Murder on the Trans-Siberian Express

Chapter Eight

The car was waiting for them at the Star City military runway just outside of Moscow. It was night.

Rostnikov was surprised to see Akardy Zelach seated next to the driver. However, he was grateful that Zelach was not driving. He was, Porfiry Petrovich knew from experience, a threat to mankind behind the wheel.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your coming to greet us, Akardy Zelach?” asked Rostnikov.

“I must talk to you,” Zelach said, his voice less than steady.

Rostnikov did not bother to ask if the subject of Zelach’s concern was urgent. If it were not, the slouching and obviously uncomfortable detective in the front seat would not have had the courage to impose himself on the scene.

“Can it wait till we get to Petrovka?” Rostnikov asked.

“Yes,” said Zelach, who turned his head forward, adjusted his glasses, and closed his eyes, trying to remember approximately how he and his mother had worked out what he would say to the chief inspector.

They drove straight to Petrovka, Rostnikov breaking his usual rule of sitting next to the driver so that he would be at the side of the silent Sasha. The snow was falling softly, crystals glittering in the headlights, streetlights, and the eyes of men and women.

“You did well,” Rostnikov said.

Sasha nodded and said, “Maya is back.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe I should wait till tomorrow to go home.”

“Maybe you should take three days off. Be with your family. Find your mother’s artist friend. Be a husband and father. Play with your wife and children in the snow. Let us make that an order. You are to take three days off.”

Sasha nodded and said no more.

When they pulled up in front of Petrovka’s gates Rostnikov got out, being careful to hold on to the door of the Lada to keep from slipping. Zelach was standing on the sidewalk, waiting.

“The driver will take you home,” Rostnikov said. “Give my love to Maya and kiss the children for me. And one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Brush your teeth before you go to bed with your wife tonight,” said Rostnikov, closing the door and waving the driver into the night.

“Now,” said Rostnikov as he joined Zelach on the sidewalk in front of the iron gate, “do you want to go to my office and talk for a few minutes or wait for me there while I report to the director?”

“I would like to speak here. I will be brief,” said Zelach, looking around as if he expected someone to intrude on their conversation. “It is about Inspector Karpo.”

“Karpo,” Rostnikov repeated when Zelach paused, considering whether he could go on.

“I think … I know it is not my place, but I am concerned about him. And about me. My mother is concerned. She agreed that I should tell you.”

The night was cold and the hour late. Rostnikov stood patiently, waiting for the tortured man before him to provide some clarity.

“I think Inspector Karpo is behaving very unlike himself”

“In what way?” asked Rostnikov.

“I think he might be doing things that are not … I am not doing this well.”

“Things that are? …” Rostnikov prompted patiently.

“Things that could get him hurt or killed. And me too. I mean they could get me hurt and killed too, not that I am doing such things. I mean, Inspector Karpo is the senior detective and I do whatever he orders, but …”

“You think he is behaving suicidally?”

“Sui-I don’t know. I am just concerned. I thought, my mother thought, you should know.”

“Have you told Inspector Karpo about your concerns?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He never really answered me.”

“Be calm, Akardy,” Rostnikov said, starting to feel the cold creep into his half leg. If he stood out here long enough, he would have definite difficulty walking. “Tell me what has brought you to this conclusion about Inspector Karpo. Talk slowly.”

Zelach sighed, a cloud of cold steam billowing from his mouth, and began to speak.

When Zelach had finished, Rostnikov said, putting his right hand on the man’s shoulder, “You were right to tell me, Akardy. Now, go home. I will see you in the morning.”

Five minutes later, Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov was ushered into the office of Director Yaklovev by Pankov, who trotted ahead of the chief inspector like a puppy in urgent need of a fire hydrant.

The Yak was seated behind his desk, hands folded, making no pretense of doing anything but waiting for the arrival of his chief inspector. He motioned Rostnikov toward one of the two chairs across from the desk and as soon as the detective was seated, the Yak held out his right hand.

Rostnikov, still wearing his coat, reached into his pocket, pulled out the package he carried, and handed it across the table. The Yak placed it in front of him and patted it once.

“I will write a full report in the morning unless you need it immediately,” Rostnikov said.

“There will be no need for a report,” said the Yak.

Rostnikov nodded. “Then I may-”

“A moment,” said the Yak, tapping the package before him. “There were developments while you were away. The missing son of Nikoli Lovski has been located and returned to his father. Zelach shot the kidnapper. He will explain it to you, I am sure. Inspector Karpo has already submitted a report about the incident, which I have edited somewhat.”

“The kidnapper?”

“A foreigner,” said the Yak. “Appears to have some influential connections. He was released an hour ago. No matter. The affair is settled to my satisfaction and that of Nikoli Lovski.”

“You said developments?” Rostnikov said.

“Your son and Elena Timofeyeva have apprehended the subway attacker,” said the Yak. “We are being given full credit. Unfortunately, Detective Timofeyeva was slightly injured during the apprehension, but she is resting at home. I have recommended her for a medal.”

“Now may I-”

“Rostnikov,” the Yak said, sitting back. “You are to forget the existence of this package.”

“I shall direct my curiosity in other directions.”

“Not toward the Lovski case,” said the Yak.

“Then, with my limited options, I shall go to see Elena Timofeyeva.”

“We understand each other,” the Yak said, rising.

Rostnikov rose too. “I believe we do,” said the policeman.

The Yak seated himself again while Rostnikov crossed the room and paused at the door, where he turned and said, “I have given Sasha Tkach three days’ leave.”

The Yak nodded.

“I should like to also remove Inspector Karpo from the regular case rotation.”

This time the Yak paused and cocked his head to one side.

“Special assignment until further notice with your approval,” Rostnikov went on.

“Reason?”

“His skills, I believe, will be better utilized in other areas. And I believe there is a fatigue factor involved.”

“Fatigue?”

“Inspector Karpo has worked tirelessly for two decades, tirelessly and, I believe, at great cost to his emotional well-being.”

“Signs of emotion in Inspector Karpo have evaded my observation,” said the Yak.

“And his,” said Rostnikov.

“Your request is granted. However, this must be temporary.”

“Six months should be sufficient,” said Rostnikov.

“Six months, then. You will not forget to keep me informed of his assignments,” said the Yak.

“I forget only what you order me to forget,” said Rostnikov.

Unspoken was the quid pro quo. Neither man smiled. Rostnikov limped from the room, closing the door slowly behind him.

Rostnikov had opened the package and examined its contents. Of this Igor Yaklovev was reasonably certain. Even without certainty, however, he had to assume that the chief inspector had done so. Survival depended on assuming worst-case scenarios. Rostnikov’s requests for leave for Sasha Tkach and an assignment change for Emil Karpo suggested that Rostnikov had something with which to bargain, something unspoken. That did not, ultimately, matter. The director and his chief inspector had an unspoken agreement. Their relationship was nearly perfect. Since it was based on long-term mutual benefit and not transient loyalty, they both seemed comfortable in the pragmatic relationship. The Yak had kept his part of the agreement and would continue to do so. Igor Yaklovev would contrive, blackmail, instigate, and further his own ambitions, but he would never betray one of his people. The Yak’s loyalty was well established. It was his principal currency among those who worked for him. Igor Yaklovev’s word was good, though his methods were without scruples.

He rose, moved to the door, locked it, and returned to the chair behind his desk. Then he opened the package before him. There was a leather string around a thick, brown-paper wrapping. He untied the string, carefully opened the paper, and found a neatly folded stack of papers pressed into a metal box about an inch deep.

The first sheet of paper was brown, cracks intruding at the places where it had been folded. Beneath the first sheet were newer sheets.

Yaklovev gently unfolded the first sheet. It was a short letter, written in a fine hand in firm strokes of black ink. In the righthand corner of the sheet was the date: January 6, 1894.

The note was in German. The Yak had more than a reasonable command of written German. He read:

Dear Baron Von Vogler,

You have certainly noted that enclosed in this sealed pouch delivered into your hands by Colonel Maxim Verobyanov of the Royal Guard is a gem of considerable worth. I believe you will recognize it and know its monetary value and its value as a national treasure. I have been informed that it is the largest and most nearly perfect in the world. I have had it replaced in the collection of my jewelry with a fine copy. My beloved Nicholas, I am certain, will never notice.

From time to time I hope to send you more such treasures. Out of your loyalty to my father I trust you to keep them safe in the event that my children and I may someday need them.

There are signs of unrest, to which my husband does not give value. There are concessions to the forces which threaten us, the forces of a conspiring military and the horrid prospect of discontented masses. Need I say more? Of all this I have been advised by many.

I am uncertain about the effect this new railroad will have on the czar’s power and position. The cost is great, the treasury of our nation threatened, and problems continue to plague its construction. Yet my husband is confident that the railroad will open new Vistas and stand as a memorial to our entire family and a rallying force for all the Russian people under the royal family of Romanov.

May it be so. But if it is not, I trust in you, dear friend, to be prepared to receive those of us who may need a safe haven in the world.

As you called me in childhood and as I remain to you-

Alix

There was no ruby in the package. This did not surprise Yaklovev, though it did provide him with a dilemma. If he took credit for recovering this historic document in the hand of the Czarina Alexandra, there might well be those who wondered if he had also recovered the gem.

It was obvious that the gem and the letter had never reached the German baron, and after more than a century it was pointless to speculate on what had happened to the ruby. He could certainly argue that point, but there were potential enemies, rivals who might raise the question. Tempting as it was to take credit for this discovery, it was far more prudent to put it away safely, perhaps to use another day.

The letter had been a bonus and not necessarily a welcome one. The real treasure he had sought now lay before him in the form of neatly folded sheets of names, dates, transactions, agreements, and documents.

Igor Yaklovev slowly examined the list on top of the pile, a list of some of the most prominent men in government and public life, not only in Russia but in various states of the former Soviet Union.

Before him was clear evidence of payoffs to these men from the Ural Mafia in return for protection and favors. There were even documents making clear that some of the most influential of these men were aware of killings that had taken place.

These documents were the real treasure.

Director Yaklovev returned the papers to the package, rewrapped it, and stood. He placed the package in his briefcase, lifted his phone, and pushed the button to connect him with Pankov, who answered instantly. The Yak ordered a car and hung up.

In his apartment, he would make copies of everything in his briefcase on the machine he kept in the alcove of his bedroom. The Yak lived modestly. His goal was not luxury but power. His physical needs were simple. His ambition was great but well calculated for his own protection. He did not aspire to the highest offices of Russia. He aspired to gently dictate policy to those who held such offices.

Documents like the one in his briefcase, tapes he had been collecting along with favors granted, would soon put him in position for a major move. He would savor his power like a secret collector of great art who kept his treasures for his own eyes and information and the simple, pure satisfaction of having them.

Once home and having made the copies, he would follow his long-established pattern of protecting his acquisitions by making copies in triplicate and securing them where they could not be found.

He retrieved his coat from the small closet behind his desk and reflected on what had been a very good day. Earlier, the unspoken agreement with Nikoli Lovski had gone smoothly. The Yak had arranged for the release of the man Akardy Zelach had shot and had assured Lovski that there would be no further inquiry into the situation regarding his son. In fact, there would be no report on the incident. It was a family matter. Lovski had made it clear that he fully understood and appreciated what the director of the Office of Special Investigation was doing.

As a test of their new understanding, the Yak had said to Lovski that he would very much appreciate it if Lovski’s media “gave proper credit to the heroes who had, at the risk of their own lives, made Moscow safe from the subway killer.”

Lovski had said that he would see to it that Iosef Rostnikov and Elena Timofeyeva were treated as heroes and their positions with the Office of Special Investigation made quite clear.

“And, of course, we will see to it that you too are given full credit.”

“I would prefer it if my name and contribution were not mentioned,” the Yak had said.

“Then they will not be,” Lovski had readily agreed. “There may be one problem, which I leave fully to your discretion. Your man, Karpo. He is a bit …”

“He will be no problem,” the Yak had said reassuringly.

And that had ended the conversation. It had been a good day. The car was waiting for him when he stepped beyond the gates of Petrovka. The snow was deep now. The sky dark. The air cold, a brisk, satisfying cold. Yes, it had been a good day.

It had not been a particularly good day for Elena Timofeyeva. If one discounted the pain and the twenty stitches in her shoulder, however, it could have been much worse.

There was one small lamp on the table next to the bed and it was turned on the lowest of its three-way bulb.

“I can stay but a minute,” Porfiry Petrovich said, standing over her at the bed in her aunt’s tiny bedroom. “You are all right?”

“Some pain, tired, but all right,” she said with what she hoped was a smile.

She looked very pale, and Rostnikov suspected that she had a fever. He reached down and touched her forehead. She was decidedly warm but not hot.

“I’m taking pills,” she said. “Anna is doing her best to play nurse. She is not very good at it, but she tries.”

“I will let you sleep,” he’ said. “I will come back tomorrow.”

“You look tired,” she said.

“I am,” he said, touching her hand.

She gripped the hand and said, “Has Iosef told you?”

His son was in the next room, the only other room of the tiny apartment, with Anna Timofeyeva.

“What?”

“We have decided to marry as soon as I am out of this bed,” she said. “He asked me to tell you.”

“You have told me and I am pleased,” Rostnikov said.

“I do not intend to leave my job,” she said.

“I would not wish you to,” said Rostnikov. “Recover. Sarah and I will plan a wedding.”

“Small,” she said. “Talk to Iosef. A small party. No religious wedding. A simple state wedding.”

“May I ask you a question?” Rostnikov said.

“Yes.”

“If it is an intrusion? …”

“You want to know if we plan on children.”

“Yes.”

“At some point. We have talked. At some point.”

“Good. Now sleep.”

She closed her eyes and smiled.

“Shall I turn off the light?”

“No,” she said. “I prefer it on, at least for tonight.”

Rostnikov nodded and left the bedroom.

Anna Timofeyeva sat in her chair near the window with her cat, Baku, on her lap. Iosef stood, a cup in his hand.

“Coffee or tea, Porfiry Petrovich?” she asked.

“Coffee, perhaps.”

Iosef moved to the small stove near the door to the apartment to get the cup of coffee for his father.

“You look tired, Porfiry Petrovich,” Anna said.

“I am,” he replied, taking the cup from his son. He took a sip. The coffee was tepid but strong. “And you, Anna Timofeyeva? How are you?”

“Angry,” she said with resignation. “But I have been told it is bad for my heart to be angry, so I try to convince myself that the anger is something I can put into an imaginary box and hide in the cabinet with the soup cans.”

“And does it work?”

“Of course not,” she said. “But I am trying. I read about it in a book Elena and Iosef gave me. Mysticism.”

Her reaction to the word mysticism was a nod of resignation. She was a pragmatist, always had been. She had been quite comfortable in the Communist Soviet Union, though she acknowledged its defects. Authority had been clear. The world had been solid and tangible. You worked. You died. Now her niece and the man she was going to marry gave her books about achieving tranquility. Anna was willing to exert her considerable will on being calm. She needed and wanted no books. One could rely on one’s mind if not one’s body.

“She will be all right?” Rostnikov asked.

“She will be fine,” said Iosef glumly.

“He thinks it is his fault,” said Anna, stroking the cat, whose eyes were shut in contentment.

“Of course it was my fault,” Iosef said, looking into his empty cup. “I should have seen, been more prepared. She could have been killed because I was not alert.”

“One cannot anticipate all contingencies,” said Anna Timofeyeva. “You deal with crime and criminals, sometimes lunatics. You are a policeman, not a bricklayer.”

“I know,” said Iosef. “But …”

“If you spend your life going over each act that you did not and could not anticipate,” said Anna, “you will fail to address the present.”

“Anna Timofeyeva does not believe in the past,” Rostnikov explained, gulping down the last of his coffee. “And she does not believe in God.”

“There is no past,” she said. “It is gone. There is now. There may be tomorrow. That is what you address. That is where you live, right where you stand.”

“You have turned to philosophy,” Rostnikov said.

“I have time for reflection and the reading of mystical books which, thankfully, tend to be very short, though obscure.”

“I must go home. I called Sarah from Petrovka. She wanted to come but I told her to stay, that I would be home soon. She is waiting up for me. Iosef?”

“Anna Timofeyeva has invited me to stay here tonight,” Iosef said.

“In Lydia Tkach’s apartment,” Anna said. “Lydia is thankfully away somewhere, looking at religious paintings with her artist. She left me the key. She will not mind.”

Rostnikov looked at his son and touched the younger man’s cheek. “Elena said you will be married when she is well,” he said. “We will have a party. Who shall we invite?”

“I … just a few friends,” said Iosef.

Rostnikov nodded and moved to the door. Perhaps he would include the Yak and Pankov on the guest list. It would be interesting to see them attempting to be sociable. He doubted if either would come but the possibility intrigued him.

“Perhaps a surprise or two,” said Rostnikov.

“I can do without surprises for a while,” said Iosef.

Rostnikov nodded to Anna, touched his son’s arm, and left the apartment.

Twenty minutes later, Rostnikov entered the apartment on Krasnikov Street as quietly as he could in the hope of not waking the two girls and their grandmother, who slept in the front room. One more week and grandmother and grandchildren would have their own apartment, only a single room, but a large one on the floor above. But for now they were here. Rostnikov moved slowly and as quietly as his mechanical leg would allow.

He made it to the bedroom without awakening the sleeping trio, opened the door, and found Sarah sitting up in the bed, a book in her lap, a pillow behind her back. The only light in the room came from a small reading lamp on the table next to the bed. He closed the door behind him and stood for a moment looking at her.

She was pale, a paleness that contrasted with the darkening red of her hair, which had grown back since her operation. She wore the blue nightgown he had bought for her when she got out of the hospital. Sarah Rostnikov was still a lovely woman. She smiled and patted the right side of the bed next to her, his side.

He moved to her and sat.

“How is Elena?”

“She will be well. They want to marry soon. Perhaps next week.”

Sarah nodded.

“I told them we would have a party.”

“Of course,” she said.

“You can?…”

“Galina and the girls will help me. It will be fine, Porfiry Petrovich. Hungry?”

“No. Tired.”

“Take off your clothes and Lenin, shave, shower, and come to bed.”

“Lenin?”

“I have decided,” she said, “to call your alien leg Lenin. You should have something to call it.”

“Why Lenin?” he asked, starting to undress.

“You can engage in secret political discussion and seek cooperation to your mutual satisfaction,” she said. “And no one will know but the two of you.”

“Then Lenin it is,” he said, looking at her.

“The Korcescus on the second floor are having trouble with their toilet again,” she said.

“I will deal with that challenge tomorrow night.”

“Porfiry Petrovich,” she said. “How long has it been since we made love?”

He thought for a moment.

“You have not been …”

“I am well,” she said. “If you are too tired …”

“I am definitely not too tired,” he said.

“There is one condition.”

“What is that?”

“Lenin goes under the bed where he belongs,” she said.

Rostnikov laughed. He rarely laughed. The world was often amusing, tragic, dangerous, and touched with individual sadness, but not funny. He could not remember the last time he had laughed. Granted, this had been a brief laugh but it was a real one.

“I’ll shower first,” he said.

“Shower later,” Sarah said.