"I've seen his office," Rostnikov said.
"Duznetzov, Pesknoko, and the woman were part of his scheme," explained Drozhkin. "He needed them to help him cover. At one level a brilliant idea. Circus performers don't defect. Their lives here are good, secure. They travel, live well, get lifetime pensions when they retire. But once in a while a Mazaraki comes along, a Lithuanian or Latvian with desires for more. I'm getting tired."
"I'm sorry," said Rostnikov.
Drozhkin looked at his guest, his thin, cracked lips tight.
"You say that with insufficient conviction."
"I'm sorry. I was distracted for a moment thinking about my son."
"Ah, the son," Drozhkin said with understanding. "You raised the stakes, Porfiry Petrovich. You tried to play in blackmail against me. It was a game of cards and I called your bluff."
Rostnikov said nothing and then, "So you want me to stay away from Mazaraki so you can trap him when he goes on his next tour?"
' "That broken glass there is dangerous," Drozhkin said, his voice cracking. "All I need besides what I have is a foot full of glass." Then he looked up at Rostnikov. "No, you do not understand. We want Mazaraki to continue to smuggle people out of the Soviet Union. If you must know, we have even subsidized him without his knowledge. Are you beginning to understand?"
"He is smuggling some of your people out, undercover defectors," said Rostnikov, making the first attempt to move his locked leg and finding it most difficult.
"Something like that," agreed Drozhkin. "The price we pay in letting a few nakhlebniki, parasites, intellectuals, run away is worth what we gain in the long run but…"
"Mazaraki is becoming a bit unstable," said Rostnikov.
"He seems to be going mad," agreed Drozhkin. "It's not surprising. Six years of what he has done. Duznetzov cracked under the pressure. I don't know about Pesknoko. My guess is that Mazaraki got rid of him because he feared he would not make it."
"The woman," said Rostnikov.
"The woman, yes," said Drozhkin, pulling the blanket up to his waist. "It's getting cold here."
"Yes, it's getting cold," Rostnikov agreed, feeling quite warm.
"The woman is the least likely to crumble, but Mazaraki does not understand that and so he feels he must get rid of her."
"And we," said Rostnikov, finally bending his knee, "must not stop him."
"He must make the next tour, at least the next tour," whispered Drozhkin with a shiver. "His cargo is especially valuable to us. I'm tired now. I must sleep. You must stay away."
"You work to the end," Rostnikov said, rising.
Drozhkin's eyes were closed, and Rostnikov could not hear what the old man mumbled.
"I'm sorry…" Rostnikov said.
"I said," Drozhkin groaned dryly, "you would do the same. I will die loyal to the revolution. I don't know what your motives would be. Tell them to send in the nurse when you leave."
"I will, Comrade," Rostnikov said, moving toward the door.
Colonel Drozhkin said nothing. His eyes remained closed. His thin right hand rose slightly from the blanket in what might have been a wave of good-bye or a sign of dismissal.
Rostnikov moved slowly past the two KGB men after telling them the colonel wanted a nurse. One of the men, the one who had come with him in the car, escorted Rostnikov to the lobby and out of the hospital. The other man hurried for the nurse.
In the street, Rostnikov moved for a waiting taxi nearby. He could not make it to the metro or the bus. He would file for reimbursement. Perhaps the Wolfhound would grant it, perhaps not.
He should have gone back to Petrovka. He went over what he had been told by the dying colonel. It was simple. He was to stay away and let Mazaraki kill Katya Rashkovskaya. He was to stay away or else. Rostnikov suddenly felt hungry, very hungry, hungry as a snarling bear. He gave the driver his address on Krasikov Street and closed his eyes.
Deputy Procurator Khabolov smoothed back his hair with both hands and examined his teeth in the mirror of his beloved white Chaika. The car was almost like new in spite of the recent damage that was done when the vehicle had been stolen. The damage had been repaired by a disreputable mechanic known as Nosh, the Knife, who owed much, including his freedom, to the deputy procurator.
It was early in the afternoon, a sunny afternoon, and Khabolov felt confident as he stepped out of the car, locked it carefully, pulled the chain around the door handles and inserted the padlock. He snapped the padlock after checking his pocket for the key and moved to the trailer of the Gorgasali brothers. It looked a bit smaller than he had expected, but he had hopes, hopes for the best. It had been a good year for Khabolov, a good year indeed. First, Anna Timofeyeva had been stricken with a series of heart attacks to open the deputy procurator's position for him at the very moment when Odessa had grown too small for him. And then Rostnikov, who always looked as if he had some secret joke and seemed to be saying more than his words, was transferred to the MVD. It had something to do with some trouble with the KGB. Khabolov didn't care. Rostnikov, with his knowing eyes, was gone. And then this, this had fallen onto his desk.
In thanks to the God his father back in Odessa still believed in, Khabolov would give the old man a videotape machine and a supply of movies for his forthcoming eighty-first birthday. Yes, it would be a token of Khabolov's humility, his gesture to show that he still revered and respected his father. It would also give his father, whose respect for his son was too often minimal, further evidence of how wealthy and powerful his son had become.
Khabolov adjusted his glasses, tightened his tie, and knocked once, hard, at the door to the trailer. The door opened almost immediately. He was sure they had been waiting for him, watching him arrive in his Chaika.
"Comrade Procurator," Felix Gorgasali said, ushering him in. "We are honored."
Gorgasali backed away as Khabolov entered with a wave of the hand, indicating that he accepted the thanks.
The trailer was a bit bigger inside than the deputy procurator had expected, but the line of metal cabinets was promising. Since he had never been in the trailer before, he thought nothing of the curtained area in the front of the vehicle. He was also unaware that the interior of the trailer was normally much darker than it was now, with powerful 300-watt bulbs in each outlet.
"Comrade Procurator," said Osip Gorgasali, rubbing his hands and stepping forward. It looked as if he were about to extend his hand to shake and then thought better of it.
"I have very little time," Khabolov said, looking around the trailer, adjusting his glasses, and taking a notebook out of his inner jacket pocket. "Give me a quick inventory, in general terms, with the names of clients to whom you have sold equipment and tapes."
The brothers looked at each other. The dark younger one with the balding head looked toward the front of the trailer and then at his brother, who said, "Most of our customers don't give names, and we don't ask them, do we, Osip?"
"No," said Osip. "We don't ask them. We should, but we don't. We'll start asking them right away. Today."
"Good," said Khabolov. "The names are especially important."
"There will be names," promised Felix.
The two brothers seemed nervous, but nervous was the only way Khabolov had ever seen them, nervous and frightened, which was just the way he wanted them.
"A rough inventory now," Khabolov said, moving behind the table and sitting with his pad and pen. A rough inventory is what he got. Ten minutes later the deputy procurator said "Good" and stood up.
"Thank you, Comrade," Osip said. "If there is anything, anything…"
"Yes. I will have to take two video players and a television set, plus twenty, no, twenty-five, tapes. I've written the titles on this sheet."
He tore off a sheet from his notebook and handed it to Osip, who handed it to Felix. Khabolov closed the notebook and returned it to his pocket.