Samsonov got up and moved to the door. Famfanoff still stood at what he took to be attention. Rostnikov motioned for him to be seated and the policeman gratefully moved back to the chair.
In the assembly room with the door closed behind them, Samsonov took off his glasses, put them in a black leather case, placed the case in his pocket and told Rostnikov, "There is nothing to be done for him. The wound is infected. I've cleaned it, given him an antibiotic. I suppose we can call in a helicopter and have him evacuated to the hospital in Igarka but I think he would die from the movement. He is a very old man."
"I understand," said Rostnikov.
"If you have grief in you, Inspector, give some of it to my Karla," he said, weariness dulling the bitter edge he sought.
"I have and I will," Rostnikov said. "I'll not forget your daughter."
Samsonov looked up suddenly, angrily, to search for irony in the policeman's sympathy, but he could see none because there was none to be seen. Samsonov considered thanking the man but he couldn't bring himself to do it, not now, not yet. Words, looks were something but deeds were more important.
"We will see," said Samsonov. "We will see."
He turned from Rostnikov and hurried across the room, opening the door through which the sound of the navy plow came screeching. When he closed the door, the sound did not disappear but it was muffled, a little further away.
There was one more person to see before he could rest, Rostnikov thought. One more person. It was not quite together yet. He had a picture but he did not trust that picture. It needed some changes. It needed, among other things, the shaman for whom he had sent Karpo. It would be best if he could get some rest first, but there was no time. Sarah was alone in Moscow.
He buttoned his coat and went out to find General Vassily Krasnikov.
The killer returned to the window and looked out at the square, at the ever-pointing Ermak. Things had not gone well. The policeman was not dead and seemed to be even more eager to pursue his investigation as if he had some deadline, near as the next full turn of the clock.
Perhaps, thought the killer, the attempt to shoot Rostnikov had been a bit rash. Perhaps the man knew nothing. It would be best if he were gone but now was the time for retrenching, pulling in, putting on the mask. Just a few more days and it wouldn't matter what the detective found or thought he found.
The killer looked out of the window and sipped from a glass of wine, a morning glass of French table wine, a small one which always seemed to help clear the mind.
And then something interesting happened. Rostnikov came out of the People's Hall and looked up the slope. The killer did not move away from the window, did not want to risk being seen moving away from the policeman's eyes. Better to simply stand there, look down. Rostnikov turned his head and began to move around the square and onto the just-cleared path. But before he could get ten yards, the door to the old building across the square opened and the other one, the one with the mustache, Sokolov, came running out to head off Rostnikov.
He blocked the other man's way and spoke quickly, apparently with anger and much movement of his hands and arms; the killer could hear the voices but none of the words. Rostnikov looked up the slope wearily and then answered Sokolov with apparent calm and no histrionics.
Whatever he said infuriated Sokolov even more. He pointed a finger at the inspector who moved past him and he kept shouting as Rostnikov followed the plowed path upward past the weather station. Rostnikov did not turn back, did not acknowledge the shouting man in the square standing next to the ruins of the old church. Sokolov shouted once more and then gave up and stalked back into the house slamming the door.
Rostnikov was out of sight for the moment beyond the bend, blocked by the concrete weather station. The killer stepped back from the window, put down the empty wine glass and waited in the expectation that Rostnikov would in a few moments be knocking at the door.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"You look weary, Inspector," General Krasnikov said as he ushered Rostnikov into the house.
Rostnikov grunted, unbuttoned the top of his coat, tucked his hat into his pocket, glanced at the furious stuffed head of the bear and moved to the firm wooden chair he had sat in before.
Krasnikov was dressed in a quasi-military suit of boots, gray neatly pressed pants, white shirt and tie and gray jacket. Rostnikov looked up at the General who wandered to his desk by the window, looked out and then turned back to look at his visitor.
"Your Comrade Procurator is not pleased with you," he said nodding toward the window. "I happened to be looking out the window a few minutes ago."
Rostnikov said nothing. He nodded and rubbed his nose.
"I can't say I liked the manner of the man when you two were here yesterday," Krasnikov went on, standing, hands clasped behind him, legs spread slightly. The pose reminded Rostnikov of the Gray Wolfhound, which reminded him of Moscow, which in turn reminded him of Sarah.
"He wanted to come with me to talk to you," Rostnikov said.
"And?"
"I didn't want him to come," Rostnikov went on, opening his eyes but still rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I wanted to speak to you alone."
"Good," said Krasnikov firmly. "I do not like the man. He confuses duty with power."
"A common military mistake?" Rostnikov asked, looking away from the General to a vague spot on the dark wood wall.
"Yes."
Outside the navy plow groaned into the gray morning. The two men said nothing for a few minutes. The general stood erect. The inspector sat back with his eyes closed. Finally, Rostnikov sighed deeply and sat up.
"Let us play a military game," he said. "I'll propose a hypothetical situation, problem, and you provide a solution."
Krasnikov did not answer. Porfiry Petrovich shifted in his chair, looked at the general and went on.
"Military strategists like games, at least that's what Marshal Timeshenko said."
"I do not argue with Marshal Timeshenko," said Krasnikov.
"Suppose a military man fascinated by military strategy, feeling, perhaps, that his country is pursuing a foolish military course were banished for his ideas. Having nothing to do and being a man of letters, this military man spends some time writing his criticism of the military course of his former comrades and their nonmilitary superiors."
"For what purpose?" Krasnikov asked evenly.
"For what purpose does he write or for what purpose does he intend the results of his labor to be applied?"
"Both," said Krasnikov.
"Perhaps he writes because there is no one to listen except some reader of the future. Perhaps he dreams of return and wants his thoughts in clear form for publication.
Perhaps he is bitter and wants to present his ideas to the world in the hope that by so doing he will force his country to revise its military strategy, force his country through the voices of its critics in other countries, because its strategy has been compromised, to develop a policy closer to his own. So many reasons."
"And the game?" Krasnikov said.
"Where would he keep his manuscript? How would he get it out of the country?"
"This sounds more like a policeman's game than a military strategist's," said Krasnikov. "Would you like some tea?"
"No tea. And yes, perhaps it is a policeman's game."
"Inspector, you have probably been up all night. You are worried about your wife. You have a killer to catch, a mystery to solve. Perhaps you would be better off dealing with those problems than with hypothetical ones."
Rostnikov smiled.
"You've been talking to one of the sailors," he said. "That is how you know about my wife."
"The people I find most compatible in this compound are those of the military even if they are not men of rank," said Krasnikov.. "What about our game?"