Tarnished Icons

EIGHT

MARIA INSPENSKAYA INSPECTED THE CARD in her hand and looked over at the man whose photograph appeared in the corner. She double-checked the data, though she knew she had made no mistakes, and placed the card in the laminating machine in the corner of the small garage.

It was cold in the garage, but Alexi didn’t care. He watched Maria, in her extrathick wool sweater, move from the photo machine, where she had taken his picture, to the printing machine and computer, and now, finally, to the laminating machine.

The entire process would take about an hour. Alexi didn’t mind. He didn’t mind the cold either, and had refused Maria Inspenskaya’s offer of tea, which she drank from a mug printed with blue letters in English. Alexi’s English was barely passable, but he knew the words on the mug were THE GRATEFUL DEAD.

Maria made strange humming sounds as she worked. She was short, probably in her fifties. Her relucent hair was brushed straight back and tied in a rubber band. Her glasses were the thickest Alexi had ever seen.

Maria was well known among criminals and businessmen who needed expert false identification. She did not advertise and she kept no samples in her garage. Were she to be caught by the police, she would claim that her only job was to make photo identification cards for pets. She had samples of those and photographs of dogs, cats, and birds tacked to the walls. In truth, Maria disliked all animals. It wasn’t just her allergies. They consumed food humans could use. They befouled the streets. They were coddled by their owners. Maria had received nothing in her life that might reasonably be called coddling.

Alexi had heard of her while eavesdropping on a conversation on Gorky Street. One man had been telling another that he could get a proper ID from a woman named Maria. He had given the other man Maria’s number, and Alexi had remembered it and written it down. That had been more than a year ago, before Alexi had made his plans. He had simply stored the information, as he had so much other data gathered in likely and unlikely places.

At first the woman had been wary, fearing that Alexi’s call might be a police trap, but finally during their phone conversation, Maria had agreed to meet Alexi at a stand-up snack bar not far from the garage.

He didn’t look like a policeman. Alexi was short, balding, sober, and willing to pay in American dollars far above the already high asking price. His willingness to pay so much for a card had worried Maria a bit, as did the kind of card he wanted, but she was convinced that she was dealing with a depressed, determined individual who was not an informer or a policeman.

Alexi was well dressed, well spoken, polite. He had given her five hundred-dollar bills in advance.

When they had reached the garage, Maria had turned on the lights and gone to a desk. She pulled out a deep drawer. Inside the drawer was a bag that could be dropped into the sewer through a hole in the wooden floor if danger threatened. She had forgotten the bag the day before-a mistake she vowed not to make again. Her mind had been on a knight’s gambit she had witnessed earlier.

“I know I’ve got at least three,” she had said as she rummaged and Alexi stood waiting, briefcase in hand.

At last she had come up with what she was looking for. She took Alexi’s photo, a bright light in his face as he sat on a metal bench. She told him not to smile.

Now she was putting the finishing touches on the card, trimming the plastic lamination.

Maria handed the card to Alexi, who examined it carefully and handed Maria an additional two hundred dollars, which she stuffed into the pocket of her pants. She had to lift several layers of sweater to reach the pocket.

She had no idea what the punishment would be if she were ever caught, particularly if she were caught making a card like this one. Chances were good that with former clients acting as intermediaries she would be able to bribe her way out of conviction and punishment, but you could never tell. She had, however, been unable to resist all that American cash.

Maria was accustomed to dealing with odd, nervous, cold, and ranting men. There was no type she hadn’t seen. Few of her clients were women, but the women tended to be quiet and look determined and guilty.

The man who had just given her seven hundred dollars for less than an hour of work was one of the oddest she’d seen. She had learned her craft working as a preparer of identification cards for railway employees. When her ulcers had caused her to lose too many hours, Maria had been dismissed. It had proved the luckiest thing in her bleak life. The first false identification card had not been her idea but that of a former railway worker with whom she had become friends of a sort. He needed identification for his brother to get a job with a new American business opening a branch in Moscow. Maria had done a more than adequate but makeshift job without the proper equipment, but now she had cash hidden away and a well-equipped garage. She could afford a good private doctor to treat her ulcer, and she had a warm room and enough money to indulge in her passion, chess, which she played at her neighborhood club every day, sometimes for many hours as she and the others sipped hot tea and contemplated their moves.

Maria’s prize possession was a trophy for a tournament victory, a team victory. The tournament had been held in Tbilisi in 1987.

While she had been preparing the identification card for the man with little hair, she had the uneasy feeling that he was insane. She had dealt with people who seemed insane, but this one was different. Fleetingly she thought that he might be considering killing her when he had what he wanted. But seven hundred American dollars had quieted her fear, that and the small pistol in her pocket. When she had taken his money and handed him the card, Maria kept her hand in her pocket, grasping the gun.

But the man had done nothing. He had said nothing. He pocketed the card, shifted the weight of his briefcase, and left the garage.

When she was sure the man was gone, she turned off her machines, closed her bag of identification cards, zipped it, and hurried out, turning off the lights and locking the door behind her. If she hurried, there was a chance she could witness at least part of the game between Ivan Ivanovich Presoka and whoever might have the privilege of playing against him. The ancient Presoka played only in the mornings. He was not well enough to do more. But he was still brilliant. His hands might have a bit of a tremor, but his mind was as keen as when he had been a ten-year-old boy wonder.

Maria didn’t give another thought to the man for whom she had just made a State Security Agency identification.

The pile of neat dark green files was manageable, fifteen in all. It included all the information on each of the women attacked by the serial rapist. It also included several other files that were not connected to the case but, according to the computer, had sufficient similarities to be examined. They sat in Sasha’s cubicle, he on one side of the small desk, she on the other. Each took one pile. They were both tired, but for vastly different reasons. Both had been at the former church where the makeshift Jewish temple now existed. Both, along with Iosef, Zelach, Belinsky, and a few members of his congregation, had, under the direction of Porfiry Petrovich, spent five hours the night before installing a heating system. Rostnikov, who had read a book on the subject, did much of the heavier lifting. The book was badly out-of-date, but so was the system they installed.

It had gone smoothly, and the skill of Iosef and Belinsky with tools borrowed by Rostnikov had been a key to their success. When they were finished, Rostnikov had told them that Belinsky should expect some problems, but they could be remedied. He suggested that the rabbi find some place to store the leftover sheets and scraps of metal and the various screws and joints in case they were needed later.

It was late, and in spite of the heavy labor, they were cold when they were finished. The system was now being turned on. It didn’t look too bad, and Belinsky was already working on ways to cover and decorate the exposed metal tunnel that ran around the room.

Iosef asked Elena if he could take her home so they could talk on the way. She agreed and they were the first to leave. They went to Iosef’s small apartment, which he shared with an actor who was touring with a new play. Elena had called her aunt, who sounded fully awake, and said she had no idea yet when she would be home. There had been something in Elena’s voice that she knew her aunt, the former procurator, would pick up. Then there had been tea. There had been talk. There had been kisses and then the cool sheet of Iosef’s narrow bed.

The fact that he had condoms in the drawer of the little table next to the bed could have meant many things. Elena was a policewoman. She couldn’t help considering (a) there were many young women who had been in this bed, (b) he had been confident that Elena would be there and had prepared, or (c) Iosef was, in general, simply prepared and properly cautious.

She stayed the night, and it was he who talked of marriage as he gently rubbed her nipples in the dim light he had left on when they undressed and went to bed. Elena wasn’t sure. They made love twice. First, when they went to bed. Second, when they awakened early in the morning. Both times were wonderful for Elena, but she couldn’t tell what they meant, though he proposed again.

She wanted time to think about it. They had not known each other long, and they had shared few talks like this. She knew that the first night they met Iosef had told his mother he planned to marry Elena.

She slept little and had no time to change her clothes before meeting Sasha at Petrovka.

Sasha had experienced as little sleep as his partner but for quite a different reason. After they had finished the duct work at the temple, Sasha had lingered, wanting to talk, not wanting to go home, but everyone had left quickly. They were tired. It was late.

When he got home, Maya greeted him with a screaming baby in her arms. He looked around for his mother. She wasn’t there. Pulcharia was probably in the next room asleep, but Maya was desperately trying to soothe the crying baby. Maya looked exhausted. There was darkness under her beautiful eyes, and strands of hair had escaped the brush.

“He has a temperature,” she said. “He is hot.”

Sasha, still in his coat, reached over to the crying baby in his wife’s arms and touched his forehead. Very hot.

“He is coughing,” Maya said. “I couldn’t wake Pulcharia and take him to the doctor. I didn’t know how to reach you, and I couldn’t take your mother corning over, though I would have called her if you hadn’t come soon.”

Beneath the tone of concern for the child there was a hint of the anger he would have to face when the baby had been taken care of, anger at his being off somewhere helping Rostnikov on some church repairs.

Still wearing his coat, Sasha went to the address book on the table near the phone. It was very late, but the baby was very sick. He called. The doctor was home and sounded quite awake.

He was not a pediatrician, but he was Sarah Rostnikov’s cousin Leon. He was the one to whom Porfiry Petrovich’s people turned when they needed medical care, and he had given what he could, protecting them from the horrors of Moscow hospital care.

The conversation was brief. They were to meet at a nearby hospital with which Sarah’s cousin was affiliated. He would be there in half an hour.

One of them had to stay with Pulcharia. One of them had to take the baby. They both knew which one. Maya continued to try to soothe the child as she dressed him warmly while Sasha went back to the street in hope of finding a cab. It took him ten minutes, and he had to show his badge through the closed window when a cab finally stopped.

The cab driver rolled down the window, and Sasha explained his situation. The cab driver was a Lithuanian who had come to Moscow as an engineer and stayed as a cab driver. The pay was better if one included the tips, particularly from foreigners in search of food, drink, gambling, and companionship. Even after the payoff to the mafia that protected him, Max made a far better living than he had as an engineer. There were too many people now claiming to be engineers and no one to hire them. Max had been on his way to the Hotel Russia when Sasha stopped him. Taking the woman and child to the hospital and waiting for them would cost him.

It would also cost Sasha far more than he could afford, but he didn’t consider that. He got in the cab and guided it to his building, where he told Max to wait for Maya and the baby.

Maya was packed and ready. The baby was still crying and coughing.

“The cab is downstairs,” he said. “He’ll wait for you at the hospital. Please call me if anything …”

He hurried to the bedroom, made his way in darkness to the dresser, pulled out the cash they had been saving, and brought it to Maya, who handed him the baby while she tucked away the money. He kissed the baby and his wife. She turned her cheek to him and left.

He sat for ten minutes before taking off his coat and hanging it up and then he sat again. There would be nothing on television at this hour. He had a newspaper but he had read it during the day. He couldn’t concentrate on a book. There was some cold coffee left. He heated it and drank a cup while he sat at the wooden table worrying, weary and feeling more than just a bit sorry for himself.

Maya did not call. She simply showed up back at the apartment three hours later, baby asleep in her embrace. Sasha had fallen into a restless sleep at the table with his head on his arms.

He looked up for answers, waiting for her to gently put the baby in bed.

“A virus,” she said. “Not diphtheria.”

There was a vast outbreak of diphtheria in Russia, and not only diphtheria. In Moscow alone more than a dozen people had died the year before of dysentery, an illness that could be easily cured. Measles was becoming a common occurrence.

“I have medicine. They gave him an injection. We’ll keep him cool. Give him medicine. The doctor will call in the morning. If he is worse, we’ll have to take him to a private hospital.”

There was no way they could afford a private hospital.

Sasha moved to take Maya in his arms. She didn’t stop him but neither did she respond. He expected her to cry but she was silent.

“I waited for you,” she said evenly. “Hours.”

“I told you,” he whispered, “kissing the top of her head. “Porfiry Petrovich asked for volunteers to put a heating system into a church.”

Sasha didn’t add that it was a Jewish “church.” He might tell her that later.

“Telephone,” she said. “You should have called. You should check on your family. I should know exactly where you are. You were needed. You didn’t want to come home.”

Since she was absolutely right, Sasha protested vigorously and sincerely. He apologized, explained, took the blame and responsibility, and promised this had been a lesson to him.

“Your mother called,” Maya went on. “I told her everything was fine. I couldn’t handle her and the children.”

“I understand,” said Sasha sincerely.

They opened the bed in the living room, leaving a small light on as they lay down and listened to the baby’s labored breathing.

They had two hours of semirest. Pulcharia roused them early asking for breakfast. Wearily they got up. The baby still slept. Maya felt his forehead.

“Cooler,” she said, “much cooler.”

Sasha smiled and Maya smiled back.

Maya had an appointment with Sarah Rostnikov’s cousin Leon for later that morning. Her plan was to take both the baby and Pulcharia with her. Maya called her office as soon as it was open and explained the situation. The secretary said that she understood and that Maya should, if possible, call back to let her know how the baby was doing. Unfortunately the new boss was not as understanding. He was a widower in his sixties who had never had any children. But he did have a roving eye and hands. More than once he had made overtures to Maya: a touch, coming too close behind her, a whispered comment whose intent was clear. Maya had managed to avoid all of this. Sasha knew nothing about it. Now her boss would have a small weapon to use against her. Maya decided to worry about that later. In the United States, she knew, there were laws about sexual harassment at work, but there was nothing like that in Russia. It was considered part of the business world and had been for centuries. Now there were even embarrassing shows in which young women seeking office jobs would get made up, put on revealing dresses, and perform onstage, singing songs, smiling, parading for men who might hire them as receptionists or even as computer technicians.

Now Sasha blinked and sipped his coffee to stay awake while he and Elena sat before the files, reluctant to begin.

Elena had gone through two files and Sasha one when Pankov called to inform them that there appeared to have been another attack the night before in District 37. He gave Elena, who had answered the phone, the number of the woman who had been attacked. He also made it clear that he had informed Inspector Rostnikov. Director Yakovlev, according to Pankov, was concerned that the story was about to get out to the media in general.

“And,” said Pankov nervously, “he would appreciate your putting in as much time and effort as necessary to bring this case to a satisfactory conclusion as quickly as possible.”

Pankov gave Elena the name and telephone number of the latest victim, Magda Stern. The name touched something in Elena’s memory.

“Magda Stern,” Pankov said, “is a reporter for Moscow Television News.”

Pankov hung up. Elena relayed the information to Sasha, who wearily reached for the next file with one hand and his cup of terrible, tepid coffee with the other.

“You or me?” he asked.

She understood and dialed the number Pankov had given her for Magda Stern. There was no answer. Elena hung up and found Moscow Television News in the phone directory. She made the call, identified herself, and asked for Magda Stern. She was put through almost immediately.

“I’m calling about the incident last night,” said Elena carefully while Sasha paused to listen. Elena identified herself as an inspector in the Office of Special Investigation.

“The attempted rape,” Magda Stern said.

“Yes,” said Elena. “We know you reported the incident and were interviewed by the police last night. We will have the report in the next few minutes. We take this very seriously and would like to talk to you. We would like to meet you at the station today.”

“No,” said Magda Stern firmly. “I will come to you. I would prefer, if at all possible, that people here know nothing about the incident.”

Elena immediately agreed, and the reporter said she would be on her way to Petrovka within half an hour.

Elena called both the guard station and the uniformed officer at the check-in desk in the lobby to ask that they admit Magda Stern and let her or Sasha know when she arrived.

And then back to the stacks.

When they were finished with their first run-through-they planned to switch files with each other and go through them again-the phone rang and Magda Stern’s arrival was announced. Elena asked if one of the National Police meeting rooms was available. The man in the lobby said he didn’t know; the room log was somewhere upstairs at the moment. So they would conduct the interview in their cubbyhole office. Fortunately Karpo, Iosef, and Zelach were all out, ensuring some degree of privacy.

The two inspectors gathered the green file folders and put them neatly into the empty bottom drawer of Sasha’s desk. Then they went downstairs. The lobby was crowded this morning. People, about two-thirds of them in uniform, moved about in clusters, talking softly as they passed the trio of watchful armed officers.

Magda Stern was easy to spot. She was taller than most of the men. And she was striking. Were she a bit younger, Elena thought, she might have a career as a model somewhere in Western Europe or even the United States. But there was a determined look on the woman’s face that told Elena she was probably not model material. It wasn’t just what had happened to her last night. The look was something Elena was sure had been with the woman for some time. She herself had a bit of it, and her aunt, before her illness, had had it, too.

The two detectives greeted the woman, who was wearing a green suit under her tan leather coat. Her hair was short, dark, nothing out of place. And she wore tinted glasses. She shook the detectives’ hands firmly and followed them up the stairs.

“The elevators are not particularly trustworthy,” Sasha explained.

Magda Stern did not respond. Elena noticed that the woman was wearing stylish red boots, probably from the Czech Republic or the West.

When they entered Sasha’s cubicle, he offered the woman coffee or tea. She refused with a gesture. They sat on the three chairs in the tiny space. Sasha moved his chair around to sit next to Elena and avoid the impression that he was in charge. In some situations the image of command might be valuable. In this case, without a word, Elena and Sasha knew that Elena should lead the way.

The woman did not take off her coat.

“You wouldn’t be talking to me and I wouldn’t be here if I were an individual case,” Magda Stern said. “We’re talking about a man who has attacked other women.”

“Yes,” said Elena. She could now see that heavy makeup covered most of the bruises on the woman’s face, and the tinted glasses probably covered more. Only a red bump on her forehead refused to be hidden. “You’ve been seen by a doctor?”

“Do you have the report on my attack?” she replied.

“Not yet,” said Sasha.

“It indicates my injuries, but it does not contain the essential information,” Magda Stern said, sitting with her back straight, her long legs planted firmly on the floor.

“Essential information?” asked Elena.

“My injuries,” the woman said, “are accurately documented in the report. Concussion, bruises, one rib cracked. It is tightly taped. I have been feeling a mild to intense dizziness since the attack and will see a physician in whom I have some trust later today.”

Sasha was amazed, but he hid his amazement. The woman looked fine except for the bruise.

“I do not intend to give my attacker, should he see me, the satisfaction of knowing the extent of my injuries. I do not intend to have any of my coworkers find out what happened. Both of these considerations, however, I will forgo if it helps to catch the bastard.”

She had used the English word. The Russian language has a wide variety of insults, many of them quite colorful, but the recent style was to pick up insults from the French and Americans. It suggested that the person being insulted did not deserve the Russian language.

“You withheld essential information in your report to the police last night?” said Elena.

“Yes,” Magda answered, her voice even.

“Why?” asked Elena.

“Because the person who attacked me was a policeman,” she said. “And I did not trust the two uniformed men who questioned me at the hospital emergency room. Neither was the one who attacked me, but the report might be seen by him, and the danger to me would be very great.”

“But you’ll tell us?” asked Elena.

“Someone must be told and you are not part of the regular National Police or the district police. I am well aware of the reputation and success of your office. Your director, Colonel Snitkonoy …”

“He’s a general now,” said Sasha. “And he is in charge of security at the Hermitage in Saint Petersburg.”

Elena gave Sasha a look of gentle reproof. Had he not been so weary, he would never have said what he had, but it was too late, and perhaps it would give the newswoman some confidence in their openness.

“And who has replaced him?” Magda asked.

“You’ll have to call the office directly for that information,” said Elena.

Magda nodded.

Sasha wanted to hurry the woman. He was tired. He was on the verge of his old irritability. He knew his usual charm would be of no use on Magda Stern.

“The man who attacked you was a police officer?” asked Elena to return to the subject.

“I recognized the uniform, the shoes,” Magda Stern said. “And once, as he hit me, I rolled into the doorway onto a small bank of snow and got a glance at his face. I’m confident he was unaware that I saw him. I think if he knew, he would have killed me. I covered up as best I could and refused to be intimidated. He tried to rape me but I tightened up. You understand?”

Elena nodded. She understood.

“He grew angry and hit me some more, but he never fully penetrated,” Magda said. “He was frightened away by a car coming down the street. I kept my face down, but I turned just enough to see him get into a police car and drive away.”

Elena and Sasha looked at each other.

“Anything else?”

“He dropped his condom. I pointed it out to the police when they came. I called from my apartment. A car came quickly and took me to the hospital.”

“You can describe your attacker?” asked Elena.

“I can describe him. I would definitely recognize him.”

The next step was clear. There was no need for the two detectives to even discuss it. They would bring their information to Rostnikov and ask him to arrange a gathering of every uniformed officer in the Trotsky Station district, which covered the area where Magda lived. If that failed to yield the attacker, they would go through every one of the more than one hundred districts and every officer assigned to Petrovka itself.

They explained their plan to Magda Stern, who immediately agreed. She asked only that the two officers be efficient and take as little of her time as possible. However, whatever time it took, she would devote to catching the man who had attacked her.

They would also try to convince Ludmilla Henshakayova, the old woman who had fought off the would-be rapist almost a decade ago. There was a chance that if Magda identified him, the old woman might confirm the identification, even though it had been many years since the night she had seen him.

The call came within half an hour not from Rostnikov but from Director Yakovlev. Rostnikov had suggested that it come from the highest authority. As little as Yakovlev liked doing things that might someday have political repercussions, he agreed with Rostnikov and made the call to District 37, Trotsky Station.

Lieutenant Valentin Spaskov, with whom Elena and Sasha had met the day before, took the call from Director Yakovlev and assured him he would see to it that all uniformed officers under his command would be present at noon. He would pass this on to Major Lenonov, his immediate superior and the head of the district station. Off-duty officers would be called in.

Igor Yakovlev thanked the lieutenant and hung up.

The director of the Office of Special Investigation had not told Spaskov the reason for the gathering, but there was only one conclusion Spaskov could draw. The woman he had attacked the night before had seen him and was willing to identify him. Lieutenant Valentin Spaskov was determined that such an identification would not be made. He would set up the meeting, but he would not be present, nor would the major. Valentin, second in command of the station, a twenty-year veteran, would be occupied at the Ministry of the Interior. He and the major were certainly above suspicion.

When he hung up the phone, Spaskov ordered his hands not to shake, ordered his brow and the pits of his arms not to sweat. They refused to obey, so he sat in his small office waiting for the tremor to stop as he thought.

He could be identified. It was possible the two young inspectors could even find sufficient evidence, by going back through the files, that someone had altered the information on each attack and that the alteration had begun at Trotsky Station. He had been careful, but he and the major, along with the three officers who did most of the paperwork, would be the most likely suspects.

Valentin knew that if he escaped identification this time he should stop the attacks. Eventually he would make another mistake. He would have to stop. He thought of his wife and of his daughter, and he told himself again that he had to stop.

But a wordless voice that communicated to him with only impulses and vague feelings told Valentin that he could not stop, that if they did not catch him this time he would wait a week, possibly a month, and then the compulsion would once again be too great. It would swell within him, driving him half mad, though only his victims would know that. He would have to attack again and again. The only difference was that now he knew that he would have to kill any future victims, and he would have to find and kill the woman he had attacked the night before so that she could not identify him.

Getting her identity from the two inspectors, Tkach and Timofeyeva, would not be difficult, and finding her would not be difficult. There would be no point in trying to make it look like an accident. It would come too close after her visit to the police with the information that she could identify him.

He would have to protect himself and his family.

Valentin had killed before. Not any of his rape victims-he had not wanted them to die. He had not even wanted them to suffer, but the need had been there so long and it had grown within him.

He had killed at least two members of a local gang of teens and young men in their twenties. It had happened during a raid. The gang had been responsible for extortion and murder. The major had sent an armed squad in bulletproof vests with automatic weapons to bring the gang in for questioning. He had also made it clear to Valentin in private that he was certain the gang would resist arrest. Valentin had understood and he had conveyed to his squad of six that resistance was to be expected and that if he began firing, they should do the same.

In fact, when the squad had gone through the door, one of the gang, a scrawny mad-looking kid with an orange mohawk, had reached for a gun in his pocket. Nine members of the gang had died in the spray of bullets that followed. The youngest was fourteen. The oldest was twenty-three, the leader. Four of the gang had not been in the room, but afterward, when they heard what had happened, they disappeared, knowing that the police had marked them for death.

The only other time he had killed had been when he was on patrol a dozen years earlier. He and his partner spotted a man being beaten. They had stopped their car, pulled their weapons, and ordered the man doing the beating to stop. He paid no attention. The victim was old. The man doing the beating was no more than forty and huge.

The policemen repeated their order for him to stop. He continued the beating and both officers were sure that he would soon kill the old man. Valentin had hit the big brute in the head with his pistol. The man turned in pain and anger and hit Valentin with his fist. Valentin had gone down shooting. He fired all the bullets in his gun, and the huge man fell dead against his whimpering victim, who turned out to be his father.

Valentin still carried a scar on his upper lip from the dead man’s blow. It was shortly after this that he had made his first attack. The victim was an old woman who had seen his face and would certainly remember his scar. He had grown a mustache to cover the scar and managed to resist attacking another woman for almost four years. When he did resume, he made sure that his victims didn’t see him.

Now killing would be necessary, and it would start with the woman last night, the woman whose name, he would soon learn, was Magda Stern. Before he even arranged the gathering of his officers, he knew where she worked and where she lived.

He called in Sergeant Koffeyanovich and told him that there would be some people coming and that all officers should be gathered in the meeting room. They should come whether or not they were ill or off duty. Those who did not show up, if any, should have their names and addresses turned over to the inspectors who would be arriving soon. Meanwhile the sergeant should give the lieutenant’s apology that he and the major were not available to help them, since both he and Major Lenonov were at an important meeting at the Ministry of the Interior.

The sergeant, a veteran near retirement, simply said da and left the office. Spaskov called a friend in the Ministry of the Interior and requested a few minutes of his time for some advice. The flattered friend immediately agreed. Spaskov had more than enough cases in the district about which he could ask advice.

As he put on his coat to leave, Spaskov debated how and where he would kill the woman. He decided it would be with a knife on the street as quickly and quietly as possible. He would wear gloves, take her purse, remove her money, and drop the purse in the street no more than a block from the stabbing.

Perhaps it would be taken for coincidence, but probably not.

A number of journalists who had attacked mafias, corrupt officials, and politicians of the right had, over the past year, been threatened, terrorized in their homes. One popular television journalist had even been shot down.

Perhaps the investigating officer, who if Spaskov had his way, would be him, would accept the crime as a chance robbery or a politically motivated assault.

At this point, Spaskov had no choice.

The couple, probably in their late fifties, sat straight-backed next to each other as if they were about to have their photograph taken. The man was tall, lean, and clean-shaven, with dark thick gray-flecked hair. He wore a spotless pair of dark trousers, a blue shirt, and a dark pullover sweater. The woman at his side had hair cut short and growing gray much faster than that of her husband. She was less thin than he and bore an air of confident superiority.

Rostnikov and Zelach sat across from them drinking tea. The apartment looked like something preserved from a previous century, from the well-polished old furniture and sparkling tea service to the chairs that would have seemed at home in an aristocrat’s parlor. Iosef had seen such things in history books that illustrated the decadence of a previous age. And the walls. On one wall was a framed double-eagle-head flag from the czarist era. Next to it was a portrait of a man in uniform, his dark hair parted in the middle, his mustache finely groomed. A white sash ran across the man’s chest and he wore three medals. His look was one of determination, not unlike that of the man who sat before the two detectives.

Zelach did his best not to be intimidated by this proud couple who looked at him with critical eyes. He almost managed to give the appearance of confidence.

Rostnikov, on the other hand, noted the frayed quality of the man’s trousers, the patched corners of the pillows on the sofa, and the very slightly odd angle of the tea table leg that looked as if it had been repaired one time too many, and said, “Remarkable.” He moved awkwardly, his new leg only partially cooperative. “Who is the man in the painting?”

They were in the apartment of Anya and Ivan Mesanovich. It was their son who had been shot with the three Jews on the embankment.

“That,” said Ivan with pride, “is my great-great-grandfather, Pavel Pestel.”

“Captain Pavel Pestel,” his wife corrected. “A cavalry officer who also served, for a brief time, as a member of the czarina’s guard.”

“Your name is not Pestel,” Rostnikov said conversationally, turning from the portrait to look at the couple.

“There was an incident,” the man said. “My grandfather was impelled by circumstances to change his name and move to Moscow.”

Rostnikov said nothing more on the topic. He turned to the subject of his visit, the couple’s dead son. As he did so, he noted that Zelach had finished his tea and was awkwardly balancing the empty cup and saucer on his broad knee.

“When did your son tell you he was interested in becoming a Jew?” asked Rostnikov, knowing the question would be likely to elicit some emotional reaction.

“He was not interested in becoming a Jew,” said the woman firmly. “Through two generations, in spite of the Communist doctrine of atheism, my husband’s family and my own have never deserted our religion nor our belief in and hope for the return of the monarchy. We want a country ruled by those bred to rule rather than louts who claim to be working for the people but are actually mad with their own power.”

“We are not fools, Inspector,” the man said. “My father was a precision machinist and a member of the Communist Party. I was a machinist and a Party member. My son was the best machinist of us all, but our dreams fascinated him.”

“Hypnotized him,” Anya corrected.

“The past,” said Rostnikov.

“Our heritage,” said Ivan. “We have our heritage. For my wife and me it is a symbol of our …”

“Superiority?” said Rostnikov.

“Yes,” said the man, meeting Rostnikov’s eyes.

“So you don’t know why he spent so much time with the Jews, even went to services?”

“No,” said Ivan.

Anya nodded in agreement.

“Since I never had the opportunity to meet your son,” said Rostnikov, “you must tell me: Is it at all possible that he would join the Jews to gain information about them for some organization to which he belonged?”

“Igor belonged to no organization,” said the woman. “He had a few friends, recent friends, but he didn’t believe in organizations.”

“Did he talk about the Jews?” Rostnikov asked, finishing his tea and handing the cup and saucer to the woman. He nodded at Zelach to do the same.

“We didn’t know what he was doing,” said the man.

“He did say once,” the woman recalled, “that he thought the Jews, who had been supposedly chosen by their God, had the longest history of suffering of any people on earth. The comment came, as I recall, when my husband commented on a news report about Israel. I argued with some vigor that the Russian people had suffered as much as the Jews.”

“You had this conversation recently?” asked Rostnikov.

“A few days before he was murdered,” said Ivan, head up. “We want the murderer caught. If the state does not execute him when he is caught, I will execute him. If the state does not find him, I will find him.”

Rostnikov believed him, at least believed that the proud man would try to see that a life was taken for the life of his son.

“Igor was our only child,” the woman said, touching her husband’s arm lightly.

“Can you tell us about his friends? Names? Addresses?” asked Rostnikov, notebook out. “Perhaps they can help.”

The woman gave them two names, Yevgeny Tutsolov and Leonid Sharvotz. She didn’t know where they lived, but she had the impression that they lived together. She also remembered that Igor had said that his friends’ families, had originally come from Saint Petersburg, as had theirs.

“We never saw his friends,” said the man. “My wife and I suggested that he invite them here. He never brought them. I’m surprised my wife remembered their names. I am not good with names and numbers. But I remember faces.”

He looked up at the portrait of his great-great grandfather and then back at Porfiry Petrovich.

“May we see his room?” asked Rostnikov.

It was a polite question to grieving parents. In fact, Rostnikov needed no authority other than his own to search the house.

“Yes,” said Ivan Mesanovich, pointing to a door over his right shoulder.

“Please,” said the woman. “Do not change anything. We want to keep it as it is for a while.”

Rostnikov nodded. He had the sense that it would be a long time before the woman would bring herself to change the room. This was a family that worshiped the shrine of a lost aristocracy. They would worship both the memory and the room of their dead son, keep it neat, clean, a memorial. He had seen such things before.

Zelach followed Porfiry Petrovich, who limped into the dead man’s room. It was small. It was neat. There was a chest of drawers, a small closet, and a neatly made-up bed with two pillows. The pillowcases were completely unwrinkled. Above the head of the bed hung a framed photograph. Rostnikov recognized the building in the photograph. Zelach thought it familiar.

“The Hermitage,” Anya Mesanovich said from the doorway.

“Has it been up long?” asked Rostnikov.

“Less than a year,” she said. “Before that there was a large poster of a woman in a bathing suit. He said her name was Demi Moore. She was an American actress. He knew we didn’t like it, but we never tried to get him to take it down. And then, one day, it was gone and the Hermitage was there.”

Her last words were said with pride. “We will be gentle, and quick,” said Rostnikov. “You may certainly watch.”

She did, from the doorway. Zelach was uncomfortable but he did his job, going through the chest of drawers while Rostnikov took the closet so that he would probably not have to bend down. There wasn’t much in the closet. The dead man had few clothes. What he had was clean and relatively unfrayed, but there was little. Zelach found the same in the drawers. In the bottom drawer he found a book. He showed it to Rostnikov, who took it. It was thin but in good shape, quite old, and in French. The title, as far as Rostnikov could tell, was Lost Treasures of the Czars.

“May we borrow this?” asked Rostnikov, knowing, once again, that he really didn’t need their permission.

“You’ll bring it back?” asked the woman.

“In two or three days,” said Rostnikov. “I give you my word.”

“And what is your word worth?” asked Ivan, suddenly appearing in the doorway, showing a tinge of anger at the violation of his only son’s room.

“In my work,” said Rostnikov, handing the book to Zelach, “it is all I have.”

When they got back to Petrovka, Rostnikov settled behind his desk, Zelach across from him. Rostnikov was turning the pages of the book, looking at the pictures, understanding only a drop of the text.

“Well?” Rostnikov asked.

Zelach didn’t know what to say.

“What did you think?” Rostnikov prompted.

“I don’t know,” said Zelach.

“What do you think we should do now?” Rostnikov persisted, still thumbing pages.

“Interrogate the dead man’s friends?” said Zelach.

“Precisely,” said Rostnikov. “What did we see at the Mesanovich apartment?”

“Old things,” said Zelach, knowing there was something Rostnikov hoped he had observed, but not sure of what it was. “An old banner, an old portrait, old furniture, that book, the photograph over the bed.”

“Excellent,” said Rostnikov, reaching for the phone.

It took him only ten minutes to get through to Saint Petersburg, another five minutes to locate the security office, and another seven minutes before General Snitkonoy came on the line, his voice as deep and confident as ever.

“Inspector Rostnikov,” he said.

“General,” answered Rostnikov. “May I congratulate you on both your promotion and the responsibility the state has given you.”

“Thank you,” said the Gray Wolfhound. “You have a purpose other than social in calling?”

“If you would be so good as to help me with a case,” said Rostnikov, watching Zelach’s puzzled face and shifting his false leg by dragging it across the floor under his desk.

“Of course,” said the general.

“Pavel Pestel,” said Rostnikov. He spelled out the name. “Supposedly a member of the czarina’s guard, an army officer, probably in the 1850s or 1860s. Whatever can be discovered.”

“I will have a good man on it right away,” said Snitkonoy. “What has he to do with the Hermitage?”

“I don’t know,” said Rostnikov. “Maybe nothing.”

“I shall have someone call you back,” said the general.

“Thank you, General,” said Rostnikov, hanging up.

Although Zelach said nothing, the look on his face said “I don’t understand.”

“See if you can find Tkach,” suggested Rostnikov, returning to his book. “He reads French.”

Zelach got up.

“After General Snitkonoy’s people call back with the information, we will visit the two friends of the dead man as you suggested,” said Rostnikov.

Zelach’s look of confusion turned to one of slight satisfaction as he left the room.

Tkach and Elena Timofeyeva had just returned from Trotsky Station, where Magda Stern had been unable to identify any officer as the one who attacked her the night before. None even looked like a possibility. The men, about half in uniform and half in civilian clothes because they were supposedly off duty, filed out disgruntled, tired, and puzzled.

They would move on to another station or two the next day. Elena was setting it up. They would start with those nearest the District 37 and work their way out. On the way back to the station, Elena had come up with a plan. It had been a good one, but one that would keep Sasha away from home for a number of nights. He had told her his plight, and she had suggested that they go to Porfiry Petrovich.

So, when he entered Rostnikov’s office, the senior inspector looked up and said, “No luck.”

“No,” said Tkach, who then told Rostnikov the plan.

“Sounds good,” said Rostnikov.

“The baby is sick,” said Tkach. “I have to be home. Maya is already … upset.”

Rostnikov nodded in understanding and said he would assign someone else to work with Elena at night. And then he handed the book to Sasha.

“Read it, please,” said Rostnikov.

“Now?” asked Sasha.

“Sit. Read. Summarize for me as you go along. The book is not long.”

Sasha had just started reading when the phone rang. Rostnikov picked it up.

“Inspector Rostnikov?”

“Yes.”

“This is Leo Horv, State Security. I would like a few minutes of your time this afternoon. It is a matter of importance. I believe we have some information on the bomber.”

“So I was informed by Inspector Timofeyeva. Would two o’clock be acceptable?” asked Rostnikov.

“Two o’clock,” the man said, and hung up.

Rostnikov looked at the phone and then began drawing on his pad, a cage with a faceless man inside, while Sasha went on reading and summarizing.

Sasha had almost finished the book when the phone rang. Sasha placed the open book on his lap and rubbed his forehead wearily. The call was from a civilian who identified himself as one of the historians of the Hermitage.

Rostnikov took notes as the man spoke, and made no sound as the man gave him far more information than he probably needed. The conversation, almost completely one-sided, lasted a little more than twenty minutes. When it was over, Rostnikov looked up from his notes at Sasha, who seemed to have fallen asleep.

“Sasha,” he said.

Tkach was immediately awake, brushing the hair from his eyes and ready to continue his reading.

“Go back to what you were reading about the gold wolf,” Rostnikov said, looking at his notes. “Translate every word. Then go home and get some sleep, be with your family.”

Sasha did not argue. He found the section Rostnikov wanted and translated it word for word as best he could.

The afternoon before, when Rostnikov had brought the girls back home from visiting their grandmother, Sarah Rostnikov listened to them as they sat around the table. The girls were more animated than Sarah had ever seen them. They spoke of their visit. They told of how Inspector Rostnikov had promised to see what he could do about getting their grandmother out of prison. They both emphasized that he made no promises, but that he said he would try.

Sarah smiled. The girls ignored the tea she had placed before each of them, though they had finished the cookie they had each been given.

The pain had come back, perhaps ten minutes earlier. Sarah showed no outward signs but continued to smile and listen. The pains had grown more frequent. They had started recently, months after her cousin Leon was reasonably certain that the delicate surgery had been successful. But then, about two weeks ago, the head pains had come. Not really headaches but pains. At first they lasted only a few seconds, but now they were getting longer. At first she told herself they had nothing to do with the surgery she had undergone, that this was something entirely different. But the last three times the head pain had come there had been slight tremors in both her hands. She hid her hands in her pockets or, as she did now, under the table.

The girls talked.

Suddenly the pain stopped and perhaps a second later the tremors stopped, too. It had felt as if someone had stuck an electric probe into her head with no warning and then, suddenly, pulled it out.

She would have to do something about it. She knew she would. She had promised herself the day before that the next time it happened, she would call Leon. If it was serious, she would think of a way to tell Porfiry Petrovich, and she would ask him to do whatever he could to free the girls’ grandmother. It wasn’t that Sarah had not grown to love them. She had. But Sarah Rostnikov had the distinct fear that a time might come when she would be unable to take care of them.

Sarah did not usually procrastinate. She kept her promises to others and to herself. It was one of the many traits of his wife that Rostnikov admired. Since he had met her, when she was just a young girl, she had been resolute. Although she could easily have hidden the fact that she was Jewish, she would quickly proclaim her heritage whenever the word Jew came up in conversation. She tolerated no injustice at work, though a bit of such tolerance would have saved her job on two occasions. In both cases, the injustice had not been to her but to coworkers. Sarah’s sympathy for the girls’ grandmother was very strong.

She decided not to wait. When the girls had left for school this morning, at least an hour after Rostnikov had left, she reached for the phone, first to call her job to say she was ill, and second to call Leon.

It was difficult in both cases to keep her voice steady. It was even more difficult to keep the phone from falling from her trembling hands.