Fall of a Cosmonaut

Chapter Three

Mikhail Stoltz was a very big, bulky man with close-cropped white hair, a bit younger than Rostnikov. He wore a blue tailored suit, a light blue button-down shirt, and a red-and-blue diagonally striped tie. His black patent-leather shoes were well polished. Stoltz, Porfiry Petrovich, and Iosef were seated on a bench in Pushkin Square outside of the McDonald’s. The meeting place was Stoltz’s idea. The rain had long stopped and the park looked as if the storm had not touched it.

Stoltz smoked a cigarette and looked at the father-and-son detectives.

“You recognize me?” Stoltz said.

“Three years ago. The Sokolniki Recreation Park,” said Rostnikov. “Senior weight-lifting competition.”

Stoltz nodded, looked at his cigarette, and said, “You easily won the bench press, but, as I recall, you couldn’t compete in some of the other events because of …”

Stoltz looked down at “legs. The day was warm and humid. Rostnikov was sweating under his lightest suit. He would prefer to be in the air-conditioned noise of McDonald’s, eating a Big Mac.

“My leg is gone,” said Rostnikov. “It is in a large bottle two floors below ground-level in Petrovka. We have an eccentric technician who collects such trophies.”

“Paulinin,” said Stoltz.

“Paulinin,” Rostnikov confirmed.

“His eccentricity and skill are known to many of us,” said Stoltz. “Your leg?”

“It has been replaced by a leg of metal and plastic,” said Rostnikov. “Perhaps I can persuade it to cooperate so that I can compete in other events this year. As I recall, you won both the dead lift and the clean and jerk.”

Stoltz nodded.

Iosef tried to keep his mind on this foreplay, but his thoughts were of Elena Timofeyeva. She had agreed to marry him. He was sure she did not think it a particularly good idea, at least not a good idea for either of their careers. The Office of Special Investigation would have three Rostnikovs. That might be one too many for Yaklovev, who, Iosef knew, was not particularly fond of him.

Iosef was a bit taller and certainly leaner than his father. His father’s hair was dark. Iosef’s was light. His father had the face of hundreds, no, thousands of Russians one sees on the street. Iosef had the look of Scandinavia. His looks were certainly the gift of his mother.

“… why he would disappear,” Stoltz was saying when Iosef managed to rejoin the conversation.

A man in a ragged coat far too warm for the weather staggered to the bench and paused, hands in his pockets. The man was bearded. His hair was a bush of dirty darkness and his eyes were red with alcohol.

Stoltz paused and looked up at the man. “What?”

“This is my bench,” the ragged man said. “I need to sleep.”

“You need to go away,” said Stoltz with irritation. “These men are the police.”

“Then,” said the man, “they should take responsibility for vacating this bench. This bench is mine. Ask anyone. This bench is mine by virtue of the law of primogeniture.”

“Do you know what that means?” asked Rostnikov, looking up.

“Of course,” the ragged man said, swaying. “Property of the father goes to the firstborn male. This bench belonged to my father. Many was the time when my mother sent me here to drag him home, if you call the hallway we lived in home.”

“We’re touched by your troubles,” said Stoltz, rising to face him. “Now go away and come back in an hour.”

The ragged man swayed, but he did not move.

“You have a name?” asked Rostnikov.

“Everyone has a name,” the ragged man said, hands still in his pockets, eyes meeting those of Stoltz, who could have lifted the filthy creature above his head and thrown him for a new park record.

“And yours is? …”

“Dovnikovich, Andrei Ivanov Dovnikovich. I used to be a teacher of Russian to people who spoke only Spanish. I had Cubans, Mexicans. I made a living. Now the Cubans don’t come anymore and the Mexicans are learning English.”

“Would you be willing to tell your obviously interesting story to my son here over a cheeseburger?”

“I have my pride,” said the ragged man. “Does he want to hear my tale?”

“I can think of nothing I would prefer,” said Iosef, standing and looking at his father with a sigh.

“Two cheeseburgers, fries, and a Coca-Cola. No, a milkshake, strawberry,” said the ragged man, finally moving his eyes from those of Stoltz to those of Rostnikov, who was the only one still seated.

“That sounds reasonable,” said Rostnikov. “Iosef, break bread with Andrei Ivanov Dovnikovich and hear his story. Then later you can tell it to me. I’m sorry we cannot join you, but with your permission we would like to conclude some business on your bench.”

“You have my permission,” said the ragged man, closing his eyes and bringing his head down with a bow.

Iosef and the man moved away, across the grass, toward the short line waiting to get into the McDonald’s.

Stoltz looked down. “His life story,” he said, shaking his head.

“I look forward to hearing it,” said Rostnikov, turning his head to watch his son and the ragged man move toward the line. “My son will tell it well. Iosef used to be a playwright.”

“And now he is a policeman,” said Stoltz.

“He was not a good playwright,” said Rostnikov. “He may become a good policeman. Vladovka.”

“Vladovka, Tsimion Vladovka,” Stoltz repeated, sitting again on the Dovnikovich bench. “You have the information you need in the file we gave to Director Yaklovev, but I understand you have questions …”

“Many. Where can I find the other cosmonaut? Kinotskin? His location is not indicated in the file.”

“Why talk to him?” asked Stoltz, throwing his cigarette stub in the general direction of a metal trash basket.

“I want to know what he knows about Vladovka, the last flight, perhaps why he mentioned my name. Do you know why he mentioned my name? Did he ever tell you when he was back on earth?”

“No,” said Stoltz. “Perhaps you can ask him if you find him.”

“When I find him,” Rostnikov corrected, shifting uncomfortably on the bench. “Director Yaklovev has given me no option.”

Rostnikov could not imagine the ragged man sleeping here. It would take a decidedly unhealthy intake of vodka.

“I suppose I can give you Kinotskin’s address,” said Stoltz. “He would be easy to find in any case. He works for the space program, for me, in fact, in security at Star City. I’ll set up a meeting, but I warn you, there is nothing he can tell you that will lead you to Vladovka.”

“Perhaps not, but …”

“You have information on Vladovka’s entire life,” said Stoltz, a bit impatiently. “We sent your office a copy of our file. Where he is from, who his friends and relatives are, and what he looks like. Why not start with his family?”

“I think, perhaps, our office has the case because others, State Security, have talked to them and come away with nothing. I will talk to his family, but first another direction.”

“The other cosmonauts,” said Stoltz.

“Yes.”

“Well, it will be but one meeting. Baklunov is dead. Cancer of the liver. He went quickly.”

“On the flight, he was …”

“… conducting experiments. He was a biologist. Very promising. His death was a tragedy for the program, for Russia,” said Stoltz. “Other questions?”

“What happened on that last flight that required an emergency rescue of Tsimion Vladovka and the others?”

“Test results came in,” said Stoltz. “Results of tests taken routinely on all cosmonauts. Sometimes the results take a long time to get to us. We learned of Baklunov’s cancer and were told that he had to come back for treatment.”

“Why did the others not stay in space?”

“Vladovka and Kinotskin had been on the mission for many months. A new team was ready. Since we were nearing the end of the Mir program and the expense of sending a shuttle to the station was so great, we would simply make the replacement planned for two months later and save the expense of another shuttle flight. Kinotskin will verify and give you details if you like.”

“And the cosmonauts who replaced them,” said Rostnikov. “I would like to talk to them.”

“I’ll see what I can arrange, but it may well take a while.”

“May I ask why?”

“Oh, two are out of the country, an extended stay in the United States to consult on their proposed manned space efforts. An attempt to continue to build relations with the Americans. Actually, I do not trust the Americans, but I do not make policy.”

“And the other cosmonaut who took over the mission?”

“Bobchek is in China now,” said Stoltz, looking across the square at two old men engaged in a bitter argument. “Went with our blessing, reluctant blessing, but a blessing nonetheless. He is a consultant to a computer-chip development company. Eventually they will discover, if they have not already, that Bobchek was the least bright of all the cosmonauts in the last forty years. His conciliative powers are negative. We could not plant a more effective agent with the Chinese to impede their electronic research if we planned for a decade. There are no plans for his return.”

Rostnikov nodded and began the awkward process of getting up. “You have no idea of why Vladovka would run, hide?” he asked. “No theory of your own?”

Stoltz shrugged. “Who knows? A woman perhaps. An offer from a foreign government, possibly the French, possibly the English. Vladovka knows a great deal about our space program.”

“A great deal that we have not shared with other countries and that they do not already know?”

“Who knows what other countries will pay for? The space race is on again. We are behind on launching a new station with the Americans. Vladovka could possibly embarrass us with what he knows of our problems. We would certainly survive such embarrassment but … You know. You have superiors. I have people to whom I must report. Those in charge; as you well know, have but a tenuous grasp on their power. Embarrassments can be used to destroy people.”

Rostnikov, now standing, nodded. He believed very little that Stoltz had told him. The man was too cooperative, too ready with answers. More was going on than Rostnikov was being told, or was likely to be told by Kinotskin, the one cosmonaut other than Vladovka who knew about the flight, but still …

The two men shook hands.

“I’ll call your office with a time and place to meet Kinotskin.”

“Soon,” said Rostnikov. “Preferably today.”

“We all want Vladovka found soon,” said Stoltz.

“Do you like Vladovka?” Rostnikov asked, his hand still in that of Stoltz. The hand he shook remained firm and strong, but Porfiry Petrovich felt something, the hint of a small, deep tremor perhaps.

“Does that make a difference?” Stoltz said, removing his hand.

“Who knows? The question came to me. I asked it. I’m curious. It is my job to be curious.”

“No, I do not like Vladovka,” said Stoltz, now meeting “eyes. “He is too much of a dreamer, too difficult to gauge. A botanist. He prefers the company of plants to that of people. I had the feeling he was elsewhere during many of our conversations, and he said odd things that he could or would not explain.”

“Like my name?”

“Yes, precisely, like your name. Where he got it or why he mentioned it in space to me, I do not know; he never said when he returned to earth, but I think it ironic.”

“How so?” asked Rostnikov.

“He chose the man who would track him down,” said Stoltz.

Rostnikov nodded and looked around the small park. Not far from here was an old Russian Orthodox church that had been sold to Jews who had, as inconspicuously as possible, converted it to a synagogue. The rabbi, a young Israelite named Avrum Belinsky, was a friend of “through tragedy. Several young Jews had been murdered in what had appeared to be an anti-Semitic act of terror. Rostnikov had found the murderers with Belinsky’s help. The crime had been one of greed and not of hate. Rostnikov and the young rabbi shared some secrets about the case. Perhaps Rostnikov and Iosef would walk over to see the rabbi after lunch.

“I’m going to join Iosef and Dovnikovich for lunch. Would you like to come, talk about weights and competition?”

“No, thank you,” said Stoltz. “I have to get back to our Moscow office. Every day is problems.”

Rostnikov nodded and said, “Then I look forward to your call and to seeing you again. I am sure I will see you again.”

It was Stoltz’s chance to nod before he turned and walked quickly away.

The Center for the Study of Technical Parapsychology was within easy walking distance of the Kremlin. There was no sign outside the gray-stone building indicating its purpose. Wedged in between an eight-story red-brick office building and an Atmospheric Research Center of hard concrete and proud sign, the Center for Technical Parapsychology remained relatively anonymous. It had once housed the offices of the International Institute of Communist Parties and Development. Since then it had gone through a massive renovation. The rooms they were shown were all on one floor, the second floor. The first floor was reserved for offices, meeting rooms, a library, and a business-and-records office.

Nothing in the brief explanation they had been given made much sense to Zelach, who simply adjusted his glasses and followed Karpo and the woman in the gray suit who wore glasses far more stylish than his. She was about forty, a bit on the thin side, and plain of appearance with short dark hair. She wore a white laboratory coat. She used no makeup and walked with her hands folded across her small breasts. Her one attractive feature, as far as Zelach was concerned, though he would not admit it to himself, was her ample mouth. She spoke slowly, deliberately, but it made no difference in Akardy Zelach’s comprehension.

“We, I mean the Soviet Union, were the first to officially sanction the study of psi phenomena,” Nadia Spectorski said as she had opened the door of the first room, which contained a wall of steel-colored machines, some with metal arms jutting out. “Do you know the term psi?”

“Psi,” said Karpo, examining the room, “is the twenty-third letter of the Greek alphabet. It is a general term for the entire spectrum of paranormal phenomena.”

“Ah,” she had said. “Then you have followed our findings and publications.”

“No,” said Karpo, “but I am aware of the field of study.”

“And you are skeptical?” she asked.

“I am skeptical about all things,” Karpo said.

“Well, perhaps you should see some of the films of our experiments,” she said, arms still folded.

“Perhaps,” Karpo said.

“We are scientists, Inspector, not mystics. We objectively examine telepathy, prophecy, and above all dreams and psychokinesis, the ability to move objects with the mind alone.”

“I am aware of your studies,” Karpo said. “This room?”

“Measures electrical and magnetic changes in subjects engaged in experiments,” she said. “We are not the largest center in Russia for the study of psi phenomena. That is in St. Petersburg at the university, but our work is critical and quite different. And, I might add, underfunded. We used to receive our primary budget from the government, but now we have been forced to seek outside support through our Psychic Research Foundation. We even get money from Americans and the Japanese.”

“The room where the murder took place,” said Karpo.

Nadia Spectorski nodded and moved down the hall, now passing numbered white doors, and stopped in front of room 27.

“Here,” she said.

“The dead man, Sergei Bolskanov, what was his area of specialization?”

“Telekinesis, dream states, several things,” she said, opening the door and reaching in to turn on the fluorescent lights, which tinkled to life. The room was clean and relatively empty. A table sat in the middle of the room, a small table with a white top. There were chairs facing each other across the table and, in the wall to the right, a large mirror.

“Sergei Bolskanov was a brilliant physiologist,” she said. “His experiments, more than twenty years of them with every kind of person, children, politburo members, catatonics, self-proclaimed psychics, cosmonauts, were conducted in this room, filmed through that one-way mirror. They were simple experiments but controlled. The floor, for example, was specially installed and insulated. It floats on designed material so that there are no external vibrations. Objects would be placed on the table. Sometimes Bolskanov would be in the room. Sometimes he would not. Various small objects of widely different material would be placed on the table. The subject would be connected to nonintrusive wires to monitor his or her breathing and physiological responses.”

“Objects,” said Karpo.

“Oh,” said Nadia, pursing her lips, “blocks of wood, glasses of water, toys, books, individual sheets of paper, batteries, the list was long. The results impressive.”

“Tools? A hammer perhaps?”

“The one that was used to kill him? Perhaps. He experimented with hundreds of objects.”

“Could the camera have been running when Sergei Bolskanov was murdered?” asked Karpo.

“I checked. The director of the center, Andrei Vanga, checked. It was not.”

“I would like a list of everyone who was here when Bolskanov was murdered,” said Karpo.

“That should be no problem,” she said. “I’ll show you the sign-in book, which includes the time people checked in and the time they checked out. I have already examined it. There were only five of us, including Sergei. It was late at night.”

“You were here,” said Karpo.

“I was.”

“And?”

“I was in my office downstairs. It is down the corridor away from the entrance. I saw and heard nothing. Even if I were standing directly outside this room, I would have heard and seen nothing. No sound escapes. That is true of all the laboratories.”

Karpo looked around the room slowly and at the mirror. Zelach did the same but saw nothing of interest, and though he did not speak, he felt uneasy in the room. Normally he felt nothing particular, even when he was at a bloody crime scene in which more than one mutilated body was still lying. But this room made him decidedly uncomfortable.

“And your work?” asked Karpo, walking out of the room.

“Psychic probability and telepathy,” she said. “I studied in England. My degree is from Moscow State University in psychological studies and anatomy.”

“And you are not married?” Karpo said.

Nadia Spectorski took off her glasses and cocked her head to one side to examine the gaunt creature in black.

“I am not examining the possibility of a relationship,” Karpo explained. “I am trying to obtain information.”

“So that you can construct a series of possible scenarios, imagine the murder?” she asked.

“I have no imagination,” Karpo said flatly. “I collect and analyze information. If the situation requires what you call imagination, I consult with my superior, Chief Inspector Rostnikov, who has a large imagination. Now, I would like to see the sign-in book and interview everyone who was here at the time of the murder. My colleague will then interview everyone in the employ of this facility who was not present.”

“Certainly,” she said. “Are we finished in here?”

“Yes,” said Karpo. “The room next to this one, the one in which we can look through that mirror into this one.”

Nadia Spectorski nodded, opened the door, and led them to the adjacent room.

“Why were you chosen to take us on this tour?” Karpo said. “You are not the director or even the assistant director.”

“I volunteered,” she said. “Sergei was not a well-liked man. To call him gruff, unpleasant, and secretive would be to minimize the extent of his clear and open dislike of the human race. I was probably the only one who had anything like a relationship with him, and that was simply cordial. Even Sergei needed someone with whom to discuss his ideas.”

“He was not married,” Karpo said.

“He was not.”

Nadia Spectorski entered the second room but did not turn on the light. Through the mirrored window, they could see the scene of the murder. Nadia had intentionally left the light on. To one side of the mirror, on a tripod, stood a video camera.

“I should like to see the last tapes he made,” Karpo said.

“That is no problem,” she said. “However, the timing mechanism indicates that nothing has been recorded for several days.”

“Still, I wish to see it.”

“Easy enough,” she said, opening the camera with a push of a button. “Here.”

She handed the tape to Karpo, who placed it in his pocket. “And now I should like to talk to the others,” he said.

“Before we do that,” she said, leading the way back into the corridor and closing the door, “would you indulge me in a quick and simple experiment? It will take only a few minutes of your time. I have never worked with policemen before.”

“Experiment?” asked Karpo.

“A deck of cards. It is something I do. Right down the corridor. I am being cooperative and will continue to be so. I could make your investigation difficult, though I have no reason to do so. Indulge me. It is something I do with all visitors.”

Zelach shifted uneasily and considered speaking but decided against it.

“Ten minutes,” said Karpo.

“And since I am obviously a suspect because I was here, you can also observe how I work and see if it yields anything about me you might be able to use.”

Two minutes later they were in a room not much different from the laboratory of Sergei Bolskanov. This room was smaller, with no mirror. It was completely empty except for the table with four chairs. Nadia Spectorski sat on one side, the detectives on the other, facing her. She held something small in her lap and with her free hand passed a deck of cards to Emil Karpo. As they proceeded, she took notes on a lined pad on the table to her right.

There were three experiments with each man, each time with a fresh deck, six decks all moved to the side after each experiment. First they were asked to concentrate on the deck before them and tell what the top card would be. They were then to turn over the card. When that experiment was finished with each man, Nadia repeated it, only she turned over the cards. Finally, with yet another deck, she picked up each card, looked at it, and asked each man what card she was looking at.

“Are we now finished?” asked Karpo.

“We are,” she said, standing.

“And?”

“You were well within the law of averages,” she said, looking at her notes. “No significant sign of telepathy or projection. You,” she added, looking at Zelach, who blinked nervously behind his glasses. “You got nothing right. You are phenomenally below the law of averages. It is extremely rare for someone to get not a single correct card in all three experiments. I’ll have to recheck the data.”

“I’m sorry,” said Zelach.

“No,” she said. “It is interesting.”

“You do not seem to be particularly disturbed by the murder of your colleague,” said Karpo suddenly.

“We each carry our grief in our own way, Inspector,” she said. “As you well know, as you have done.”

There were few times in his life when Karpo was unprepared for an eventuality. This was one of those times. Karpo’s loss had been enormous. The only woman who had gotten through to him emotionally-no, the only person who had gotten through to him-had been Mathilde Verson, the redheaded part-time prostitute who had been full of life, and who had seen something in the pale specter that challenged her. Mathilde had been killed in the crossfire of two Mafias while she drank coffee in a bar on a bright summer day.

“What do you know of me?” he asked.

“Little,” she said with a shrug. “But what you should know of me and would probably learn from the director is that I entered this line of research because I have psychic insights. I have, as they said in past centuries, visions. I cannot control them. I usually don’t know what they mean or what I am even seeing, but they are there. I am, in fact, in addition to my own research, a primary research source for Boris Adamovskovich. Who was also here during the murder.”

Zelach was looking from Karpo to Nadia Spectorski. He felt a tension but wasn’t at all sure what it was all about.

“It was an intuitive observation,” Karpo said.

“She had red hair,” responded Nadia Spectorski.

“You have done research on me in the last day,” Karpo said.

“No,” she answered. “I have not, but my job is not to convince you of anything. I have encountered hundreds of nonbelievers in psi phenomena. I have learned not to argue with them. Let’s go see the director now. I know he is expecting you.”

“Psychic knowledge?” asked Karpo as they all rose.

“No, you are scheduled.”

“Shall we argue now?” asked Elena.

They were seated at one of the hundreds of new outdoor cafes and coffee shops that had sprung up in the new Moscow. This one was on Gorky Street. The coffee was exceptional and the owner never charged the police, which was good for Elena and Sasha because they could not have otherwise afforded the two cups and the pastry they had been served. Elena had pushed the sweet ahlahd’yee s yahblahkalmee, “apple puff,” across the table to Sasha. Elena was watching her weight. She was about to be married, maybe, and she did not want to go the way of her mother and her Aunt Anna, who were decidedly overweight. Elena, as men had told her, was well toned and amply plump.

“No argument,” said Sasha, picking up the sweet and taking a bite. He looked at the people at the other tables and smiled.

“I will go to the exchange. I will pose as Yuri’s niece.”

“As you wish,” said Sasha. “You are sure you don’t want a small piece of this?”

“A small piece,” she said with a sigh as he pushed it back toward her. “You’ve changed, Sasha Tkach. Your wife takes your children and leaves you. Your mother who drives you mad moves in with you. And instead of being miserable, you’ve grown more cooperative. If one did not know, one might say you are content.”

“And this bothers you?” he asked.

“No, but it puzzles me. Are you happy that Maya left?”

“No. I want her back. I call her, write to her. I miss both of my children, perhaps Pulcharia most of all. It is almost her fourth birthday. I tell Maya I am changing. She doesn’t believe me. And, yes, even a day with my mother would have been enough to drive Lenin mad. I cannot explain my mood.”

“Nor can I,” she said, eating the rest of the apple puff. “But I will cease questioning it.”

“Proof,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “Here are the tickets for the movie Yuri handed me. Take them. Go with Iosef.”

“Can’t,” she said. “We have other plans. Perhaps the new Sasha Tkach would like to take his mother.”

“It would be a true test,” he said, rubbing his chin. “I have taken my mother to movies in the past. It would be a true test. This morning, before I could escape, she followed me around, screaming that I should go to Kiev, beg Maya to come back. She said she would give me the money, that she would talk to Porfiry Petrovich. She misses her grandchildren. You know the Protopopovs, downstairs from us?”

“No.”

“It was so early and Lydia was so loud that they banged on the wall,” Sasha said. “I’m a policeman. They know it. Policemen don’t have their walls banged on. Even if you hear shots you don’t bang on a policeman’s wall. They banged.”

“What did you do?” Elena asked.

“After I escaped from my mother I knocked on their door and apologized,” he said. “Before Maya and the children left I would have pounded back and told the Protopopovs to be quiet. You see before you a very changed Sasha Tkach. Taking my mother to a movie will be the true test.”

There was a pause while Elena finished her coffee and Sasha gently drummed on the table with the fingers of his left hand and hummed tunelessly.

“Then I’m the niece?”

“Yes,” he said. “If you wish. And I will be a visiting producer from France. Would you like to hear my French accent?”

“I have heard it. It is fine. I will be the one making the exchange?”

“Yes,” said Sasha.

“I know what the movie is,” Elena said. “It’s English. Something called The Full Monty, a kahmyehdyeeyoo, ‘a comedy.’”

“What is a monty?” Sasha asked.

“I don’t know. Some kind of container, I think.”

“You know if it has subtitles?” Sasha asked hopefully, mindful of the dangers of his mother’s poor hearing, which, coupled with her willfulness and determination, could easily bring an entire audience to its knees or send it in flight from the theater.

“I think it is dubbed,” she said.

“A true test,” he repeated.

Porfiry Petrovich had gone to see Avrum Belinsky alone. Iosef had no interest in joining him. Iosef’s interests lay elsewhere. Besides, Rostnikov had a reason for seeing the rabbi alone.

The walk from Pushkin Square was short so his leg did not protest as he moved. Rostnikov entered the small synagogue that had gone through several incarnations, from church, to government office where work permits were issued, to a minor tourist attraction with minimal restoration so that it resembled a church, and then to a synagogue.

Belinsky was by himself, not in his tiny office just to the left of the entrance, but at the rostrum on the small platform which Rostnikov knew was called a bema. Belinsky seemed to be lost in thought, a pen in hand, looking down at some papers.

Belinsky had been in Moscow only a few years. He had started a congregation and almost immediately had found the young men in his small congregation being murdered. Belinsky himself had almost been killed by the murderers, who had acted not out of a commitment to anti-Semitism but to drive the congregation out of existence and out of the synagogue where they knew a valuable bejeweled artifact was hidden. With Belinsky’s help, Rostnikov had caught the murderers. Now, the policeman and the rabbi were close to being friends.

Belinsky was a powerfully built man of average height. He had been a soldier, an extremely well trained Israeli soldier who was familiar with confrontation, sacrifice, and death. He had been chosen to go to Moscow precisely because he was determined and capable of taking care of himself and his congregation.

“Porfiry Petrovich,” Belinsky said, looking up with a smile and touching his short black beard.

“Avrum,” Rostnikov answered, deciding not to sit in one of the several dozen folding chairs that faced the platform on which the young rabbi stood.

“I was working on a sermon,” Belinsky said, moving away from the bema and approaching Rostnikov with his hand out.

The two men shook hands and Belinsky motioned for Rostnikov to take a seat. He could not refuse. Rostnikov did not trust wooden folding chairs. They had disappointed him in the past. He sat carefully and the rabbi turned one of the chairs around to face him.

“I was in Pushkin Square,” Rostnikov said.

“And you decided to pay me a visit,” said Belinsky.

Rostnikov nodded. “But that is not all,” he said.

“Sarah,” said the rabbi.

“She goes out every Friday night,” said Rostnikov. “She says she is going to see her cousin or friends. But she is coming here to attend services.”

“Yes, she is Jewish.”

“She has been through a great deal,” said Rostnikov. “Surgery. I almost lost her.”

“I know.”

“It does not surprise me that she would turn to the religion of her grandfather,” said Rostnikov. “And it is reasonable that she would come here, to you.”

“But?”

“I do not understand why she has not told me. Are you under some rule, like a Catholic priest or something, that prevents you from telling me?”

“No, but I think you should ask her. Would you like a drink? Water? I even have some wine and Pepsi-Cola in my office.”

“No, thank you. I plan to ask her, but I have learned that it is a good idea if at all possible to be prepared for what might turn out to be a difficult situation.”

It was Belinsky’s turn to nod. “She is concerned.”

“Afraid,” said Rostnikov.

“Yes. She is seeking some deeper meaning in life and has turned to a reasonable place for that meaning.”

“And has she found it?” asked Rostnikov.

“I don’t think so. Not yet. Maybe never. Let me tell you a secret, Porfiry Petrovich. There is no meaning we can find. Our God does not give us simple answers. His only answer is in the enigma of the Bible, of our Torah. I have come to the conclusion that if we seek openly we come to realize that the Bible is telling us to accept what is-the good, the evil. God makes no sense we can understand, just as the world makes no sense we can understand. We can only accept what is and we can find solace in that acceptance. Accept life. Do not ask God for justice, mercy, goodness. God is, like man, a mystery. He can act in ways that make no sense to us. He can change his mind. He can destroy us or grant us mercy, and there is no fathoming why he does any of this.”

“That is the sermon you are working on?”

“Yes,” said the rabbi, touching his dark beard and smiling.

“You do not wish to answer my question,” said Rostnikov.

“In a way, I have. Ask Sarah.”

Rostnikov rose.

“The heating system working well?”

“Yes, you did a good job. This winter will be the real test.”

“The toilet?”

“A work of art. Thank you.”

“Then,” said Rostnikov, “there is no more to say.”

“Not now,” said Belinsky.

They shook hands again and Rostnikov made his way out onto the street. He was lost in thought, half a block away, when he remembered that he had meant to ask Avrum Belinsky where he had been during the morning storm.