The Man Who Walked Like a Bear

TEN

Emil Karpo sat on the hard wooden chair in the darkened bedroom, considering what he would do if he resigned his position. He could think of nothing. He had spent his life till now serving the State. He existed to serve the State. He had no interests but the service of the State. His task was to locate those responsible for crimes and turn the criminals in for trial. Criminals were parasites draining the energy of communism. Emil Karpo was, at that moment, in need of a metaphor, but none came to mind. In fact, the “parasite” image was not his own but Karl Marx’s. Karpo did not imagine a crawling or flying or slithering creature attacking a determined and noble bear named Russia. Emil Karpo had no imagination. He considered this his principal strength.

The person on the bed in front of Karpo stirred but did not awaken. Karpo watched unblinking, unmoving. Karpo had to be on a street corner more than two miles away in less than twenty minutes. If the figure in the bed did not awaken soon, Karpo would have to awaken him.

Because he had no imagination or had used it so little, Emil Karpo could not put words to his present feelings, though he knew his dilemma. His responsibility was to catch Yuri Vostoyavek and the girl in the act of conspiring to kill Andrei Morchov or to stop them as they were about to perform the act. Never before had Karpo’s duty been so clear. Morchov was a key member of the Politburo.

Karpo did not want to admit to himself that he had disliked Morchov. That was not relevant. Should not be. Karpo did not want to admit that he could see the anguish, desperation on the faces of the girl and Yuri Vostoyavek. But Karpo was not easy on himself. He acknowledged these realizations and considered them threats to his effectiveness.

The penalty for conspiring to assassinate a member of the government was death.

“Huh,” the figure in the bed grunted in the darkness, perhaps sensing another person in the room. He sat up, eyes blinking.

“Mother? What are you …?” and then Yuri Vostoyavek knew that the outlined, straight-backed figure in the chair next to his bed was not his mother. It didn’t even seem to be human.

“Who are …” Yuri began and then whirled and reached for a weapon, any weapon. His hand closed on the metal alarm clock on the table next to his bed. He jumped out of bed naked and breathing heavily as Karpo rose and caught the descending hand holding the clock. Yuri tried to punch at the skeleton face before him with his free hand, but that, too, was stopped by Karpo.

The boy did not scream. He was afraid. Karpo could feel that, had felt it many times before. Karpo could smell his fear, and the boy could smell a dry cleanliness on the night figure, a smell he immediately equated with death.

“He found out. He sent you,” Yuri said, trying to control his breathing. “You’re the one I saw this morning.”

Karpo held the boy’s hands so that he could not move. Their bodies were together. When Yuri had awakened and leaped from the bed, Karpo saw that he had an erection. The erection was gone now, but the boy was not limp.

“Then kill me,” he whispered and dropped the clock.

The clock clattered to the floor, and a voice called from the next room. The voice of Elena Vostoyavek, Yuri’s mother.

“Yuri, what … are you all right?”

Yuri’s face was inches from Karpo, and his eyes were now sufficiently adjusted to the minimal light to see the unblinking, gaunt face before him.

“I’m fine,” Yuri called. “I knocked over the clock.”

“Yes,” his mother called and went back to sleep.

“Then do it,” he whispered to Karpo. “Do it and be sure it looks like murder. I don’t want my mother and Jalna to think I was a coward.”

“I’m not going to murder you,” Karpo said. “I’m going to warn you. One warning. What you plan to do is known. Stop and it is the end. Stop, Yuri Vostoyavek, or it will be your end and that of the girl. You understand?”

Yuri looked at the emotionless face inches in front of him, tried to see the eyes in dark shadow, tried to understand what was happening and thought only that he had to get to the toilet, had to get there very quickly.

“I understand,” Yuri said. Karpo let him free and stood back.

“I was not here,” Karpo said, stepping back into the dark corner of the small room, where there was a door that led to the hallway in front of the apartment. Karpo did not think about the name of the girl that Yuri had uttered. He did not have to think. He knew from the file he had carefully studied that Morchov’s daughter was named Jalna. He knew that in the morning he would check to be sure that the girl who wanted Morchov dead was his own daughter. And he knew what he would find.

“I was not here,” Karpo repeated softly.

Yuri nodded, not knowing if the dark figure was still there when he did so, not hearing a sound. And then Yuri headed for the toilet.

Emil Karpo was not late. It was eleven twenty-one when he arrived in front of the Tass building just off of Koltso Boulevard. Rostnikov was sitting on a bench reading a book by the light of a streetlamp. Sasha had not yet come. The hour was late, the area deserted but for a pair of late-night lovers who crossed the street, moving toward the Church of the Ascension to avoid the strange pair of men who seemed to be waiting for a bus long after the buses had stopped running for the night.

Rostnikov put his book away, nodded at Karpo, and invited him to sit next to him on the bench. Karpo hesitated and then sat.

“I have a car,” Rostnikov said. “Around the corner. It must be back before dawn. What do you have, Emil Karpo?”

“What do I have? Nothing,” said Karpo.

“You look like you have something, the memory of a nightmare or a bad conscience,” said Rostnikov, shifting his weight. “Would you rather not join us tonight?”

“You believe you may need my assistance?”

“Yes.”

“I will join you. If you sense a restiveness in me, it is not about what we will do tonight.”

“The Morchov business,” said Rostnikov with a sigh.

Karpo said nothing.

“Would you like me to take it over?”

“It is my responsibility,” said Karpo firmly.

“Your responsibility is to see that, if possible, no one gets hurt,” said Rostnikov. “The courts are crowded with cases. People sit in their homes, in cells waiting for a hearing on whether they stole a neighbor’s potato pie or failed to meet a quota in their small factory. Our duty is often done best if we bring a case to conclusion without the need of a court.”

Somewhere behind them came the sound of footsteps. They were soft, faint, and almost certain to be unheard by anyone not listening for them, anyone but a policeman. Both Karpo and Rostnikov heard the steps coming in their direction.

“A trial is the right of every citizen,” Karpo said with less man his usual full conviction on such issues.

“It is a right that many citizens would gladly forgo if they could be given other options,” said Rostnikov.

At this point Sasha came around the corner, breathing heavily.

“I’m late,” he said.

“It gave me an opportunity to discuss the philosophy of the legal system with Emil,” said Rostnikov, standing up.

“I was trying to find a woman in the Arbat who may be a lead to the missing bus and … that can wait,” Sasha said. “I had to call Maya. I haven’t been home.”

“You want to go home?” Rostnikov said, reaching down to massage his leg. “Emil and I can continue our discussion and handle the situation.”

“You said you might need me,” said Sasha, brushing his hair back. He had not shaved since early this morning, and amber bristles on his cheeks caught the light from the streetlamp and, strangely, made him look even younger man usual.

“We might,” Rostnikov said.

“Then let’s go,” said Sasha.

Moments later they were in the green four-door Moskvich Rostnikov had signed out from Petrovka. On his application for use, he had cited a stakeout to catch a factory thief. The garage clerk was not a dim fellow but he was not secure and would not question the authority of a superior unless the clerk was being watched. Zelach had driven Rostnikov and the car to the street just behind Tass and then had gone home on the Metro, as Rostnikov requested. Zelach had neither asked what was happening nor had appeared to have any curiosity about the matter.

Karpo drove. They had turned the corner and were a block away from where the car had been parked when the dark Chaika, its headlights off, began to follow them.

Boris Trush lay on his cot in the run-down farmhouse beyond nowhere and tried to rid his mind of the repeating refrain of the childhood song, but it would not go away. It was better than the vision of the boy he was sure he had killed in Klin, but it was terrible nonetheless.

“In the field is standing a birch tree,” it repeated over and over and over again. He knew that Tchaikovsky had used the song in some symphony or other. Boris didn’t know or care much for music, but this he remembered.

He should not be thinking of songs. Boris wanted to think about escaping, wanted to think about the murder he had committed. No, no, he did not want to think about that. And, besides, it wasn’t a murder. He didn’t want to be there, in that barn, in this house. He wanted to be home in his bed, wanted to check his trip ticket for the morning, wanted to get up and have a strong cup of coffee and put on his uniform and drive his bus. Boris wanted his routine. He cared nothing for freedom. He wanted the comfort of his routine, not this song of birch trees, not this box of madness.

Beyond the wall and his song Boris could hear Vasily and the Oriental girl Lia grunting, rolling, laughing, bouncing. They murder and then they have sex. They have no routine, Boris thought. He hated them, envied them, wanted them to be quiet, wanted the song in his brain to cease so he could sleep. If the song would go away, if Vasily and the girl would stop their games, Boris could sleep and then he could awaken refreshed, ready to make a plan.

“Not with that. I don’t like that,” the girl’s voice came faintly through the wall. She sounded playful, unafraid.

“You’ll like it,” said Vasily. “Believe me.”

“You’re sure?” she said.

“I’m always sure,” said Vasily.

Boris looked across the room into the darkness, where one of the young men in the group slept or pretended to sleep. He considered getting up, going to the window. He could not get through the door.

Boris had not seen Peotor Kotsis since they returned from the horror at Klin. He had simply said that he would be gone for a while and disappeared. Boris wasn’t sure if he felt better or worse with Kotsis around. As insane as he seemed to be, Vasily was even more mad.

Just before he turned off the lights, the young man watching Boris had moved his own bed to block the door, but there was a window. If he could only think. No, not the window. The wooden floor creaked with each step night or day, and the window had not been opened since they had arrived. Perhaps it couldn’t open? Even if it could, it would make noise. But … the girl beyond the wall laughed. She kills and laughs.

Boris began to sit up. He was shaking, damp with sweat though the night was cool.

“No,” came a voice through the darkness.

“I need to-” Boris said.

“No,” came the voice again.

“But I can’t-” Boris said with a sigh.

The young man guarding him didn’t even bother to answer. Boris lay back to the sound of passion beyond the wall and the birch tree song inside him.

There were four dogs and two guards at the Lentaka Shoe Factory. The dogs roamed the inside of the factory throughout the night, during which they were given no food. In the morning, before the first workers arrived, the dogs were rounded up by the guards, fed, and taken away to a massive kennel to join hundreds of other animals from hundreds of factories, stores, warehouses, concert halls, and museums.

Rostnikov expected the dogs. He also expected the guards. It would have been no problem to incapacitate the animals and the guards, but Rostnikov preferred, if at all possible, to give no indication of their visit. If Lukov, the manager of the factory, was telling the truth, a break-in might well alert those who were involved in the corruption, and once alerted, they might stop Rostnikov before he could act.

The plan was simple. Rostnikov had obtained upon requisition with the signature of Colonel Snitkonoy the car, a collapsible ladder, and a compact and portable battery-operated copying machine, a large, square box he handled with great care. He had also prepared a small box of tools. He had wrapped each tool individually in cloth to keep them from making noise. He had placed all these things gently in the trunk of the car before he had asked Zelach to drive him. In his pocket Rostnikov carried a rough map he had drawn showing the location of Lukov’s office and that of Raya Corspoyva. He had given copies of the map to both Karpo and Tkach to study after they had parked down the street from the Lentaka Shoe Factory.

They had watched the factory for two hours and discovered that the guards had a simple, slovenly routine. Every half hour they would walk out the front door together and go in opposite directions, circling the entire factory and meeting again in front. The circuit took a little over eleven minutes. That would give Rostnikov, Karpo, and Tkach twenty minutes to get into the factory and back to the car.

The moment the guards made their fourth circuit, Karpo had, with lights out, driven quickly down a road to the right of the factory. The fence that surrounded the factory was no problem. It had not been designed as a serious deterrent but as a warning. There wasn’t even barbed wire across the top of the fence, but that did not surprise the policemen. Barbed wire, which was really of little value in keeping out a determined burglar, sent a message that something of value was beyond the fence.

Within seconds of their arrival, Karpo had the ladder out of the trunk and over the fence. The ladder, an ingenious French device that could be set in various patterns, was locked to straddle the fence. Sasha Tkach, carrying the toolbox that Rostnikov had handed him, hurried over the ladder, followed by Karpo, who carried the large metal box with a handle. Rostnikov, for whom the task would be monumental even if he were not carrying a copying machine, albeit a very compact battery-operated one, came last. Rostnikov did not even attempt to use his left leg. He pulled himself up by one powerful arm, using his right leg as a guiding rudder. When they were all within the grounds of the factory, Rostnikov put down the machine and pulled the ladder over, collapsing it into a compact square, which he handed to Karpo.

When they reached the outer wall of the factory, Rostnikov checked his watch. Four of their twenty minutes were gone. Leading the way, Rostnikov came to the window he knew to be Lukov’s. It was, as he expected, locked. With Tkach watching in one direction and Karpo in the other, Rostnikov took his toolbox from Tkach, removed the proper instruments, and began quickly, efficiently to remove the pane of glass from the window. It took him but fifteen seconds. Karpo reached in and opened the latch. Then he slid the window up slowly, cautiously, almost noiselessly, but not noiselessly enough. Inside, beyond the door to Lukov’s office, they could hear the dogs stirring, sensing something but not yet sure of it. Karpo unsnapped the ladder, quickly formed it, and put it through the open window.

Tkach scrambled up the ladder and through the window. Karpo handed him the two boxes and the machine and climbed through after him. Outside, Rostnikov closed the window and immediately began to replace the window-pane, while Karpo, using a small flashlight, moved to the files in the corner and, using a thin, flat piece of metal, opened the lock and began to search for the name Rostnikov had given him.

Beyond Lukov’s office the dogs were now alert. In the dim night-lights of the factory, the policemen could see the animals sniffing the air and could hear their low growls. Almost seven minutes had passed.

Sasha knelt at the door with the large box on the floor next to him. Something moved in the box. Something inside let out a low, angry squeal.

The quick-drying putty he had used was already hardening when Rostnikov began to rub it with dark polish to make it match the other panes.

As he did so, the dogs went wild and headed for Lukov’s office. Sasha opened the door, flipped open the large box, and instantly closed the door as Karpo turned off his flashlight and Rostnikov pulled himself through the window over the ladder. As the badger that Sasha had released scrambled across the factory floor and leaped upon a stack of synthetic leather, Rostnikov pulled the ladder in and closed the window.

Beyond the door the dogs barked. The badger hissed and barked back. One of the dogs in a frenzy crashed into a sewing machine, sending it clattering on the concrete floor. Peeking over the window in Lukov’s door, Rostnikov saw the two guards rush in. One guard was short, old. The other massive, young, and carrying a gun.

Their voices carried through the door but not their words. The old man shouted at the dogs. The young man shouted at the old man and moved past him, seeing the badger on the pile of false leather.

“What is that?” the young man asked the old one.

“A thing,” said the old man.

The badger saw the man with the gun and dug its claws into the material beneath its feet, sending the top sheet of material sliding behind him. The badger lost its grip and came flying onto the back of one of the dogs. The dog screamed and began to run madly around the factory, the badger clinging to him, the other dogs yelping. The massive young guard fired wildly, missing the badger but taking the left ear off of one of the dogs. The dog squealed in pain and turned on the young guard, who backed into a sewing machine.

The old man was confused, uncertain. The young man took aim and shot the attacking dog with the bloody ear as it was running at him.

The badger now leaped from the dog, leaving bloody patches on its back.

“The dog!” the old man clearly shouted. “You didn’t have to shoot him! Shoot that thing!”

“I know, you fool!” screamed the massive young guard, ready to shoot the other dogs if they decided to attack.

The old man moved forward, petting the frightened dogs, comforting the whimpering, wounded animal. He led the frightened and now docile animals toward the door through which he and the massive guard had entered. One of the unwounded dogs turned his head for a final less-than-enthusiastic growl in the direction in which the badger had fled.

“So,” the old man shouted, “go, take your gun and shoot that thing instead of some innocent dog!”

“I will!” the massive man shouted back.

And the old man led the dogs out, closing the door behind him.

Now the young guard was alone, or thought he was alone, with a dangerous unknown animal, an animal that the guard was afraid might be the more intelligent of the two.

The guard moved cautiously forward, heard a sound to his right, and decided to retreat through the door, which he closed firmly behind him.

The moment he was gone, Rostnikov, Karpo and Tkach were up.

If the guards went back to their normal rounds, the policemen had twelve minutes to complete their task. Karpo moved back to the files with his flashlight. Rostnikov opened the door to the office and with Tkach holding the box stepped into the factory. Rostnikov moved instantly to his right toward the office of Raya Corspoyva, and Tkach opened a heavily wrapped cow’s heart that Rostnikov had carried in his toolbox.

Ten minutes later, the badger was safely in the box with his well-earned piece of meat and the three men were climbing out of the window of Lukov’s office.

Rostnikov had just closed the window when they heard the voices of the two guards arguing loudly in front of the building.

There was no way they could get across the open field to the fence, get the ladder up, and be over before the guard turned the corner. ‘ Neither was there time to open the window and get back into the factory.

“Wait,” Rostnikov whispered, motioning them back against the wall.

Karpo held the ladder. Tkach held the box with the badger. Rostnikov handed Karpo the copier and the toolbox and moved to the corner of the building as quickly as he could. He stood back in the shadows as the young guard mumbled to himself.

As the guard turned the corner, Rostnikov stepped behind him and grasped him in a bear hug. The man struggled, grunted, and tried to shout, but though he was a head taller than Rostnikov, he couldn’t escape the older man’s grip. They danced away from the wall in a circle. Rostnikov lifted the man and squeezed, squeezed until his hands went numb, squeezed ignoring the hands and nails that tore at his fingers, squeezed until the man went limp and unconscious. Only then did Rostnikov let him down gently to the ground and pause for an instant to be sure the man was still breathing. Karpo, meanwhile, had set down the ladder and stood at the corner of the building, waiting to see if the old guard would show up. According to his calculations, if the old man had not heard the struggle, he would be coming around the corner in five minutes. The old man did not come running. Rostnikov picked up the ladder, and the three men hurried to the fence.

They were in the car and driving away when, through the rear window, Sasha saw the old guard round the corner, spot his fallen fellow, and run toward him. What Sasha did not see was the Chaika parked a quarter of a mile away, a Chaika with its lights out that followed them at a safe distance.

When they were headed back to the center of Moscow, Rostnikov said, “Emil?”

Karpo reached into his jacket and removed three sheets of paper. One sheet was the copy of a typed letter. The other two were copies of delivery orders. Rostnikov took them and joined them with a paper clip to the copies of papers he had made from items in the files of Raya Corspoyva. He would have to look at them carefully, to consider what he had, but even at this point Rostnikov was sure that he held in his hand enough evidence against a ranking KGB member to ensure his own death and that of Karpo and Tkach.

“The guard?” Sasha said.

“I’ll deal with that, Sasha,” said Rostnikov. “And I will return everything to Petrovka and the badger to the Ferlonika research lab.”

“A request, Inspector,” Sasha said as they neared his street. “I need a meeting permit for a small group, a public meeting permit. It concerns a lead in the bus case.”

“I’ll speak to Pankov,” said Rostnikov. “Now a question: Where were you tonight?”

“At home in bed,” said Tkach.

“And you, Emil?”

“The same,” Karpo said, turning onto the Outer Ring Road.

Rostnikov leaned back, tapping his fingers on the sheaf of papers in his hand, considering his next move.

Within ten minutes of that moment, Sasha had entered his apartment, kissed the sleeping Pulcharia, taken off his clothes, and slid into bed next to Maya, who murmured, “Where were you?”

“Toilet, thinking,” he said, realizing that he was very awake and very excited.

Maya’s hand reached over languidly to hold him and wandered below his flat belly. In the light they left on in the kitchen alcove, Sasha could see the smile on Maya’s face. Her eyes opened dreamily and he pulled her gently to him and kissed her quite deeply.

Within twenty minutes of that moment, Emil Karpo was at the door of his apartment. He checked the thread and hair to be sure no one had entered in his absence, went in, checked the placement of the key objects, and removed his clothes. Emil Karpo always went to sleep instantly upon lying back. He used no pillow and nothing to cover himself.

Before he lay back this night, however, he told himself that he had made an error in visiting the room of Yuri Vostoyavek. There would be no such mistakes in the morning. He reminded himself to awaken in four hours. He could sleep no longer. There was no time.

Within the hour Rostnikov had returned the ladder, the badger, the copying machine, and the automobile; had hidden the papers he had taken from the Lentaka Shoe Factory, and had located a taxi, which was now taking him home. The driver was, fortunately, not a talker. He was sullen, tired, and perhaps just a bit drunk, which was perfectly fine with Porfiry Petrovich, who was also very tired.

When the phone rang slightly after two in the morning, the KGB officer picked it up before the echo of the first ring ended. He was expecting the call, had been lying awake in bed. He was alone. His wife had long had her own room, which he could visit when he wished, though it had been some time since he wished or, for that matter, since she had wished him to do so.

“Yes,” he said.

“Set,” said Vadim. Next to him was the man who had driven the Chaika. Vadim could say no more on the phone, was permitted to say no more. In the morning he would give a full report.

“Good,” said the KGB officer and hung up the receiver.

As he lay back, knowing he could not and would not sleep, the KGB officer went over his plan once again and then once more before he decided to move to the kitchen for coffee and the reward of a small piece of Italian chocolate, an indulgence he allowed himself secretly and infrequently, an indulgence he believed he now deserved.

It was almost three in the morning when Porfiry Petrovich woke up and reached over to touch Sarah. At first, when he touched the cool, smooth pillow he thought she must be in the washroom or the living room, getting a drink. Sometimes Sarah had difficulty sleeping. She never woke him. Iosef had inherited his mother’s occasional sleeplessness. Rostnikov never had trouble sleeping. When his head touched the pillow he was asleep in less man a minute. He could not take naps during the day even when he worked several days without sleep. The nap would only leave him in a weary fog.

When he realized where Sarah was and that he was alone in the apartment, Rostnikov sat up, got out of bed, turned on the light, and looked back at the empty pillows. It was too early to stay up, to read. He thought of his weights, moved into the living room, opened the cabinet in the corner, and pulled out his fifty-pound iron dumbbell. In his pajamas, he sat on a kitchen chair doing curls dreamily, wondering why he was up.

Unfinished business, he thought. And then he let his mind go to silver, a silver he once saw on a door beyond which had been an old man who had told him a terrible secret. The secret had led to a man who had killed seven people.

The sweat would not come. Rostnikov continued.

Perhaps he should read the section in the new book, the section on installing double bends in sink tubing. He imagined copper tubes curling into the bowels of his building, the bowels of the earth, twisting and turning in a pattern that made no sense to him but that some hidden building had concocted to keep Rostnikov forever guessing, forever following the twists and turns he had … and then he understood.

Rostnikov was in the middle of the downside of a right-handed curl, his elbow resting on the table. He let the weight down and paid attention while his mind laid out the truth.

Yes, it was so. It explained everything.

He put the dumbbell away carefully, respectfully, closed the cabinet, turned off the light, and went back to the bedroom. He would be able to sleep now.