"This afternoon or this evening you will be informed that you are to accompany Inspector Rostnikov to the town of Tumsk in Siberia. Do you know where Tumsk is?"
"A small town on the Yensei above Igarka," said Karpo. "I believe it was one of the small summer ports established by traders in the fifteenth century."
"You are a remarkable man," said Zhenya.
"Siberia is the source of great power and potential," Karpo said.
"You've been reading Soviet Life, Inspector," Zhenya said.
"When I can," agreed Karpo.
"Commissar Rutkinand I'm sure you know his entire life story and that of his ancestorswas murdered in Tumsk under somewhat unusual circumstances. He was in Tumsk to conduct an inquiry into the death of a child, the daughter of Lev Samsonov, the dissident who is scheduled to be deported to the West in a short time. Inspector Rostnikov, you and an observer from the Procurator's Office in Kiev will depart by plane as soon as possible to conduct an investigation."
"I will do my best to assist Inspector Rostnikov," said Karpo, "and I will consider it an honor to serve the State in an investigation of this importance."
Zhenya shifted impatiently and leaned forward, his hands palms down on the desk.
"You will take careful notes on the investigation, notes on Inspector Rostnikov's handling of the entire situation. You will take these notes confidentially, in detail, including every violation, every infraction of the law and acceptable inquiry. You will call this office the moment you return from Tumsk and you will report to me directly with your notes. You understand what I am telling you?"
"Your words are clear, Major," said Karpo.
"Do you have some sense of the reason?"
"You have cause to believe that Inspector Rostnikov may operate in violation of the law," he said.
"He has given some cause for concern and we wish simply to check," said Zhenya backing away, arms still folded. "You are a loyal Soviet citizen. I expect you to carry out this assignment without question."
Karpo was quite aware that no questions he might have would be answered and so he nodded. Loyalty also extended to Rostnikov who, Karpo knew, was a bit too independent and had come into conflict with the KGB on at least one occasion. It would do no harm to keep notes and file a report. Zhenya was quite correct and within his jurisdication in asking for such a report and Emil Karpo had every intention of carrying out the assignment.
"Good," said Zhenya unfolding his arms and going around the desk. "You may leave. I'll expect your report within an hour of your return to Moscow."
Karpo rose slowly as Major Zhenya reached for Karpo's folder, put it in front of him and opened it, his eyes examining the words before him or pretending to for Karpo's benefit.
Less than half an hour later Emil Karpo sat in his small room, efficient handbag packed with two changes of clothing and two notebooks. He paused, checking to see if he had forgotten anything, and as he checked he found that he was troubled by his meeting with Major Zhenya. Emil Karpo would have preferred to think that the KGB was efficient, unfailing, but experience had demonstrated that this was not always so. 'Zhenya's ambition had been quite evident. Ambition was personal, destructive. It hampered efficiency. It was Major Zhenya's ambition that had prevented Karpo from catching the two youths who had been preying on visitors to the Exhibit of Economic Achievements. Had they given him but one minute more he would have had the redhead and the other one. Efficiency would have dictated that they allow him to do so. Nothing would have been lost, since they had waited for Major Zhenya even after arriving at Lubyanka. And now the duo might harm, possibly kill a Soviet citizen. It disturbed Karpo, who had changed into his black wool sweater and black pants, that the KGB should be so inefficient.
It also disturbed Karpo to find that while the wire and the feather on his door were, indeed, back approximately where they had been, possibly even close enough to have fooled him, the KGB men who had come through his door had failed to find the single thread of his own hair which he had stretched across the lower hinge. Karpo had no doubt that someone had entered his room.
It was at that point that a sense of loyalty to the State and concern for Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov entered into an unconscious battle deep within and unknown to Emil Karpo, who did not believe that an unconscious existed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Rostnikov finished his bench presses, fifteen with two hundred American pounds, and with a soft grunt let the weight back onto the two padded chairs just above his head. He sat up on the flat plastic coffee table with the steel legs that he used for his lifting and began to breathe deeply as he watched Sarah set the table.
There were many things Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov would have liked. He would have liked a real weight-lifting bench like the Americans made. He would have liked a small room where he could go to lift his weights instead of a corner of his living-dining room. He would have liked more room to store his weights instead of having to place them neatly inside the cabinet in the corner where the good dishes would be kept if he and Sarah had good dishes. He would have liked their son Josef back safely in Moscow or, at least, not in Afghanistan where he was now. And he would have liked to avoid telling Sarah about the trip to Siberia he would be taking the next morning.
He had come through the door that evening prepared with a vague excuse for being late and with an offering in his hand to make up for his tardiness. He had clutched a bag of garden vegetablesa squash, two onions, something that might be a cucumber. A nervous man with exceptionally bad teeth had set up one of those quick-moving folding stands outside the metro station to sell some of the vegetables. Rostnikov had the good fortune to be there when the man was setting up and was standing in the line that formed even before anyone knew what the man was selling. By the time Rostnikov had filled the little sack he kept in his coat pocket, the man was almost sold out, though the line still contained about twenty-five people.
Sarah had been late. Her latest job was in a small bookshop on Kacholav Street where, she said, she felt far more comfortable than she had working at the Melodiya Record Shop or for her cousin who sold pots and pans. Rostnikov did and did not believe her. In any case, the bookshop had been opened late to accommodate a special customer of high rank who wanted to pick up an American book.
Sarah had explained all this after she entered the apartment wearily and greeted Rostnikov who, at the moment, had been doing one-handed seventy-pound curls while seated on the edge of the bench.
Rostnikov had grunted as she took off her coat and he sensed her moving across the room toward him. She touched his head from behind with cool fingers and then moved toward the small kitchen into his line of vision. For an instant Rostnikov lost count of his repetitions. Sarah looked unusually tired and he sensed that something weighed upon her. Sarah was forty-six, solidly built, with a remarkably unlined face considering the life she had led. She wore round glasses. When she was listening carefully to what someone said, she would tilt her head down and look over the glasses. Her dark hair with highlights of red was naturally curly and she kept it cut short partly, he knew, because Rostnikov had frequently admired her neck.
She smiled back at him when she discovered the vegetables on the small table near the equally small refrigerator and then set to work on heating his chicken tabaka, which she had prepared and cooked the night before.