Rostnikov vacation

TWELVE

Considering his rank and the visibility of his public office, the Gray Wolfhound lived in a very modest two-story house off the Outer Ring Road, twenty minutes by car and driver from his office in Petrovka. It would have taken little more than a word or a hint to have someone ousted from a large apartment in the city, but the Wolfhound wanted none of it.

Colonel Snitkonoy enjoyed entertaining visiting dignitaries in his home, liked to show the almost Spartan nature of his existence to foreigners. The colonel harbored a dream, which he shared on occasion with the two members of his household, a dream of this modest house being turned into a small birthplace museum.

The two members of the colonel's household with whom this dream was shared were his retired adjutant, a quiet, devoted, and very stupid man named Golovin, who firmly believed that the colonel was the most brilliant military officer in the long history of all the Russias, and a housekeeper, Lena, who was not in the least bit stupid and was quite sure that when the colonel moved or died the house would be leveled and replaced with a massive apartment building or offices.

Each morning, seven days each week, except when he had an early-morning engagement or had to catch a flight out of Moscow, a car and driver would be parked and waiting at five-thirty in front of the modest house. The car that waited was also modest, a Zhiguli of recent vintage, not one of the large Volgas or even a foreign car, which he could afford and to which both Golovin and Lena said he was entitled.

This morning, Colonel Snitkonoy was slightly annoyed. He would be attending the ceremony in Soviet Square, and it was especially important that his dress uniform be spotless, his ribbons even, his hat without crease or blemish. He had drunk his morning coffee with care, eaten his English toast with caution, finished his glass of Turkish orange juice with dignity, and discovered a speck of something oily on his knee with concealed horror.

This speck had forced the Wolfhound to completely change his uniform and to be ten minutes late going through the front door, where Golovin on cloudy mornings like this stood ready with an umbrella to walk with the colonel to the waiting car, should the threatening rain start.

But this proved to be a morning like no other morning. Golovin stood inside the door with the umbrella, but he did not open either door or umbrella. Instead, he said, "You have a visitor."

The Wolfhound stopped, waited.

"He said it was urgent. Inspector Rostnikov. I put him in your office. I asked him not to touch anything. I hope that was acceptable. He said-"

"Tell the driver I will be out shortly," said the Wolfhound, going to a door just off of the entranceway. When Golovin was out the front door, the colonel entered his office.

Rostnikov was seated in the large wooden chair across from the desk. His leg, the one he had injured as a boy in the war, was propped up on a wooden block the colonel kept before the chair as a footrest. The block had a history that the colonel enjoyed relating to his guests, but this was neither the time nor the guest. Rostnikov wore a jacket and no tie. He needed a shave and looked quite tired.

"Would you like a coffee, Porfiry Petrovich?" asked the colonel.

"That would be pleasant," said Rostnikov, and the colonel moved to the door, where he ordered the now-waiting Golovin to bring coffee.

The colonel turned back into the room in anticipation. Rostnikov had never come to his house before. He had never been invited to his house. Even when Rostnikov had brought him the information that resulted in the dismissal of a high-ranking KGB officer just a few months ago, the information and evidence had been brought to the colonel's office.

That information had resulted in Colonel Snitkonoy's being taken far more seriously than he had been before, which was both a good and a bad thing.

"You are supposed to be on vacation in Yalta, Inspector," the Gray Wolfhound said, moving to his desk. He leaned against the desk and folded his arms in front of him.

"Why was I sent on vacation, Colonel?"

Rostnikov asked the question gently, casually, and he would have liked to present it more carefully, in the natural context of a conversation, but there was no time.

' 'An order came to all departments indicating those senior officers who were overdue for vacation and who must take them immediately," said the colonel.

"And would you remember the names on the list?" asked Rostnikov. "I mean, remember them if you saw them."

"Yes," said the colonel. "I would remember all of those within the MVD and- Where is this leading, Inspector? I have an important ceremony to attend."

Rostnikov shifted his weight, reached into his pocket, came up with Vasilievich's notebook, and handed it to the Wolfhound as Golovin knocked at the door.

' 'Come in,'' called the colonel, looking down at the book. "Put it on the desk."

Golovin looked concerned but said nothing as he put down the tray containing two cups and a steaming pot. Golovin departed quickly, closing the door behind him.

"Page six," said Rostnikov. "May I help myself?"

"Please," said the Wolfhound, turning the pages of the notebook while Rostnikov reached over to pour himself coffee.

"These are the names, not all of them, but many of them,'' he said, looking away from the book at Rostnikov.

' 'Now look at pages nine through twelve,'' Rostnikov said, lifting the cup to his lips.

"Where did you get this notebook?"

"It belonged to a GRU inspector named Vasilievich. He was murdered in Yalta two days ago. The men who murdered him were hired by an American who was himself hired by a Soviet. The American returned to the United States yesterday before he could be properly detained."

"I see," said the colonel wisely, though he saw nothing at all, and then on the tenth page he saw more names, names that he recognized, including that of both Gorbachev and Yeltsin, but the one that caught the colonel's eye immediately was his own name. He looked away from the notebook again at Rostnikov, who put his coffee cup down on the tray.

' 'Vasilievich was convinced that a conspiracy existed, a conspiracy engineered among high-ranking officers in the police and intelligence services," said Rostnikov. "The conspiracy required removing from Moscow and other key cities the senior investigators who might possibly uncover the conspiracy."

"Assassination," said the colonel, tapping the book against his thigh.

' That is what Vasilievich believed.''

"And what you believe?"

"Yes," said Rostnikov.

"I am on this list," said the colonel.

Rostnikov said nothing.

The colonel nodded his head knowingly, placed the notebook down carefully, and reached for one of the cups of coffee. Conflicting feelings surged through the Wolfhound, not the least of which was a certain pride at being considered important enough to be included on the list of people who might be worth assassinating. Fear was not one of the feelings, for, in truth, Colonel Snitkonoy was a very brave man.

"What do you propose, Inspector?"

"I have reason to believe that the assassination in Moscow is to be carried out by a young man named Yakov Krivonos, the man I was in the process of locating when I was sent on vacation."

"And the man Inspector Karpo continued to search for until I ordered him on vacation," continued the colonel. "A vacation ordered by directive."

"Inspectors Karpo and Tkach are in pursuit of Krivonos and a man named Jerold, who may be behind the planned attempt," said Rostnikov. "May I have more coffee?"

"Help yourself," said the colonel.

"Inspector Karpo has until tonight at midnight, according to your order, before he must go on vacation," said Rostnikov.

"If we can reach Inspector Karpo, inform him that the order is no longer in effect," said the colonel. "You have a suggestion, Inspector?"

"One that may be dangerous, Colonel."

"Proceed."

"A call from you to the appropriate heads of departments in the KGB, MVD, and GRU indicating that you have evidence of such an assassination plot and advising them to be alert. You might also tell them about the notebook and suggest that copies have been made and are safe."

"One or more of the people I contact may well be part of the conspiracy, Porfiry Petrovich."

"Let us hope so, Colonel. Let us hope they realize that they must stop the assassination attempts or risk exposure. If nothing happens, then Vasilievich's notebook is the conjecture of an old man who coincidentally was murdered. If even one assassination takes place, the conspirators will be pursued. They had hoped, perhaps, to make it look like the work of a group of young drug dealers and criminals acting from a grievance against the state. We must disabuse them of the possibility of such a public interpretation.''

' 'I will make the calls immediately. I can also attempt to have the celebration in Soviet Square postponed."

"There is less than an hour," said Rostnikov, rising from his chair. "Will they listen?"

"No," said the Wolfhound. "They will not. And if I am not on the stand with the other officials and an assassination attempt does take place, I will be an immediate suspect. I must make these calls quickly, Inspector, and I must do them in plenty of time to get to Soviet Square."

It was not the first time that Rostnikov had felt a sincere admiration for the colonel, and he hoped it would not be the last.

"We must hope that Inspectors Karpo and Tkach locate the assassin," the Wolfhound said, reaching for the phone.

As he leaned forward, his leg brushed his waiting cup of coffee. A splash of dark brown hit his immaculately clean trousers. The colonel paid no attention.

Gorky Street was cordoned off for the celebration. Even if Karpo and Tkach had identified themselves as policemen, they could have gotten no closer because of the crowds. Karpo pulled to the curb in front of the Moscow News Office and across from Pushkin Square. They got out and battled through the crowds onto Gorky Street, making their way past the All-Russia Theatrical Society, the Nikolai Ostrovsky Museum, and Food Store Number One. In front of the Tsentralnaya Hotel they crossed the street to the sidewalk before the Druzhba Bookshop.

Yakov's mother had told them where to find her son, and Karpo had considered several possibilities. One possibility was to call Petrovka, to tell the duty officer to get to the Moscow Soviet, but there would be a great risk in that.

That there was a conspiracy was evident from even his cryptic conversations with Inspector Rostnikov over the last two days. There was no telling who would receive his call or how it might be treated.

No, there had been ample time for him and Tkach to get to Gorky Street, and though it had taken longer than they anticipated, they were here now, making their way through the crowds. Tkach was markedly improved but not to be fully trusted. Had he an alternative, Karpo would have sent Tkach back to Petrovka, but there was no time for alternatives.

Tkach looked across the broad street at the raised platform on which minor officials were already gathering in spite of the thunder and almost certain rain. The threat of rain had not deterred the crowd, which hoped the occasion would be one of protests and spectacle.

Karpo led the way into the building and to the guards.

"Two men," he said, showing his identification card, though both of the guards had recognized him. "One young, wearing glasses, the other about my age, bearded, probably quite pale."

The guard had no idea what Karpo's age might be, but he shook his head and said,

"Hundreds of people have come in and out this morning, all of them with proper identification.''

The second guard, however, said,' 'The one with the flu."

"Yes, perhaps," said the first guard. "He had a beard, but-"

"Where is he?" asked Karpo.

Both guards shrugged.

"I think," said the second guard, "he went up those steps."

Karpo and Tkach hurried past the guards and moved up the stairs two or three at a time.

It took them almost a minute to make their way to the fourth floor, past officials in the halls hurrying for raincoats and umbrellas in their offices or scurrying down the stairs to be outside, where they could be seen when the celebration speeches began. It took them another few minutes to find the door on the fourth floor with the stairway behind it. They entered and in the darkness moved up slowly, cautiously, Karpo in the lead, weapons drawn.

When he reached the door, Karpo stopped and reached back to halt Tkach. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he began to turn the handle, hoping that the growing crowd on the street and the sound of voices inside the room would cover whatever noise he might make. Before he could push the door open, two shots screamed like wounded jackals inside the room.

The rain had begun almost as soon as Karpo and Tkach had entered the Moscow Soviet building. The rain had started to fall, and the umbrellas had begun to open on the street as the major officials began arriving with their own umbrellas. The platform was not covered. No one had anticipated the weather. It should not have rained today. But it was raining, and Yakov Krivonos was propped at his window, ready to fire.

The problem was "Almost all of them on the platform are wearing raincoats, and some of them have umbrellas. I can't see most of their faces. How am I supposed to know who to shoot?"

Jerold forced himself out of the chair and moved to the window.' 'The first three on the left, near the flag, see them?'' "Yes."

"You will shoot them. And two over. The one with the boots. See him? The one who just climbed up?"

"I see his boots," said Yakov.

"Shoot him, too," said Jerold, wearily moving back to the chair.

"Hell with this," Yakov decided as he moved the rifle to the window, lay on the ground, and propped the weapon up on the inverted metal V that served as a bipod to steady the already steady weapon. "The longer we wait, the harder the rain will be and the more the targets will protect themselves and be harder to find."

Yakov Krivonos nestled the butt of the rifle against his shoulder, pressed his face against the cheek rest, and moved his left hand to the pistol grip and his right hand to the wooden piece in front of the trigger. The weapon was compact, the barrel clamped at the front and rear to ensure the torque initiated by a bullet passing through the bore would not lift the barrel away from the intended point of aim. The barrel was as long as that on almost any sniper weapon, but it ran the full length of the rifle, almost to the end of the short, comfortable butt. The Walther RA 2000 was gas operated, easy to handle, with the ejection port close to the person firing. Thus, there were both right-handed and left-handed versions so that the port would be on the side opposite the sniper.

It was accurate within three inches at a thousand yards.

"What are you thinking, Yakov?" Jerold asked, his voice dropping, near exhaustion.

Yakov's solution was simple. He would shoot everyone on the platform. There were twelve men and two women. Jerold hadn't told him whom not to shoot. He had simply identified those who were to die. A few extras wouldn't matter, and Yakov didn't want the American to try to get out of his promises of wealth and women.

He raised his rifle. He would simply shoot them all.

"Yakov, you will shoot only those…"

Yakov heard him but did not wish to, and so he told himself a lie. He told himself he had begun to fire before Jerold spoke. He fired the first shot, and the second came almost immediately after.

Before the echo of the second shot had wept its last tear of pain through the stairwell, Karpo pushed the door open and stepped into the room, gun level, ready to fire. He knew where the window would be, must be. If both of the men they sought were in the room, he would go for the one near the window, the one who must be preparing to shoot down another Soviet official in the square.

Karpo came very close to squeezing the trigger before he realized that the person leaning forward against the window with a rifle in his hands was half-turned and looking straight up at the ceiling, blood streaming out of his mouth. As Tkach scrambled up the stairs and joined him, Karpo swung around to the far corner and found Jerold, his hands raised high over his head.

"My gun is on the floor, over there," said Jerold, nodding with his head toward the weapon, about five feet in front of him on the floor.

"Sasha," Karpo said, and Tkach leveled his gun at Jerold while Karpo moved to the window to look down. There seemed to be confusion on the platform, and people were looking up at him through the rain, but he could see people scrambling in confusion. One person had fallen.

"He was about to shoot President Gorbachev," said Jerold. "May I put my hands down? I'm feeling quite weak."

"No," said Sasha, and Jerold could see that as much as his arms ached and his knees threatened to quit beneath him, it would be best to remain exactly as he was.

Karpo quickly examined the dead Yakov Krivonos and turned to Jerold.

"My pocket," Jerold said. "Rear. Take out my wallet. I'm a KGB officer."

Karpo moved toward him quickly. The room would soon be filled with armed soldiers from the street, soldiers who would have to be stopped before they entered the room and began firing.

"Sasha," Karpo said. "Go down the stairs. Tell them who you are, that everything is all right.''

Tkach put his gun away, looking at the dead young man near the window, and felt a sudden chill through the open window as he moved through the door.

"My name is Alexandrov," said Jerold, his American accent suddenly gone. "I was trying to locate and identify all of the members of an extended extortion and drug gang. Yakov was my link. He thought I was an American drug dealer."

Karpo turned the pale man around and removed the wallet from his back pocket. He found the secret compartment and removed the KGB identity card with Jerold's photograph.

"It is authentic," said Jerold.

Below them they could both hear boots hurrying upward through the building.

"I am sure it is," said Karpo.

"You almost killed me this morning, Inspector Karpo," he said, putting his hands down and sinking into the chair.

"And you almost killed me," said Karpo.

"Had to make it look good for Yakov. I am sorry."

Karpo nodded.

"You understand?" Jerold went on as they heard Tkach's voice below, though his words were unclear.

"Not completely," said Karpo.

"But you believe me?" said Jerold, looking up, his shirt drenched with sweat.

"No," said Karpo.

' 'It would be best for you to believe me, Inspector Karpo,'' Jerold said. "I'm about to make us heroes."

With that, a major, his brown uniform dark and heavy with rain, his cap pulled down, came rushing into the room. His gun was drawn but at his side, indicating that Sasha had been reasonably convincing.

"Major," Jerold said, "I am Lieutenant Vasili Alexandrov, KGB Security Division.

The man at the window is Yakov Krivonos. He was about to kill President Gorbachev. Inspector Karpo arrived just as I prevented him from doing so."

The major looked at the two men, trying to decide which one was more pale. The scene was unnatural, a moment frozen from some half-remembered play, and the major, who had witnessed many deaths in Afghanistan, felt a cold chill and knew this moment would haunt him till he died.