Rostnikov vacation

FIVE

"We can go to your apartment if you prefer," Tamara whispered, holding Sasha's arm tightly as they went up the stairs, breathing in his ear. "I can get my bottle and bring it.'' "No," said Sasha, wondering what Zelach and Tamara might think and say if they suddenly faced each other in the small apartment.

He had a very simple plan. He would go with Tamara to her apartment, remember something he had to work on, make his excuses, and depart. Maybe he would have one drink. How could it hurt? The men who he thought were watching him were probably just muggers, not the computer thieves. Moscow was filled with muggers who roamed confident that the police were too busy with more important crimes occasioned by Gorbachev's reforms to deal with a little mayhem and the loss of a few rubles here and there.

Sasha deserved a drink, a moment to relax. He seldom drank and didn't intend to now, but the idea of one drink, a few moments watching Tamara, having her hold his arm, was appealing. It could cause no harm. Zelach was sitting behind the door ready if someone came while Sasha was out.

I could even argue that I had left intentionally, he told himself. Left to lure the thieves into breaking in so Zelach could catch them.

"This is the door," Tamara said with a big grin, showing her teeth. The center tooth had just a spot of lipstick on it.

"I've got to get back to my apartment,'' Sasha said, trying to remove the woman's hand from his arm. She held fast.

"One drink," she said, searching for her key in the little purse she carried with her free hand. " A moment. I'm afraid to go in by myself. Just go in with me. I'll turn on the lights, and then you can go if you want.''

' 'I can stand in the hall,'' said Sasha, adjusting his glasses.

"You're cute," she said. "My shy little Jew."

Tamara opened the door with one hand, the other still holding tightly to Sasha, tugging at him as she entered. He told himself that he had no choice but to follow.

"The light's here," Tamara said, kicking the door shut behind them.

For an instant she released Sasha's arm and left him standing in the darkness, penetrated only by a faint light through the window from the street below. Then the light came on. The room was bright, a room of yellows and reds, the furniture modern and colorful, with flowers, and the rag a large yellow rectangle with a red rose the size of Maya's favorite mixing bowl in the center.

"I must go now," Sasha said.

Tamara smiled at him from where she stood across the room near a floor lamp.

"If you have to work, you have to work," she said with a shrug, kicking off her shoes and moving toward him with her right hand held out. As she neared, he held out his hand to take hers, to shake it quickly, to make a hurried departure and get back to Zelach, who was probably asleep and snoring in the chair behind the door.

Tamara ignored his extended hand, moved in, and put her arms around his neck and her open mouth on his. Sasha took her arms to remove her, but she had her hands locked behind his neck. He opened his mouth to tell her he really had to leave, but her tongue entered, licking his lower teeth before he could speak.

She tasted of warmth and alcohol, a sweet, different taste from Maya.

"Maybe another night,'' he said as she released her grip and stood back to look at him with a knowing smile. "Tomorrow. ''

Her right hand moved forward suddenly between his legs. He backed away but had only a half step to the door. Her hand pressed forward.

"Tonight," she said, moving in, releasing his belt.

Sasha wanted to speak, opened his mouth again, but Tamara said, "Shhh," and unbuttoned his pants.

This must stop. Now. He must halt her firmly, his mind ordered, but his mesmerized body would not obey. Her fingernails rubbed against the flesh at his waist, not quite gently, promising, threatening. He said no more as she dropped his pants to the floor and put her thumbs inside his underwear. It was too late.

There was no point in issuing orders to his body. His underwear came down to his knees, and Tamara stepped back to look at him.

Her hands went to her hips, and she asked, "Are you sure you're a Jew?"

Colonel Snitkonoy had exhausted his complete array of poses, and none of them had worked on Emil Karpo, who sat impassively alone at the conference table and looked up at him. Had it been daylight, the colonel could have set this meeting with Karpo for the precise moment the sun hit the window. Then, the Gray Wolfhound knew, he would be outlined in light, a tall figure with bright filaments of red and yellow stabbing into the room. His voice, carefully nurtured, would resonate in baritones off the walls. It would have been a concert of light and sound to which few failed to respond.

But this was very early in the morning, before five, before the sun. Before Karpo had arrived, the Wolfhound had turned on the two floor lamps in the corners of the office and the one lamp that reflected upward from the well-polished top of his oak desk to create deep shadows around the eyes and below the lips. Aware of every crease and button on his perfectly pressed uniform, the colonel had moved from one light to the other since Karpo had entered the room. Erect, hands clasped behind his back, the Wolfhound found the right nuance of light for the right phrase. Nothing. But it was difficult to discourage Colonel Snitkonoy. Some said it was impossible. He had too much confidence. Others had suggested that he did not have the intellect to merit such confidence.

It was the great confidence and lack of intellect of Colonel Snitkonoy that had sustained him in the MVD for over thirty years while others fell or were trampled. It was the sense of the theatrical and the imposing figure he presented that had moved him to his present position as director of special projects. He was until recently, it was generally agreed, no threat to anyone.

The irony of Colonel Snitkonoy's current rise in party circles was that his department, a repository of largely ceremonial duties no other branch wanted, had met with singular success. During what appeared to be a routine investigation of a minor problem at a shoe factory, Rostnikov had uncovered a high-ranking KGB officer engaged in extortion. And then Rostnikov and Tkach, while on a routine check of parade security, had foiled a terrorist attempt to destroy Lenin's tomb. Colonel Snitkonoy's star had risen, and now there were some who said that he had been a brilliant survivor who waited for years to build a superior staff and to seize the moment when it was safe to become dangerous.

Whatever the truth, greater autonomy and responsibility had come to the colonel's staff and with it possible enemies. Colonel Snitkonoy was learning what it was like to be vulnerable. He was also reaping the rewards of success, and in just two days he would, as the guest of Gorbachev himself, attend a ceremony in Soviet Square followed by a dinner to honor those who were contributing selflessly to the success of perestroika and peaceful transition.

"Inspector Karpo, Comrade Karpo," he said, deciding to try compassion, "a young woman is dead. I grant that. I lament that. The loss of any Soviet citizen, especially a youthful citizen who holds promise for the future, is of great concern to Colonel Ivan Snitkonoy.'' "There is nothing to lament, Colonel," said Karpo, looking up. "The young woman was Carla Wasboniak, a user and seller of drugs, a probable accessory to several murders, an enemy of the state."

"Yet you feel compelled to find the young man who killed her,'' said the Wolfhound tolerantly, a wiser figure with perfectly groomed silver hair who was sure, now, that the pale figure seated before him would see the weakness in his position.

"His name is Yakov Krivonos," said Karpo. "We have sufficient evidence to believe he has murdered three people, possibly more. He is quite mad, quite dangerous. Inspector Rostnikov and I believe that he was involved in the murder of the visiting German businessman last month."

"Bittermunder?" said the Wolfhound, perplexed but not showing it in the least as he nodded as if he knew where this conversation was going. "Senseless, very brutal."

"Yes," said Karpo.

"Why?"

"Why was he murdered, or why does Inspector Rostnikov believe Krivonos is involved?'' asked Karpo without a trace of sarcasm.

The colonel, like most people, had avoided conversation with Emil Karpo as much as possible. He had always been confident that when the time came he could deal with this creature of the night if necessary. He had always told himself, however, that it was easier to allow Rostnikov to deal with the man. After all, Karpo had worked for years with Rostnikov when they were in the Procurator General's Office, and Rostnikov did not seem to mind the man, even seemed to have some genuine affection for him, which was a mystery to the Gray Wolfhound.

"Answer both if you can," the colonel said with a tiny smile that suggested superior amusement and masked a confusion.

"The weapon," said Karpo. "The bullets taken from the German's body were 76.2-millimeter Winchester Magnum cartridges fired from a high-powered West German sniper rifle, a Walther WA2000. Such a rifle was stolen from the collection of the deputy director of Social Mobilization for the Russias a week earlier. An informant told Inspector Rostnikov that a young man named Yakov Krivonos was making the rounds of underground bars where American music is played, bragging that he had such a weapon, that he had killed a German with it.

We attempted to find Yakov Krivonos but were unable to do so. He was in hiding, but I persuaded a bartender in the Billy Joel-"

"Billy Joel?" the colonel repeated, shaking his head.

"A rock-music establishment," Karpo explained. "Named for the American singer who came here last year."

"Yes," said the colonel. "Go on."

"I persuaded a bartender to tell me that Yakov Krivonos was known to have a companion named Carla. I waited until she showed up at the bar last night and then followed her to the apartment from which she was thrown."

"Or fell," Colonel Snitkonoy amended.

' 'She landed on the rear streetside fender of an automobile approximately fifteen feet from the building," Karpo said. "I watched her descent and-"

"I have been informed," said the colonel, looking toward the window in the vain hope that the sun was finally rising. A childhood memory came back, and he thought that perhaps the first rays of the sun would destroy this vampire. The colonel admitted to himself that he was quite tired.

"The rifle Krivonos fired at me this night was a Walther 2000, the same make as that which was stolen," Karpo went on. ' 'It is likely that the bullets I retrieved and have given to the laboratory will verify that it is the same weapon that killed Bittermunder.'' "I see," said the Gray Wolfhound, resuming his pacing, since intimacy had no effect.

"We do not know," Karpo went on.

"Know? Know what?"

"The answer to your second question. Why Yakov Krivonos murdered Bittermunder."

"Ann," said the colonel. "But really, it doesn't matter. This is murder, a foreign visitor. It is a case for the Murder Squad and not Special Projects."

"On Thursday, Yakov Krivonos will kill again," said Karpo without emotion. "A witness heard him say this to his companion, a man with a beard whom he called Jerold. I saw this Jerold for an instant when he shot at me."

It was more than the colonel cared to keep track of.

"I will try to find Yakov Krivonos before Thursday and stop him from committing this murder," said Karpo.

"You are, as you may remember, on vacation as of tomorrow, '' the Wolfhound said softly, with just the slightest studied tone of warning.

' 'I am the only police officer who can identify Yakov Krivonos," Karpo said.

"A young man with orange spiked hair and wild clothing is not difficult to describe to others," the colonel tried.

"He will change his appearance," said Karpo.

"He will change his appearance," the colonel repeated, as if humoring a dense child. "How do you know this?" ' 'I saw the face of the man with the beard,'' he said. "The man called Jerold will tell him to do it, and he will do it."

"It is late, Comrade Karpo," the colonel said, taking out the 1920 pocket railroad watch that had been given to him in 1972 by the workers of the Kirov Locomotive Assembly Plant after a particularly inspiring speech on the need for maintaining domestic security. "With the increase in crime since… certain political events, too many hours have been put in by all branches. We must all be alert, ready, refreshed for the arduous task of maintaining the peace and controlling crime.

You will take a vacation beginning tomorrow. This is a directive from the General Staff. When you and Porfiry Petrovich return, Tkach and Zelach will also be directed to take vacations. You will visit your relatives in Kiev. You will return in three weeks and not before then. You will return with renewed vitality. You understand my words?"

"Yes, Comrade Colonel," Karpo said, noting that the offer to use the colonel's dacha was no longer in evidence.

"Prepare a report on your findings, a detailed description of this Krivonos and the other man, and leave it with Pankov so I can forward it to the proper parties," said the colonel, clasping his hands before him to show that the conversation and Emil Karpo's investigation had ended.

Karpo understood and rose.

The colonel moved to his desk, sat down behind it, and opened a leather folder the size of a very large book. He took his pen in hand, looked at the contents of the folder, and said, "Enjoy your vacation and return refreshed and prepared to renew your part in our constant vigil against crime."

Emil Karpo left the office, closing the door behind him.

It was slightly after five in the morning. The colonel had said Karpo was to go on vacation tomorrow. Karpo would not disobey a direct order. However, the colonel's order meant that Karpo had all of this day and until midnight of the following day to continue the investigation. If he did not sleep, he had forty-three hours to find Krivonos and the bearded man. In forty-three hours, it would be Thursday.

Karpo wasted no time. He went to the elevator, aware that people were avoiding his eyes, pretending, as they always did, that they had just remembered something that had to be done in the opposite direction, suddenly saying something urgent and animatedly to whomever they were walking with and giving the companion undivided attention. A woman, who Karpo knew was Amelia Smintpotkov in Records Two, muttered, "Vampire," when she thought she was safely out of Karpo's hearing. Amelia Smintpotkov might well have needed the day off had she known that Karpo heard her and knew her name. In fact, Karpo was unmoved by the reaction to him or by the muttered word. If anything, though he might not be able to admit it to himself, he was mildly pleased. The privileges of police authority were rapidly being taken away. Others around him were finding it frustrating and quite difficult to deal with criminals and a public that were losing their fear of the law. Karpo was confident of his own ability to create fear without recourse to threats or action.

He took the elevator down to the unnumbered laboratory of Boris Kostnitsov, two levels below the ground in Petrovka. Kostnitsov was an assistant director of the MVD laboratory, though he assisted no one and had no contact with the director, whose name he did not know or care to know. Boris Kostnitsov worked alone. He had been assigned an assistant once, but the man had quit after four days, insisting that Kostnitsov was a madman. It was generally agreed that the assistant was right, but it was also agreed that Kostnitsov was brilliant.

Karpo knocked once, firmly, at the gray metal door of the laboratory and waited.

Before opening the door, Kostnitsov's high voice said, "Inspector Karpo. I know that knock."

Then the door opened, and Karpo found himself facing Kostnitsov, a man of no particular distinction, medium height, somewhere in his fifties, a little belly, straight white hair brushed back, bad teeth, and a red face. Kostnitsov was wearing a bloodstained blue laboratory coat. His left hand opened the door so Karpo could step in. His right hand held something white and fleshy about the length of an adult finger.

Kostnitsov pushed the door closed and held up his prize.

"Well?" he asked, head turning just a bit to the side, a knowing hint of a smile on his lips.

"Intestines, small intestines," said Karpo. "Recently removed, human."

Kostnitsov beamed.

"The stomach, the intestines. These are the organs that give the easy answers, that paint the clearest pictures. My favorite organ remains the little-appreciated spleen, but the stomach is the pathologist's friend. That which it contains can reveal much. That which it does not contain can reveal even more. Did you know that each of us eats at least a pound of insects each year? Not the gnat that flies in as we yawn or speak but the bits trapped in drinks, canned foods, meats, fish. And the irony, Comrade, is the pound of insects you eat each year is the most nutritious part of your diet. This intestine. Look. Diseased?" he asked.

"Impossible to determine without close examination," Karpo responded.

Kostnitsov handed the fleshy piece of intestine to Karpo, who took it in his palm and turned it over.

"Discoloration," said Karpo. "Diminution of blood supply. Possibly disease, possibly poison, possibly-"

"Drug," Kostnitsov said, taking his prize back and placing it gently in a white china teacup balanced precariously on top of a pile of thick books towering up from the floor. Dangerously close to the books danced the single flame of a Bunsen burner.

"You got that from the body of the young woman, Carla Wasboniak?''

Kostnitsov moved around his cluttered laboratory tables to his even more cluttered desk and lifted a sheet of paper, which he scanned and put back before making his way back around the tables to Karpo, who waited patiently.

"You want some coffee, tea?" asked Kostnitsov.

"No, thank you, Comrade," said Karpo.

"Why can't they send you down here all the time?" Kostnitsov complained, reaching for the teacup that contained the piece of Carla's intestines and then realizing only at the last instant, as he put it to his lips, that it was not the cup containing tea.

He put the cup down and continued. "Tkach is a child. He poses, and his mind is always somewhere else. That sack Zelach is worthless. Rostnikov, now Rostnikov is not bad, but he has no love of the tangible. The fact is a means, not, as it is to you and me, an end. You understand? '' "I believe so," said Karpo, whose pulsing head told him that precious time was passing. He could, however, do nothing but play out the scene with Kostnitsov or risk losing the man's cooperation. Not even the threat of death could make this man do or say what he did not wish to do or say. Kostnitsov found his teacup and held its charred ceramic bottom over the flame of a Bunsen burner.

"I'll tell you about the bullets first," said Kostnitsov, looking at Karpo. "The ones you brought in."

Karpo said nothing.

' 'They came from an interesting weapon, West German, adjustable for rapid fire or single action," said Kostnitsov, tasting his tea and deciding that the temperature was acceptable. "The same weapon was used to kill the businessman two weeks ago. German. Special forces, government controlled, but they get out.

A Walther RA 2000, but you know that, don't you?" ' 'Yes,'' said Karpo.

"Yes. Doesn't matter. The weapon is outside my area of primary concern. The woman died of trauma suffered an instant after contact with the blue-enamel surface of the car she hit. Would you like to know the precise cause of death, the damage to organs from the trauma of impact?"

"If it might be relevant to my investigation," said Karpo. There was no denying it now. The migraine was coming. He would have to work through it. There was no time for retreat to the cool darkness of his small room.

"It is not," said Kostnitsov, tilting his head to the side again, examining Karpo as they spoke and he drank. "However, it may be relevant that the young lady would have been dead in a matter of weeks even had she not been thrown, for she was thrown, unless she leaped up and backward through the window.''

Kostnitsov juggled his teacup as he turned around and demonstrated the turn. His sloped shoulders lifted, and he went up on his toes like an egg attempting to perform ballet.

"Glass in the shoulders, back of the neck, scalp," he explained.

' 'She would have been dead in a matter of weeks,'' Karpo reminded him.

"Ah," Kostnitsov replied, finishing his tea and putting the cup down next to the one containing the intestine, which he now picked up again. ' 'Cocaine with strychnine. Judging from the layers of both substances in the intestines, she had been ingesting increasingly high levels of cocaine mixed with strychnine for several weeks. Even if she took no more, there is enough throughout her body to cause death in two to three weeks. Similar cases, almost undiscovered, took place last year in Paris. Both victims were high-ranking foreign service officers. French Journal of Pathology, spring issue last year, had an article."

"Conjecture?" Karpo said as the pulsing on the right side of his head began in earnest. Recently, the headaches had begun to come more frequently and without the warning odors and occasional flashes of light he had experienced since childhood. Now the headaches were suddenly there, without warning, as if his brain were independent, playing a new game with him.

"…an American association because of the weapon and the drug," Kostnitsov was saying as he now rummaged through one of the drawers of a laboratory table against a wall.

"Please repeat that," Karpo said.

Kostnitsov returned and held out a glass pill bottle containing six blue capsules with yellow dots. The capsules were cushioned by a small wad of cotton on the bottom of the bottle.

"Take one," he said. "That's all I have now. I'll try to get more, but who knows when. Got them from the pocket of a Canadian vacationer who was killed by a drunken cabdriver. Wasted three of them discovering what they were." ' 'What are they?'' "Something," said Kostnitsov, "that will control your migraine headache so you can function while you do whatever your headache wishes to prevent you from doing."

Karpo looked at the bottle.

A wave of nausea curdled up from his stomach. He opened the bottle, shook out two capsules, and downed them with a gulp. Kostnitsov watched Karpo. The pain did not stop, at least not immediately. The two of them stood for perhaps a minute. First, Karpo's stomach relaxed, and then the throbbing in his head slowed like a steam locomotive coming to a gradual stop.

"I have no more time for this, Inspector," said Kostnitsov, moving back to his desk and searching for something under a mound of coffee-stained journals and papers.

Karpo moved to the door to leave and was taken by an impulse that he did not fully comprehend.

"I will be leaving Moscow for a vacation tomorrow night," Karpo said, hand on the door, resisting the urge to touch his temples. "Perhaps when I return you can join me for lunch."

"Lunch? Lunch? What day?" asked Kostnitsov without looking up from the sheet of paper he was examining.

"At your convenience," said Karpo, who, in his forty-two years, had never issued an invitation to a meal to anyone.

'"Tuesdays are best," casually answered Kostnitsov, who had never, since his mother's death twenty years ago, been asked to join anyone for any meal.

Karpo left.