov, who was tempted to ask what they thought should be done. He could see by their faces, however, that they expected their superior, who could lift automobiles, to come up with a plan. Rostnikov had none.

“He is certainly here by now if he is coming,” he said, stalling.

Tkach nodded in agreement.

“If we go driving up to the farm, he could see us and kill the girl and the Rodninis,” he went on.

“So,” sighed Rostnikov. “We can’t simply sit here either. I will walk to the house. Malenko has never seen me. Perhaps he will take me for a neighbor. We can’t get too close or he will recognize the police cars. I’ll walk from here. Make a bundle out of things in the trunk, a light bundle but a big one. Maybe he will take me for a neighbor or a peddler.”

Dolguruki hurried to open the trunk of the car and prepare a bundle.

“If either of you has another idea…” he began, thinking that his own plan was, at best adequate, at worst stupid. Neither detective had an idea.

“I think I should go with you,” ventured Tkach.

Rostnikov looked at him evenly.

“He has seen you,” Rostnikov reminded him.

“I’d cover my face.”

Doguruki returned with a heavy blanket tied with rope and folded over. Rostnikov took it and hoisted it to his shoulder.

“Give me half an hour, no more. If you do not see me or hear from me by then, I want the three of you to make your way across the field behind the house and use your judgment. You understand, Sasha?”

“I understand, Inspector.”

“Good,” said Rostnikov. “Now, we shall see.”

With that he started down the road. The bundle was light, and Rostnikov welcomed its rough warmth against his face. He tried to think of a plan, but no plan came to mind. He would simply do what had to be done. There was not even any point in hoping for the safety of the girl. She was either alive or dead. Rostnikov’s interest turned to Ilyusha Malenko. He had come to know the young man superficially in the last two days and wanted a direct contact-a look at the eyes, the body, the movement, a sense of the smell and feel of the man-to understand his madness. The walk was deliberately slow. He did not want to appear in a hurry. Slow, slow. A neighbor returning a tool. He tried to whistle but his mouth was dry, and the vision of Karpo raced across his consciousness.

The farm was small, a two-story wooden house with a barn about thirty yards behind it. The path to the house was not shoveled, but someone had come up it. Rostnikov could not make out if the footprints were of two people.

By the time he got to the front door, his heart was beating furiously, and his leg needed a long massage. He tried to force the whistle out, but nothing came, so he knocked.

“Comrade Rodnini,” he shouted in what he hoped was a friendly neighbor’s tone. “It is I, Porfiry.”

There was no answer. Rostnikov set down his bundle and knocked again, but still there was no answer. Then he tried the door and it was unlocked. He went in.

“Rodnini?” he said with a smile on his face.

There were no lights in the house. The room into which he stepped was a large combination dining room, kitchen, and living room. A large rough-hewn grey rug was on the floor. An old sofa stood in one corner and a heavy table beside it. On the walls were farm tools.

Malenko had clearly been here. Furniture was broken. A window above the dining table was out, and the wind sprinkled the room with drifting snow and sent the sun-bleached curtains billowing into the room.

There was no blood, but neither was there any sign of life.

“Rodnini?” he shouted, and above him Rostnikov heard a sound of someone or something. He moved to the narrow stairs and looked up into the darkness.

“It is I, Porfiry,” he said. “Did you and mamalushka have another quarrel?” He laughed as he moved up the stairs, slowly trying to pick form out of shadow. At the top of the stairs, he braced himself for an attack. None came and he looked around. There were only two rooms, neither of which had doors. The sound came from the larger of the two rooms, a bedroom. Rostnikov stepped in and looked around without moving, as his eyes adjusted. The sound came from behind a door across the small room. Rostnikov moved to it, took the handle and pulled, his free hand and arm ready to ward off an attack, but again no attack came. On the floor lay two human figures. Rostnikov kneeled and pulled them out into the bedroom. Both were bound and gagged, and the man was looking around wildly with amazingly blue eyes. The woman’s eyes were closed and a dark gash bubbled blood from her scalp. Both were in their sixties, heavy and small. Rostnikov pulled the gag from the man’s mouth.

“Where is he?” Rostnikov asked softly.

The man coughed and gagged.

“He broke in…began breaking things. My wife tried to stop him. It was so fast. He hit her in the head and me in the stomach. He is mad, crazy.”

“I know,” Rostnikov soothed. “But where is he now?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know,” cried the man. Then he looked at the still form of his wife. “Is she dead?”

“I don’t think so,” said Rostnikov, moving to the woman.

“Oh,” wailed the man, but Rostnikov couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed.

“Go out on the road,” Rostnikov ordered, “toward town. There are two cars and some men. We are the police. Tell them to come and get your wife. You understand?”

“Yes,” said the man, standing on weak legs. He looked back at his wife and stood transfixed.

“Go,” ordered Rostnikov and the man fled down the stairs. Rostnikov checked the woman’s eyes and listened to her breathing. He couldn’t tell if the labored sound was from asthma or trauma. He put her on the bed and went to the window to see if he could see Tkach from the farm. He could and he could see the farmer Rodnini hurrying through the snow to the road, slipping and falling in his haste. Rostnikov could also see two clear sets of footprints leading from the house to the barn. He squinted out the window with his head cocked to see if he could see footsteps leading away from the barn, but there were none.

Rostnikov went down the stairs and out the front door into the snow. There could be no more surprise, no tricks, and so there was no great reason to move slowly, but then again his body and leg did not encourage rapid movement. Yes, the footprints were clear and fresh and not in his mind. He looked at the small barn but could see no face at the window. He moved to the door and opened it slowly.

“Ilyusha,” he said firmly.

Something stirred inside, and he heard a clear whimper. The barn was chilly but there was no wind breaking through.

“Ilyusha Malenko, I know you are here,” he repeated, stepping in and seeing nothing but a cow in the corner, some small sheds, and a dozen chickens looking at him with curiosity.

“Father?” came a young man’s voice from one of the sheds.

“No,” replied Rostnikov, moving forward slowly.

“Who is it?” demanded the voice.

“My name is Rostnikov,” he said. “Porfiry Rostnikov. I am a policeman.”

The shed was low, and Rostnikov stepped to where he could see over the rough wooden slat at the top.

“Stop,” shouted Malenko, and Rostnikov stopped. Huddled in the corner of the shed on a bed of grain were two people, a whimpering young man with wild blond hair and frightened eyes who held a knife to a girl’s throat. The man wore heavy black pants and a workman’s shirt. The girl wore absolutely nothing.

“I’ve stopped,” said Rostnikov. “I have a message from your father.”

“He is good at having other people deliver his messages,” Malenko laughed.

“If you don’t want it…” Rostnikov shrugged.

“What is it?” The knife touched the girl’s throat and she coughed.

“The girl is very sick,” Rostnikov said. “Can we put my coat on her?”

“My father’s message,” demanded Malenko, his eyes darting wildly to the window in search of more police.

“He wants you to know that he will support you in your trial. That he is sorry for a great deal and finds it ironic that it should take events such as these to bring you together,” Rostnikov lied.

“Too late,” said Malenko, shifting his weight slightly.

“Why is it too late?” Rostnikov said taking another step forward. “Maybe the worst you’ll get with his help is ten years of buterskalia ichurmo, hard labor.”

“Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop,” screamed Malenko scrambling to his knees, his knife constantly at the pulsing throat of the girl. His movement caused a slight, thin cut and the girl’s face distorted in fear. Rostnikov looked away and then back quickly.

“I’ve stopped. Let us talk.”

“No time for talk,” said Malenko. “There’ll be more of you soon and you’ll shoot me down. I know the police.”

“We’ll not shoot you down,” Rostnikov said evenly. “And there is time for nothing but talk. You killed-”

“Marie and Granovsky-her father,” Malenko said looking at the girl’s frightened face.

“And the cab driver,” Rostnikov added.

“He didn’t count,” said Malenko.

Rostnikov shrugged.

“We can debate that another time,” he went on. “But what do you want with the girl? Why do you want to harm her?”

“You don’t understand,” Malenko cried in despair at the policeman’s ignorance. “I’m not going to kill her. I’m going to do with her what her father did with my wife. Then…”

“What was that?” Rostnikov asked, thinking only of keeping the drama at the level of conversation as he tried to inch his way forward.

“You know. You know. She knows. He was supposed to be my friend. She…You know what they did behind my back. He was in my bed. They laughed at me. Now they are dead, and I will laugh at them.” He did, indeed, laugh.

“That is not the happiest laugh I have heard,” commented Rostnikov.

“That’s because there is no joy in it,” the young man sobbed.

“It is a laugh we Russians have known for a thousand years,” said Rostnikov.

“And the girl?”

“Her father is going to kill her after I finish. No, I am not mad, or perhaps I am. He will kill her by the chain of events he started when he and Marie…”

“But he will never know,” interrupted Rostnikov. “He is dead, unless you believe in some religion of spirits or souls.”

“I don’t care if he knows, don’t you see,” explained Malenko, taking the knife briefly from the girl’s throat to point it at himself. “I know. That is enough. That is all that counts.”

“I see,” nodded Rostnikov. “I shall watch with curiosity. You plan to rape this sick girl and then kill her, all with one hand. For surely, if you put down the knife, you will have to contend with me.”

“I’ll manage,” he said. “I’ll manage, and if I can’t, I’ll simply kill her.”

“You didn’t manage so well with her mother,” Rostnikov whispered. “Is that a general problem you have, Ilyusha?”

“You want me to kill her? Is that what you want? Is that why you taunt me? Are you crazy, policeman? Will it simply be easier to kill me once I kill her? Do you just want to get this over so you can get back to your dinner?”

“Many questions, Ilyusha,” he said. “I don’t want you to kill her. I want to take her to a hospital. Look at what you have done to her, and she was not in conspiracy with her father to harm you. I know you are mad, but even within your madness you should be able to recognize logic when you hear it.”

“I used to live here,” Malenko shouted, putting the knife to the young girl’s stomach. His eyes moved around the barn. “I used to sleep in this barn with my brother when I was young, and we used to talk and watch the room grow…and I told him stories.”

“You brother died when he was an infant. Your mother killed him,” Rostnikov said.

“You are a fool, policeman,” screamed Malenko. “Don’t they train you to humor people like me, not to provoke them?”

“Ilyusha, may I lean on the railing? I have a very bad leg from the war and I cannot stand like this for long.”

Malenko looked confused and Rostnikov ambled slowly another step and leaned on the rail four or five feet from the two figures. The girl was shivering with fever and fear.

“Thank you,” sighed Rostnikov. “You were saying?”

“Don’t provoke me.”

“I won’t.” Rostnikov held up his right hand. “I don’t want to provoke you. I am just a weary cripple who would like to understand a situation which has gotten far away from him. Can I ask you a question?”

“A question?” Malenko tried to pull himself and the girl further into the corner of the shed. The grain shifted under them, and the sound made the chickens behind Rostnikov scurry with excitement.

“How did you find out about your wife and Granovsky? Did you catch them?”

Malenko’s head nodded, and his body shook with emotion. Rostnikov realized that he was on the verge of action or breaking.

“He told me.”

“Granovsky told you?”

“No, a man, a friend, a member…a friend.”

Rostnikov shook his head in disbelief.

“No, no one told you. You’re starting to tell lies again. You had no evidence for what you did.”

“He told me,” Malenko insisted pointing the knife at the policeman. “Fero Dolonick told me. He saw them. He had a photograph. He showed me.”

Rostnikov scratched his head and tried not to look at the frightened face of the girl.

“He had photographs of your wife and Granovsky? Did you ask him how he got them?”

“I didn’t care. He had them. It was true. Aleksander came to see her the day I killed him. I waited. I saw him go in. I saw. No more talk. No more pain.”

Malenko’s eyes were filled with moisture, and his free hand went up to cover his ears.

“May I make a practical suggestion?” Rostnikov said, leaning forward.

Malenko wiped his sleeve across his eyes. The cow mooed behind them.

“I suggest,” said Rostnikov, “that before you attempt to get your clothes off and rape the girl that you put me out of the way. It will make your task much easier.”

“This is a trick,” smiled Malenko, his eyes going to the window and door.

“Of course,” agreed Rostnikov, “but not a very promising one on my part. I am tired, unable to move, unarmed, slow. You are young and, I understand, a madman has enormous strength. You seem quite mad to me. Consider it, Ilyusha. Or better yet, consider simply giving up. You have done enough. You have won your victory.”

Malenko seemed to be considering the choices. He pursed his lips and got to his knees.

“And you young Natasha, what do you think?” Malenko said to the girl who had followed none of the conversation. “Perhaps I won’t kill you. Perhaps, to have you will be enough. I’ll-”

He turned and leaped at Rostnikov with the knife before him. Rostnikov had been ready, but had not anticipated the speed of movement from Malenko. The knife blade scraped along the top of his skull, opening a long thin cut and sending Rostnikov sprawling backward onto an unwitting chicken which was crushed beneath his body. Malenko came over the top of the shed, and Rostnikov brought up his good leg to kick at the young man. The kick caught Malenko’s shoulder and sent him sprawling across the barn into the legs of the frightened cow. Chickens went wild, and Rostnikov tried to rise. His own blood blinded him, and Malenko was on him again.

Rostnikov caught the hand with the knife and pushed it back. The young man grunted and struggled and threw his knee toward Rostnikov’s groin, but the policeman turned sideways, taking the knee against his thigh. Rostnikov grabbed for the young man’s leg and caught it at the thigh. With one hand gripping the arm with the knife and the other squeezing into the young man’s shoulder, Rostnikov lifted. Malenko weighed at least one hundred fifty-five pounds, a simple bench press with a dead weight, a bit difficult with living, unevenly distributed weight. With a tensing of his shoulders Rostnikov prepared to throw Malenko into the shed door and end the battle.

Then something exploded in the room. For an instant Rostnikov thought that the wound to his head had been more severe than he had sensed, that he must be suffering some kind of hemorrhage, but the sound cleared and Malenko’s body went limp. Still holding the limp form over his head, Rostnikov tried to see through his own blood and had only the image of Malenko wearing a red mask. He dropped the body and rolled over.

“Are you all right?” came a voice. Rostnikov wiped his face with his sleeve and turned toward the barn door, where he could see a man in a policeman’s uniform. It was Dolguruki, the driver. A gun was in his hand.

“I am all right,” said Rostnikov, struggling to his knees. “You did not have to kill him.”

“He had a knife,” said Dolguruki, stepping toward the body. A crowd of chickens followed him.

“Yes,” said Rostnikov, pulling himself up and removing his coat.

He looked over the top of the shed at the girl, who cowered back when she saw his bloody face.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “A scratch. You are all right now. We’ll get you to a hospital.” He handed her his coat and she grabbed for it and hugged it to her thin body.

“He’s dead,” said Dolguruki, kneeling at the body.

“I’m not surprised,” said Rostnikov, opening the shed to help the girl.

Tkach and Zelach ran into the barn, guns drawn, to take in the sight. Zelach’s eyes went from the body of Malenko to that of the crushed chicken. Tkach looked with horror at Rostnikov.

“It’s a deep scratch,” Rostnikov explained, looking around for something to stop the bleeding as he lifted the girl in his arms. He could feel the warmth of her fever right through his coat.

“Does it hurt?” said Tkach.

“Only when I think,” replied Rostnikov, looking at Doguruki and the sprawled body of Ilyusha Malenko. “Only when I think. Now we must get her to a hospital.”