“I–I’m sorry,” Rostnikov repeated.
Malenko closed the door, and Rostnikov found himself facing his car and driver. He considered turning around and making another assault on Malenko. There was much to be said, much he might learn if he could get him to talk about his son, but it was likely he could not be goaded into such talk. Malenko was a shrewd man and one who very likely contributed to making those close to him go mad. But Rostnikov would not, could not accept the simple explanation for murder that one was mad, even madness had its own logic. Ilyusha Malenko had apparently murdered three people, and he had a reason for doing so. The reason might make little sense, but it was a reason, and if Rostnikov could figure out what that reason was, he might be able to anticipate the young man’s next move.
“Sir,” said the driver as Rostnikov got back into the rear of the car and closed the door.
“Back to Petrovka. Wait. No, the hospital. I want to stop by and see one of the inspectors.”
“Sergeant Karpo,” supplied the driver, pulling away from the house.
“You are well-informed,” said Rostnikov.
Sasha Tkach had been sitting in Inspector Rostnikov’s office with a pad of lined paper in front of him and several sharpened pencils. He did not sit behind the desk because he did not know how Rostnikov would take it if he found a junior officer there. Sasha Tkach felt more comfortable working with Rostnikov than with any other senior investigator, but it was wise to be cautious and not overly familiar. There was too much to lose. So while he waited for reports on the telephone taps and hoped that Malenko would be spotted by a uniformed officer or that he would make some mistake, Tkach sat on the wrong side of the desk unable to put his feet under it, made notes, and tried to complete his report on the discovery of the body of Malenko’s wife. That is what he did with the front of his consciousness. Deeper, but not much deeper, he wondered. One murder with a sickle, another with a hammer. Was the madman mocking the symbols of the Soviet Union? He was a dissident or a potential one. Was this some elaborate, ghastly joke? Then what about the cab driver? A broken vodka bottle didn’t fit. It was too much to worry about.
Tkach had spent five hours at the desk, unwilling even to leave for a drink to have with his sandwich, afraid to tie up the phone with a call to check on Karpo’s condition. It was shortly after two when the call came. It was Maxim, the expert who was monitoring all of the phone taps through a central unit he manned alone.
“I think we have something,” Maxim said with great excitement. “A call a few minutes ago to one of the people being monitored. A young man’s voice said only, ‘Meet me at four at the spot where I broke the window.’ ”
“That was all?” asked Tkach.
“That was all.”
“Can you play that part of the tape to me over the phone?”
“Yes,” said Maxim. “Give me just a few seconds.”
And, in fact, in no more than thirty seconds, Tkach heard a hum and a voice repeating the words, “Meet me at four at the spot where I broke the window.” Even with the distortion of the telephone line, Sasha recognized the voice of Ilyusha Malenko. He had not been sure that he would be able to do so, but as soon as he heard the first words he saw before him the young man and before the short sentence had ended, Sasha was again seeing the dangling body of the young woman.
“That’s him,” said Tkach. “Who was the call to?”
“Lvov, Simon Lvov.”
Tkach hung up and considered his alternative. He could wait for Rostnikov and chance missing Lvov, or he could go on his own and, assuming Lvov had not yet left his apartment, follow the old man to his meeting. Since Sasha knew both Lvov and Malenko by sight, it seemed reasonable not to wait. He scribbled a message to Rostnikov on the lined sheet and hurried out the door.
Emil Karpo was awake but his eyes were closed. He was aware that someone stood next to his bed. He was also aware that it was Rostnikov. The slight drag of the leg had given the older man away. There was a low level of conversation in the twelve-man ward, but no noise.
“Inspector,” said Karpo, opening his eyes.
“How do you assess your progress, Karpo?”
Something approaching a sad smile played on Rostnikov’s face. His coat collar, the left side, was awkwardly tucked under while his right stuck out at an angle. He was, Karpo knew, not a man dedicated to appearances.
“My eyes were closed not because of particular pain,” explained Karpo softly, “but because I am making all necessary efforts to allow my body to recover. I wish to get back to duty within a week.”
“The possibility exists,” said Rostnikov, sitting on the edge of the bed to ease the pressure on his leg, “that you will lose that arm.”
“I do not intend for that to happen,” said Karpo without emotion.
“Emil Karpo, you may have no choice,” Rostnikov responded masking quite distinct emotion. “The doctors are not going to consult with you.”
“It is out of the question,” Karpo said.
“There have been one-armed inspectors,” Rostnikov said, leaning over.
“That was during the war against the Germans, and only Baulfetroya in Kiev,” said Karpo, closing his eyes.
“I’m glad you came up with that. I had no examples in mind,” Rostnikov answered. The thought chain had struck like lightning. Kiev, where his son Iosef had been stationed. Now Afghanistan. The murder of one child and murder by another.
Karpo sensed the change in his visitor and opened his eyes to see Rostnikov looking at a spot of nothing on the brown woolen blanket.
“I’ll not lose the arm,” Karpo said. “You have work. I’ll be all right.”
“Are you dismissing me, Sergeant Karpo?” Rostnikov rallied.
“I am relieving you of responsibility,” said Karpo.
“I accept,” smiled Rostnikov.
“What has happened to Kroft?” Karpo added as Rostnikov rose to leave.
“Imprisoned. The trial will wait till you are well enough to testify. So the faster you recover, the faster you can return to battling enemies of the state like Kroft.”
“He saved my life,” said Karpo, his eyes closed again.
“So?”
“I think that might be taken into account.”
“Do you want it to be? In another sense, you might not be here if it were not for him.”
“It was not his fault that I got out of bed with a bad arm to pursue him. He could have waited another day or two,” said Karpo. “He is a confusing criminal in some ways.”
“I’ve seen many like him,” said Rostnikov, “but he did tell me something that may help.”
“In the Granovsky murder?” Karpo said, trying to reopen his eyes and failing.
“No, about the proper grip for a dead lift. Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
By the time Rostnikov got back to his office in Petrovka, Tkach had been gone almost forty minutes. The young officer had been wise enough to put the time in the right-hand corner of the message. Rostnikov called Maxim and asked if there was any other information. He had the impulse to get back in his car and race to Lvov’s apartment, but he checked himself. He could not really help. With his leg he was too slow and conspicuous to follow anyone around Moscow. Tkach would have to handle this himself.
At 5:15 a call came. Rostnikov then decided that he would have to tell Sarah that Iosef was in Afghanistan. It was her right to know and worry, and if he did not tell her and she found out that he knew all along, she would hold it against him. She would try not to, but it would be there. It had happened before for things of much less importance. The call had been brief. Colonel Drozhkin wanted to see him at K.G.B. headquarters at seven the following morning.
Tkach had arrived in front of Simon Lvov’s apartment just in time. He had been standing in the doorway of an apartment building across the street from Lvov’s for no more than five minutes when the figure of a tall old man in a long dark coat emerged. Although Tkach was more than one hundred yards from Lvov, the old man was unmistakable. His tall, stooped form and his thin face with horn-rimmed glasses were clear from the distance, and traffic was very light so that nothing stood in the way.