"Ah, but I almost forgot," said Samsonov reaching into his black bag. "I found some of those muscle relaxants I mentioned to you for your leg. They are not the American ones but the Hungarian. Almost as good." He handed the bottle to Rostnikov who thanked him and put the bottle into his pocket. The simple mention of his leg awakened a tingling prelude to pain.
Samsonov helped his wife on with her coat and then put on his own. The doctor guided her across the room ignoring the thanks of the old woman. Ludmilla, however, paused to hold the woman by both shoulders and whisper something reassuring to her.
When the Samsonovs had left, Rostnikov beckoned to Karpo while he moved to the bedside of the old man. Liana's wrinkled face, a dry wisp of white hair sticking out wildly from under her babushka, looked up as Rostnikov approached.
"Sergei," Rostnikov said softly, sitting on the bed near the old man. "You're awake. I can see your eyelids fluttering."
"I've been shot," Mirasnikov said. "I deserve rest, a week off."
"You deserve rest and my thanks," agreed Rostnikov. "You saved my life."
Mirasnikov smiled,
"But my friend," Rostnikov said, "you have a secret. I've seen it in your eyes and you've seen in mine that I know about it."
"Nyet" squealed the old woman.
"No, she says," Mirasnikov whispered. "We're beyond no."
"But he'll kill you," she cried.
"What do you think this is, woman?" Sergei Mirasnikov pointed with a finger of his left hand at his shoulder. "I could be dead by morning. I'm weary of being afraid."
"Afraid of what, Sergei?" Rostnikov asked gently. "Did you see who killed Illya Rutkin?"
Mirasnikov nodded in affirmation.
"Who?"
"Kurmu."
"The Evenk shaman?" asked Rostnikov.
The old woman let out a terribly shriek and hurried from the room into the assembly hall.
"You saw him stab Commissar Rutkin?"
"No, he called to the da-van, the great ruler, and a snow demon arose and killed the man from Moscow," Mirasnikov whispered, looking around with wide eyes to be sure that no one else was present.
"You saw this?" Rostnikov repeated.
"I saw this," Mirasnikov confirmed and closed his eyes.
"Sleep," said Rostnikov rising from the bed and moving toward Karpo. The pills Samsonov gave him were jiggling in his pocket.
"You heard?" Rostnikov asked quietly. '"Yes," said Karpo looking at the sleeping man.
"And…?"
"He is delirious," said Karpo.
"Perhaps, but he believed what he said even before he was shot. I've been watching him, as I said. He was frightened. He did have a secret."
"I don't believe in Siberian gods or snow demons, Porfiry Petrovich," Karpo said evenly.
"Nonetheless," said Rostnikov. "I think we have some questions for Kurmu the Shaman. Maybe he will have some ancient medicine for Mirasnikov. He is feverish already."
"Shall I call the doctor back?" Karpo asked, "No, I'll sit with him. If his temperature goes much higher, I'll have the old woman watch him while I go for Samsonov."
"And what shall I do?" Karpo asked.
"Bring me your report on the comparison of information. I assume you've prepared it."
"I've prepared it," said Karpo.
"Good. Then after you've given me the report, I want you to go to the house of Dimitri Galich. It will be dawn soon. He speaks Evenk and knows the taiga. Tell him I want to speak to Kurmu. Go with him to find the shaman. Accept no answer from Galich but yes and no answer from Kurmu but yes. You understand "
"I understand," Karpo said. "Anything else?"
"Yes, tell the old woman to make tea, a great deal of tea and to bring it to me. And tell her gently, Emil Karpo."
"I will do my best, Comrade Inspector," Karpo said, his unblinking eyes betraying nothing.
"I know you will, Emil. You have my trust."
The sense that Karpo had something more to say struck Rostnikov again and, normally, this would be the time to pursue it, but this was not a normal time, a normal place, a normal situation and Rostnikov wanted, needed to be alone.
CHAPTER TEN
Neither Karpo nor Galich had spoken for more than half an hour.
The burly former priest had answered his door in a dark robe looking bleary-eyed and confused, his white hair sprouting out wildly. He had ushered Karpo in quickly. Karpo had explained that Mirasnikov had been shot and that he had claimed the shaman Kurmu had sent a snow demon to kill Commissar Rutkin.
"And Rostnikov wants to arrest Kurmu for this?" Galich had said with a pained smile.
"Inspector Rostnikov wishes to talk to him," Karpo explained. "Can you find him?"
Galich had run his thick hand through his hair and said, "I can get to a place where Kurmu will know we want to talk to him. If he doesn't want to talk to us, we can forget it."
"Then let us go," said Karpo. "I can get Famfanoffs vehicle."
"No vehicle," said Galich, moving back into the house. "There's no room in the taiga for a vehicle to get through the trees. Wait. I'll be ready in a few minutes."
Then he looked at Karpo.
"And I'll give you something warmer to wear," he said. "We have a half-hour walk both ways. Dressed like that you'll be dead before we get there."
Karpo had not argued and when Galich returned with his arms filled with clothing, sweaters, an ugly wool hat that proved too large for Karpo's head, and a pair of snowshoes, the policeman accepted it all and Galich's directions on how to put them on.
When they were fully dressed, Galich said, "All right. Follow behind me. Keep your face covered. There should be some morning haze to aid the moon in about fifteen minutes. And no talking until we find Kurmu… if we find Kurmu. And, one more thing: I speak enough Tunga to get basic ideas across, but if it gets too complicated we may have trouble."
"I will keep the conversation simple," said Karpo. "Let us go."
And they began the walk by moving behind Galich's house, across the open white space of about one hundred yards and into the forest. Karpo followed in the prints of Galich's snowshoes, surprised at the older man's steady stride and his ability to find relatively solid pathways through the snow-covered ground and the trees which seemed to be an endless repetition of cedars, larch, birch, pine and spruce.
Karpo's migraine had begun the moment they left Galich's house. He had expected it because he had smelled flowers, roses, quite clearly even before he left the People's Hall of Justice and Solidarity. The headaches were almost always announced by an aura, a feeling and a smell from his past. When they reached the first line of trees in the forest, the pain had begun on the left side of his head, just above the ear. It remained with him, spread like an old enemy, in some ways a welcome, challenging old enemy.
The cold heightened the pain, almost made him blink at the broad back of Galich in front of him. Pain, he reminded himself, was a test. To withstand pain, distraction, emotion and do one's job was the major satisfaction of life. Emil Karpo, plodding through the snow of a Siberian forest in the moonlight, reminded himself that he was not an individual, didn't want to be. To be effective for the State, he had to see through the demands of his own body, the pleas of others.
Meaning, in his life, was determined by his value to the State. There were criminals. Each crime drained the State, made it vulnerable. The task of Emil Karpo was to identify and locate criminals, take them, with the help of the system, out of society. It was his life, and the pain of a headache was simply a test of his determination. Thoughts, feelings wanted to enter. The vague, amused smile of Mathilde came to him. He concentrated on a shifting shadow in the coat of Dimitri Galich and the smile became the fluttering of fur. The voice of Major Zhenya whispered in the humming wind through the trees, reminding him that he would have to report on Porfiry Petrovich when he got back to Moscow. Emil Karpo let the chill pain of his headache take over and pierce the voice.