Gregorovich nodded and marched out. The Wolfhound looked at the handprint on the major’s back and turned to Rostnikov when Gregorovich had gone.
“Why are you so filthy?”
“I have been plumbing,” said Rostnikov. “It is a hobby of mine.”
“Plumbing?”
“Plumbing.”
Thoughts of the rattling sound in his pipes at home came to the colonel, who shook them off. He had both an impression to make on the chief inspector and a problem to be addressed. He spoke in his measured baritone. “Emil Karpo, with your approval, is pursuing a gang that is dealing in stolen nuclear materials, materials they plan to sell to a foreign government.”
“There may be nothing to it,” said Rostnikov.
“But there may,” Colonel Snitkonoy countered. “And I should have been informed.”
“I planned to do so as soon as we had some solid evidence that there actually was a theft of nuclear materials.”
The colonel rose from his chair and leaned forward, hands on the table, knuckles up. “It is essential that I be informed,” he said.
“You have been informed,” said Rostnikov.
“Yes, but not by you. By a foreign government, by the Americans, by the FBI.”
“Hamilton,” said Rostnikov.
“It was Hamilton’s superior who reported it to me,” said the colonel. “Agent Hamilton is now in charge of this investigation. He will work closely with you and Karpo. He is an expert in such matters. That is why he is here. Porfiry Petrovich, we cannot afford to insult the Americans at this crucial time when our government needs their financial support and investigative expertise. Is this all clear?”
“Perfectly,” said Rostnikov.
“Consider yourself reprimanded,” said the colonel sternly.
“Am I on unpaid leave?”
Snitkonoy shook his head. His mane of perfectly groomed white hair vibrated with annoyance. “You know and I know that you are too valuable for me to give you time off. I ask you to be more mindful of the delicacy of my position.”
“I will endeavor to do so,” said Rostnikov.
Snitkonoy sat again and looked at his chief investigator. “I have a pipe somewhere in my house that is making a terrible noise when I turn on a tap,” said the colonel. “Can you fix that?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
“Wash up, get some sleep, and be back on the job in the morning. We’ll talk tomorrow of my noisy pipe. Go.”
Rostnikov moved to the door as quickly as his leg would permit.
“And send in Pankov as you leave.”
An instant after Rostnikov had departed, the tiny mass of quivering nerves named Pankov entered the office.
“Rostnikov has left a trail of dirt in here. See to it that it is cleaned up before morning. Supervise it yourself.”
“Yes, Colonel,” said Pankov, knowing that there was no way he could find a custodian who would clean the office. It was Pankov who would do it. “Anything else?”
“Tell Major Gregorovich that he may go and that I say he has done a good job.”
“Yes,” said Pankov.
When he was gone, the colonel moved to the window to look out at the chill night sky. He looked down at the single flowering bush in the garden. In the broad beam of a streetlight it seemed to have far fewer flowers today.
TEN
It was moments before midnight. The street was empty. Somewhere above him in one of the rooms of a building, someone coughed. Sasha couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. The cough sounded decidedly unhealthy.
A new wind had come with the night. Sasha’s hands were plunged into the pockets of his jacket. He hoped the police widow had coffee. It would be difficult to stay awake through the entire night. He had failed to get any sleep at home. After Lydia’s shower, he and Maya had talked softly together, listening until Lydia began to snore. Then they waited to see if Pulcharia would come out to complain about her grandmother’s snoring. They waited twenty minutes. The girl did not come out of the bedroom.
And then, in the near darkness, a lone candle lit for the occasion, they had made love a second time, something they had not done since well before the baby was born. Sasha had been filled with passion, which surprised him. His day had been long and he had to get up in a little while. Yet he had felt powerful, and she had met him with lust.
They took a long time, and then Maya wanted to talk some more. He couldn’t simply turn his back on her and sleep.
“I think we should hire someone,” she had said.
“We can’t afford it,” Sasha reminded her, his head turned to her. Candlelight flickered on his wife’s dark face, and her breasts peeked over the blanket.
“I don’t know how much longer I can live with her,” Maya said softly. “I don’t know how much longer the children can live with her.”
“I understand,” he said. “We can’t afford someone to watch the children. And she would never speak to us again if we made her leave and hired a woman to stay with the children.”
“You could convince her,” said Maya. “Tell her how she could get back to work, have some privacy and freedom. Make it sound like we were doing it for her.”
“She wouldn’t believe it,” he said.
“I know,” said Maya, chewing on her thumb and trying to think of some new approach to keep her sanity and get rid of Lydia.
The discussion had continued for almost an hour and concluded with Sasha agreeing to go over their budget during the day and see what he could do. By the time they had finished the discussion, Sasha had to get up, get dressed, and relieve Zelach. Before he had reached the front door, Maya was breathing the sound of sleep. She was amazing. She could fall asleep in an instant and be up at the slightest sound from one of the children. Sasha had trouble getting to sleep but heard nothing once he got there.
And now he slouched wearily down the dark street, his steps a bit uneven, lost in thought of how he could get more money. The only way he could do so with little effort was to accept the bribes he was sometimes offered. These were usually bribes from petty criminals. On occasion he had been tempted, and twice he had accepted “gifts” from grateful shopkeepers whose stolen goods he had recovered. He could probably make a great deal of money by selling his services as an informant to one of the Moscow mafias. He could imagine seriously considering an illegal act if the lives of Maya or the children were at stake. After all, what had the state become? Where, as Gorky’s Mother shouted at the court, is justice?
Sasha had a sense that he was only a few doors from the house where Zelach was sitting at the window. He glanced across the street, not expecting to see the three boys, not expecting to see anything.
He was certainly not expecting the sudden, solid pain in his head, a pain that dropped Sasha to his knees. Had he suffered a stroke? He was a young man. But his father had died of a stroke. Another blow came, and this time with it came the taste of blood and the sound of soft voices.
“Again, Boris, again.”
Sasha raised his arm and felt the next blow crack against his elbow. A figure appeared before him, the vague shape of a boy looking directly at him, judging how much more it would take to kill this stubborn victim.
“Again, Boris,” the boy before him said.
Now, as he rolled back on the sidewalk, he tried to curl into a ball and find his gun under all of his clothes. He could see three children, all boys, one with a plank of wood in his hands, the one who had been in front of him with his hands plunged into his pockets, and the third, the youngest, advancing with a brick in his hands.
Sasha struggled to shout, and perhaps he did. He tried to get back onto his knees, certain that the boys meant to kill him. He blinked his eyes to clear away the blood and got up on one elbow, still groping for his gun. Above him the young one raised the brick over his head and looked down at Sasha with no sign of emotion. Sasha was certain that he could not get the gun out in time. His other thought was of Maya, who would be doomed now to live with Lydia forever.