"I don't wish to play your game, Comrade Inspector."
"It is possible that Commissar Rutkin in the course of his investigation of the death of the Samsonov child found himself playing the game," said Rostnikov.
Krasnikov looked down at Rostnikov, tilted his head and laughed.
"You are amused," said Rostnikov with a sigh. "I'm pleased that I can bring a moment of mirth into the life of a resident of Tumsk."
"I don't believe Commissar Rutkin found himself playing such a game," Krasnikov said controlling his amusement.
Rostnikov rose, smiled at Krasnikov and said, "If such a manuscript existed by such a man, I would have no interest in it other than its connection to the death of the child, the murder of Commissar Rutkin, and the shooting of Sergei Mirasnikov."
"I did not kill the child or Rutkin. Nor did I shoot Mirasnikov. I am a soldier."
"I understand," Rostnikov said, stepping toward the still erect general, "that in Afghanistan, Soviet soldiers are being told to shoot children and old men."
"A policy and strategy destined for failure. Afghanistan is a disaster, should never have been entered into. The Soviet army should leave immediately before more of our reputation is eroded and more of our men are needlessly killed. It is not like the American's Viet Nam. For us it is worse, far worse."
"And this book, if it existed, might point out this folly?" Rostnikov said, now no more than three feet from the taller general.
There was something in the barrel-of-a-man's voice that made Krasnikov pause.
"It might. It would," he said.
Rostnikov nodded and started for the door.
"I have a son in the army, in Afghanistan," he said.
"I see," said Krasnikov behind him. "I would imagine that a police inspector might have enough blat to get his son out of that death trap."
"Some police inspectors are not looked upon with favor by the KGB," said Rostnikov. "Some police inspectors have made the mistake of playing games of strategy not unlike the one I proposed we play."
"And some police inspectors are clever enough to be maskirovannoye, masked, to play games to trap naive lawbreakers," said Krasnikov.
"Keep writing, Comrade General," Rostnikov said, opening the door and stepping into the morning.
The yellow navy plow was screeching up the slope past the porch. Rostnikov stood waiting for it to pass. The driver, thickly bundled in fur, waved to Rostnikov who waved back.
"You are sure?" Dr. Olga Yegeneva asked, her eyes magnified by the round glasses.
The two women stood talking in the hall of a small private medical facility, really an old two-story house near the small botanic garden off of Mirak Prospekt. The office Olga Yegeneva shared with two other doctors was occupied and so they had moved into the hall where the doctor offered to sit with her patient on a wooden bench. Sarah Rostnikov had indicated that she would prefer to stand.
Sarah Rostnikov looked at the serious young woman in the white smock who stood before her and thought for an instant that it might be better to find an older doctor, a man. Then the instant passed and she saw the younger woman's confidence, steadiness and, equally important, her sincere concern for the patient before her.
"I've thought about it. Better to get it done quickly, have it over when he gets back," she said. "You've said every day of waiting is an added danger."
"Perhaps, but…" Dr. Yegeneva said.
"He'll forgive me," Sarah said.
"Your son. We could make some calls, perhaps get him back here on leave," the young doctor said, adjusting her glasses.
The young woman was quite pretty, her skin clear, her short hair a clean straw-yellow, her magnified eyes a glowing gray. Sarah imagined her son meeting the woman, sharing a joke near Sarah's hospital bed, getting together. Even though her cousin had recommended Dr. Yegeneva, Sarah knew the young woman was not Jewish. It was possible that if Josef took a non-Jewish wife he would cease to be identified as Jewish, that his children, Sarah and Porfiry Petrovich's grandchildren, would not be identified as Jewish. She thought this and felt guilty at the thought, guilty and angry and the anger showed.
"I'd rather my son know nothing of this till the operation is over," she said. "If everything is fine, he need not come. If everything is not fine, you can try to get him to Moscow as soon as you can. He will need his father. His father will need him."
Olga Yegeneva took both of her patient's hands.
"I'm very good," she said softly.
Sarah looked back into the gray eyes.
"I believe you are," she said. "Alex told me you are."
"I'll make the calls, set up the surgery for tomorrow morning," Olga Yegeneva said.
"My husband will arrange for the remainder of the costs when he gets back," she said. "We have saved a bit. We'll have a bit left after."
Olga Yegeneva nodded. She didn't like talking about money. She didn't like talking about very much but her work. She had heard, read of the money, prestige of surgeons in the West. She would have settled for the respect she felt her skills deserved. Getting through medical school had required all of the influence of her father, a department head at the University of Leningrad. Her father had even joined the Communist Patty when she was but a little girl in anticipation of ensuring the education of his only child.
In medical school, Olga and the other women were treated with tolerance rather than acceptance. Olga's interest in surgery had been discouraged but her skill couldn't be denied. She pushed, insisted, studied, proved herself and passed all of her surgery examinations, examinations which, she understood, were much more rigorous in the West.
In spite of what she had heard of western physicians, Olga Yegeneva never thought of emigration or defection even had they been possible. Russia was her country. She had no desire to be anywhere else.
Even her initial assignment to a public ward dealing with daily complaints of workers at a radiator factory in Minsk had not initially discouraged her. It was the fact that she was given no surgery, no promotion, no change and no recognition of commendation that prompted her to consider a private career. The main problems with a private medical career were the costs, the pressure and suspicion of the medical committees, and the fact that she would have to deal with those who could afford her services. Olga hated dealing with money, hated bartering for the health of her patients.
According to Article 42 of the Soviet Constitution, which was quoted to her throughout her medical education and in every medical meeting she had attended, citizens of the USSR have the right to "free, qualified medical care provided by State health institutions." However, the quality of that care was in the hands of health care professionals, nurses, therapists, doctors, who were overworked, underpaid and often underqualified. Many of the professionals were outstanding, but many lived a life of professional lethargy.
"What shall I do?" Sarah Rostnikov said.
"Go home, pack lightly and wait for my call. I'll try to, clear an operating room for tomorrow morning," the young woman said still holding Sarah's hands.
"Yes," Sarah said looking around at a woman in a wheelchair being pushed by a serious young man.
There was nothing more to say. The younger woman hugged Sarah Rostnikov, and looked into her eyes with a confidence Sarah was sure she did not completely feel.
When Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov returned to the People's Hall of Justice and Solidarity, he found three people in the assembly room, Emil Karpo, Dimitri Galich and a man kneeling in front of an open brown sack made of animal skins. Karpo and Galich had removed their coats and hats and stood still heavily clad in sweaters. Rostnikov noticed a most uncharacteristic piece of jewelry, a beaded necklace of amber, around the neck of Emil Karpo. He had no time or opportunity to comment on it at the moment. Rostnikov's attention was drawn to the man on his knees, who looked up for only an instant when Rostnikov stepped in. The kneeling man still wore his fur parka and hood.