"A moment," Rostnikov said when the knock came. He rose, moved as quickly as his leg would allow him and opened the door where a serious-looking woman in a gray uniform faced him. She was pink-faced, about thirty and rather pretty if a bit plump.
"Inspector Rostnikov," she said seeing his blue bag and stepping in to pick it up. "I am your driver."
"I was hoping you were not a particularly bold suitcase snatcher," he said as she stood up.
"I assure you I am your driver. I should have showed you my identification," she said, starting to put down the bag.
"That will not be necessary," Rostnikov said reaching for his coat on a nearby chair.
She nodded, waited for him to put on his hat, coat and scarf and led the way out into the hall pausing for Rostnikov to close his door. She began by moving quickly and realized that the Inspector was limping a dozen steps behind. She stopped and waited for him.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Comrade Sokolov is waiting in the car and we have only an hour to get to Sheremetyevo Airport."
"I too am sorry that Comrade Sokolov is waiting in the car," Rostnikov said, catching up to her, "but I believe they might hold the airplane till we arrive."
"No," the woman said, flushing healthily. "I didn't mean I was sorry that Comrade Sokolov was in the car. I just…"
"I understand," said Rostnikov. "I was attempting to be amusing."
"I see," she said, relieved. He said nothing more till they got out on the street and into the waiting black Chaika. The woman opened the back door and Rostnikov stepped in to join a round-faced man with a thick black mustache which matched his coat and fur hat. In the front next to the driver who had placed Rostnikov's bag in the trunk and hurried back to her seat was Emil Karpo, also black-clad but hat-less. Karpo did not look back as the car pulled away from the curb.
"I am Sokolov," the pudgy mustached man said, showing a large white-toothed grin.
Rostnikov nodded, noting that both the teeth and grin were false.
"I am in from Kiev," he explained as they turned toward Gorky Street. "I'm an inspector with the Procurator's Office. The Procurator's Office thought I might learn something of procedure from you. I've been with the Ail-Union Central Council of Trade Unions as an investigator for almost a dozen years and I've just moved into criminal investigation. I hope you don't mind. While I'm pleased to be joining you, I assure you it was in no way my idea."
"I do not mind, Comrade," Rostnikov said looking out the window as Gorky Street became Leningrad Highway. Tall apartment houses flashed past as the woman sped down the center lane of the 328-foot-wide highway.
Sokolov continued to talk and Rostnikov responded with a nod.
"I've heard much about you," Sokolov said with a smile. "You are much admired, Comrade."
"I have done my best to serve the State with the abilities I have been fortunate enough to possess," Rostnikov said as they passed Dynamo Stadium and Rostnikov had a memory flash of Josef years ago at his side at a Moscow Dynamos' soccer game. Josef was ten or twelve, his straight brown hair combed back, his eyes riveted on the field.
"You have children, Comrade?" Rostnikov said.
"Children?" Sokolov said. "Yes."
"You have photographs of them?"
"Of course," said Sokolov reaching into his inner jacket pocket to remove his wallet. "My daughter, Svetlana, is fifteen. My son, Ivan, is fourteen. See."
Rostnikov took the wallet, looked at the picture of two smiling blond children.
"They were younger when the picture was taken," Sokolov said taking the wallet back, glancing at the photograph with a smile and returning it to his pocket. "I mean they were younger than they are now."
"They are handsome children," Rostnikov said.
"Thank you, Comrade," Sokolov said softly. "I've heard that it is very cold along the Yensei this time of year. I've brought extra layers."
"A good idea," Rostnikov said.
The Petrovsky Palace shot past them on the right. The Palace now housed the Soviet Air Force College of Engineering. It was built some time in the eighteenth century and, Rostnikov knew, Napoleon had stayed there for a few days after he was forced to abandon the burning of the Kremlin. Twenty minutes further, Rostnikov caught a glimpse of an izby, a traditional log cabin. It was one of the last of the structures which used to spot the countryside.
Sokolov went on talking. Rostnikov nodded.
In less than an hour, Rostnikov saw the twin glass buildings of the Hotel Aeroflot and the Ministry of Civil Aviation. Behind them he could see the Moscow Air Terminal. The woman driver, either out of zealousness to complete her mission or a desire to discharge her passengers, accelerated as they passed the giant sculpture in the shape of an anti-tank barrier. Rostnikov remembered when real antitank barriers circled the city and he knew that this sculpture stood at the exact spot where Hitler's armies were stopped in 1941.
The driver pulled around the main terminal building and entered a side gate after showing identification to the armed soldiers on duty. She drove directly onto the field, skirting the main runways, clearly knowing where she was going. Sokolov stopped talking as the woman headed toward a distant plane which, as they approached it, Rostnikov identified as a YAK-40.
The car came to a stop directly alongside the plane and the driver leaped out, closed her door and hurried to the trunk of the car. Karpo, Rostnikov and Sokolov got out of the car, closed their doors, and took their luggage from the woman who did not insist on carrying any of it.
Sokolov lumbered ahead and Karpo slowed down to join Rostnikov as the car behind them pulled away.
"KGB?" Karpo asked, looking at Sokolov who was mounting the aluminum steps to the plane.
"I don't think so," said Rostnikov. "I believe he is from the Procurator's Office, but I doubt if he is making the trip to learn from us. It is more likely that he is along to report on how we conduct the investigation."
Karpo looked away and nothing more was said till they were seated and in the air. The crew had been expecting them and had held the plane. There were other passengers but they paid no attention, or appeared to pay no attention as these important latecomers were ushered to seats in the middle of the plane.
Rostnikov had taken the aisle seat and Sokolov had taken the window seat next to him. Karpo sat across the aisle next to a white-haired man who kept his nose in a technical book and did his best for the entire flight to avoid looking at the ghostly figure next to him.
Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov hated airplanes, especially jet planes. There was no dealing with such an airplane, no sense of control. It either stayed up or it went down. You couldn't land a dying one and the passengers couldn't grab parachutes and leap to safety. He didn't like the way the engines made strange sounds. He didn't like the lightness in his stomach.
Sokolov babbled for the next hours, through a sandwich dinner and later sucking on a piece of hard candy that had been passed out by a crew member. When, after stops in Kirov and Berezovo, they arrived in Igarka in near darkness, Rostnikov's leg refused to respond to threats, pleas and will power. He had to wait while the other passengers deplaned before he finally coaxed his leg into movement.
"War wound?" Sokolov said sympathetically.
As you probably well know if you've done your work, Rostnikov thought.
"War wound," he acknowledged.
Though he was well bundled, the cold hit Rostnikov as he made his way down the metal stairway that swayed in the wind. Sokolov was holding his suitcase against his chest and Karpo was standing before them in the snow, holding his travel bag at his side, showing no effect of the cold.
"Cold," said Sokolov as they looked across the small field at the houses with about three feet of snow on their roofs. The airport building was a wooden structure in front of which sat several small airplanes mounted on skis.