“No,” she cried. “No.”
“What is wrong here?” Rostnikov whispered moving away from the sofa toward the trembling woman. “Is he in there with your daughter?”
Her head shook violently to deny it, but Rostnikov could take no more. He looked around for a weapon, settled for one of the wooden chairs, picked it up easily, and limped to the closed door.
“No,” whimpered Sonya Granovsky, but Rostnikov did not hesitate. He threw his shoulder into the door, hoping that Malenko was right behind it listening and would be taken by surprise. The surprise was Rostnikov’s. He hurtled into the room and rolled onto the bed and against the wall. He righted himself as quickly as he could, prepared for an attack but nothing came. Sunlight came through the window, and he could see no one but himself in a wall mirror, looking foolish on the floor with a chair cradled in his arms. He pulled himself up as Sonya Granovsky entered the room.
“Where is your daughter, Sonya Granovsky?” he demanded.
“He took her,” she said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Viktor Shishko sat at his German-made typewriter in the office of the Moscow Pravda, turning the bit of information given him by Comrade Ivanov into a story. It was an important story dealing with the swift apprehension of the killer of Aleksander Granovsky. Viktor Shishko had been a reporter in Moscow for more than thirty years and had covered only two murder stories. He was well aware that dozens of murders took place every day in and around Moscow, but few of them were made known to anyone but the police and the people involved. Occasionally, though, there was a purpose to be served by publicity. Viktor Shishko found it easy to guess what the purpose was in this case, but he had no intention of sharing his conjecture with anyone else. When the story was finished, he would read it to Comrade Ivanov, who in turn would read it to someone who served the Party as liaison with the several investigatory agencies. Viktor had been through it all before and knew that the story would come back with small changes, cautious wording, though he himself was doing his best to be careful and anticipate the reason for the publication of the story.
Other writers, editors, and staff people, men and women, bustled past Viktor as he composed his short story:
Aleksander Granovsky, 42, former professor of history at Moscow University, was murdered last night by a cab driver with whom he had frequently quarreled. The cab driver, Mikel Vonovich, 39, wounded a police officer attempting to apprehend him. Trial will be held on the sixth of the month.
Shishko examined his brief story with satisfaction. He had omitted Granovsky’s reputation as a dissident and the fact that Granovsky was due to go on trial the morning after his death. He had also moved the date of Granovsky’s murder up one day to show how swiftly the police had caught the murderer. As an extra precaution, he had not included information about Vonovich’s black market activity. It was not his function to anticipate the political consequences of such things. Therefore, he did not include them. If the party liaison wanted those things in for good reason, then he or she could put them in.
As for the rest-the shooting of the young man in the liquor store by Sasha Tkach; the shooting of the police officer by the dead boy; Emil Karpo’s arm; Malenko’s murder of his wife and a cab driver and the kidnapping of the dissident’s daughter-Viktor Shishko knew nothing. And neither, therefore, would the people of Moscow.
Dark clouds had come back over Moscow, promising more snow. Through Anna Timofeyeva’s window, Rostnikov watched the clouds push their way in front of the feeble sun. Rostnikov was in a bad mood.
“And?” asked Procurator Timofeyeva, looking particularly dyspeptic.
“And, Ilyusha Malenko attempted to rape Sonya Granovsky,” he said.
“Attempted?”
“He was unable to do so.”
“She resisted?”
“No, she agreed to be quiet so as not to disturb her daughter sleeping in the next room, but Malenko could not consummate the action,” Rostnikov said carefully. He had no idea what Procurator Timofeyeva thought about sex as a personal act or a potentially criminal one. Surely, she had been involved in enough cases to have an opinion.
“Then?”
“Yes, then,” Rostnikov went on, “he got angry. He went in and got the girl and said he was taking her with him. That he would be back for the mother when he had given the daughter what justice demanded.”
“How old is the girl?” Timofeyeva asked, looking down at her notes for an answer.
“Fourteen,” said Rostnikov. “Sonya Granovsky was told that if she mentioned what had happened, he would kill the girl, which he probably intends to do anyway.”
“But he might not?”
“He might not,” Rostnikov agreed.
There was silence in the room for a few seconds and then the distant rumbling of thunder. The room had grown quite dark, and Anna Timofeyeva rose to turn on the lights.
“And Malenko said to her that he had killed her husband?”
“That is what he said.”
“He could have been lying,” she went on, moving to her desk again. “He knew Granovsky was dead. He had killed his wife.”
“Possible, of course,” agreed Rostnikov. “Perhaps when we find him we can discover more.”
“Awkward, very awkward,” Anna Timofeyeva said between clenched teeth. Her breathing was heavy now, troubled. “What are you doing to find him?”
“We are trying to find out how he could get wherever he is through the streets of Moscow holding a crying young girl at the point of a scissors without anyone noticing.”
“He had an accomplice,” tried the procurator, opening her desk drawer to search for something. She found a small bottle of pills Rostnikov had never seen.
“Possible again, but not likely. It is more reasonable to suppose that he has also kidnapped the driver of a car, has stolen a car or has taken a cab and convinced the driver that nothing was amiss. I have some men checking on cabs, seeing if any cars have been reported missing. If he kidnapped a driver, it might be tomorrow before we find out about it if a relative calls the person in as missing.”
“And meanwhile?” asked Timofeyeva, gulping down two white pills and ignoring Rostnikov’s look of sympathy.
“I have a man guarding Sonya Granovsky’s apartment, another man watching the house of Malenko’s father. I’ve taken the liberty of doing all of this in your name, comrade.”
She waved a thick hand to indicate that it was, of course, all right to do so.
“The Procurator General is almost at the end of his term,” said Anna Timofeyeva softly. “Did you know that, Porfiry?”
“I was aware,” he said. He wondered if the pills she had taken were for pain and, if so, if they would help to relieve the agony in his leg. The run up the stairs to the Granovsky apartment would be something to regret for days, maybe long enough to ruin his training and end any hope of the park competition.
“He would like to be reappointed,” she went on. “It would be unprecedented to have such a second appointment. It would be very much to my advantage to have him reappointed, Porfiry. And if it is to my advantage, it is to yours. Do you understand?”
“I am to be discreet about my investigation,” he said.
“I needn’t tell you that my interests are not selfish,” she said, rubbing the bridge of her nose, an act which, Rostnikov noticed, she did more and more frequently. “The Procurator is a good man, a good Party member, a just man. If he remains in office, we can continue our work as we have.”
“It will be borne in mind.”
“Go, Porfiry, and report to me when you know anything, anything at all. I will be right here through the night. And one more thing.”
“Yes,” grunted Rostnikov as he forced himself out of the chair.
“I would prefer that you reserve your maudlin sympathy when you come in here. Some might find it touching, but I find your concern merely burdensome. For example, I have of course noticed the extreme pain you are in from your leg. But my feeling about it must be put aside for the sake of our efficient functioning. We have tasks which must come before human weakness. We have goals for a better future.”