"Surprise, yes. Oh, yes," said the Wolfhound, pausing at the window of his office and turning suddenly on Rostnikov who sat at the table across the room in the Petrovka headquarters.
Rostnikov was not surprised, but he did look up from his drawing to make contact with Snitkonoy's metallic blue eyes.
"We will surprise them, Porfiry Petrovich," the Wolfhound said. "We will conduct the investigation with dispatch, identify those responsible, file a report of such clarity that it will be a model for others to follow for years."
Rostnikov adopted a knowing smile and nodded wisely in agreement though he had no idea of what this performance was all about. Snitkonoy began to stride toward Rostnikov who turned over the page of his notebook with the unfinished drawing. Snitkonoy approached, polished brown boots clicking against the polished wooden floor. He stood over Rostnikov with a sad, knowing smile.
"I have in this past month you have been with us come to rely upon you, Porfiry Petrovich. You and I have the same attitude, the same outlook on dealing with the criminal mind, coping with those who pose a threat to the ongoing struggle of the Revolution."
Rostnikov's deep brown eyes met the Wolfhound's soberly and he nodded in agreement, though he agreed with almost nothing the handsome military figure in front of him had said. Rostnikov had been with the MVD for more than four months. He was certain that his and the Colonel's views of the criminal mind were not at all similar, partly because Rostnikov did not believe in a criminal mind. There were evil people, truestupid, selfish, brutish peopleeven a good number of quite insane people, but few who thought themselves so. Mostly there were people who considered themselves quite decent, quite compassionate, quite reasonable. They got carried away with their emotions, beliefs or assumed needs and broke the law, sometimes quite violently. The only minds that Rostnikov thought might reasonably be identified as criminal belonged to certain kinds of bureaucrats who had the opportunity and desire to engage in ongoing illegal activities.
As for the Revolution, Rostnikov had struggled with a nearly useless left leg for over forty years as a reminder of the Revolution that never ended. When he was fifteen in 1942, Rostnikov had lost most of the use of the leg in defending the Revolution against German invaders. No, the differences between the Wolfhound and the inspector known by his colleagues as the Washtub went beyond the contrast of their appearance, but, in spite of this, Rostnikov had developed a certain affection for the caricature of an officer who paced the room before him. There appeared to be no malice in the colonel and his naivete was sincere as was his loyalty to those who worked under him whether they deserved it or not. All the colonel expected in return was admiration. So Rostnikov did his best to project admiration while retaining as much dignity as possible.
"So," said Snitkonoy standing to his full six-feet-three, "you understand what must be done."
"No," said Rostnikov amiably.
The colonel shook his head, a patient patronizing smile on his firm lips. He stepped to the polished dark table and leaned forward toward Rostnikov.
"Commissar Illya Rutkin," the Colonel whispered. "Do you know him?"
"The name is somewhat familiar," answered Rostnikov putting down his pad, beginning to sense a potential threat. Rutkin was, he knew, a relatively incompetent assistant to Party District Leader Vladimir Koveraskin, who was far from incompetent and had the reputation of a man to be avoided. Rutkin was an expendable, one of the dispensable underlings Party members keep around to throw to the KGB or whomever might come nipping for corruption or scapegoats. Koveraskin had something to do with keeping track of dissident movements, or at least he was rumored to have such a function.
"He is dead," the Wolfhound whispered dramatically.
"I am sorry to hear that," said Rostnikov shifting his left leg which threatened, as it always did when he sat too long, to lose consciousness.
"A man destined for greater service for the State," the Wolfhound said softly, sadly.
"Dead," Rostnikov repeated before the eulogy reached proportions worthy of Tolstoy.
"Murdered," said the Wolfhound.
Rostnikov shifted and put his notebook in his pocket alongside the novel he had finished reading on the metro. Rostnikov's thoughts, up to this moment, had been on dinner and on some urgency to get down to his desk for a quick interrogation of the dealer in stolen goods he had sent Tkach to arrest. Rostnikov did not like the sound of the colonel's voice which suggested something of great moment. He did not like where the conversation was going but he could do nothing to stop it.
"And we…?" Rostnikov began.
"Precisely," said Snitkonoy with satisfaction. "We have been given the task of investigating the murder of this important figure. We are responsible for the investigation and the quick resolution. There are ramifications to this case, Porfiry Petrovich."
Yes, Rostnikov thought, I'm sure there are, but I am not sure you know what most of them are. Murders of commissars were not usually turned over to the Wolfhound. Someone was not terribly interested in the outcome of this murder case. Rostnikov might be reacting with too much suspicion, but it was belter to be suspicious and survive, as he had managed to do, then to underreact and find that it is too late. There was no help for it. It was coming and he would have to deal with it.
"And I am to conduct the investigation," Rostnikov said. "I'm honored."
"We are all honored," said Snitkonoy. "This important investigation assigned to us indicates the high esteem in which we stand."
Rostnikov nodded and hoped that the case was a nice simple one, robbery or a domestic conflict that simply required a cover-up. Snitkonoy strode to his desk, boots clicking again, and reached for a brown file which he picked up and brought to Rostnikov who didn't want to touch it but did so.
"Bad business," the colonel said. "He was investigating the death of a child, the death of Lev Samsonov's child, a young girl."
Rostnikov did not nod, did not respond. This was getting worse and worse.
"You know who Samsonov is?"
"Yes," sighed Rostnikov. "The dissident."
"The traitor," hissed Snitkonoy magnificently. "He and his wife are scheduled for deportation. It was feared that without the investigation Samsonov demanded, he might go to France or whatever decadent nation would have him and cause embarrassment, imperil Premier Gorbachev's magnificent and courageous attempts to bring world peace. And…"
"… And in the course of his investigation of the death of Samsonov's child, Commissar Rutkin was murdered," Rostnikov cut in.
The Colonel did not like to be interrupted. He fixed his fourth most penetrating glance at Rostnikov who looked back at him blandly.
"It is all in the report. You are to investigate the murder of Commissar Rutkin. You need not address the death of the child. Another representative of Party District Leader Koveraskin's office will be dispatched later to deal with that. However, it is possible that the two deaths are related."
"There are many violent subversive people in Moscow," said Rostnikov.
"Moscow?" the Wolfhound said, halting in his pacing as someone softly knocked at his door. "Commissar Rutkin was murdered in the town of Tumsk, where you are to go immediately to conduct your investigation and report back within three days."