“My wife,” explained the man, putting his axe against the wall but staying near as he ordered his son to pour tea for the two young visitors. The woman on the bed did not speak or move. She watched Ilyusha for a second and then fixed her eyes on Natasha Granovsky. Then she turned to the window, where her eyes remained.
“You can have some tea and bread,” said the man. “We haven’t much at the moment.”
“We are grateful for whatever you can share with us, and I’m sure-”
“Are they coming here?” the man interrupted.
“Who?” asked Ilyusha, starting to pull out his scissor, trying to determine if he could get to the man before the man reached the axe.
“Whoever is after you. The girl’s parents, brothers?”
“I-” began Ilyusha.
“When you finish, you leave,” said the man, gesturing to the boy, who hurried to refill the visitors’ cups with tea.
They ate in silence and rose.
Ilyusha asked the man if he was on the right road to his destination. The man replied that he was.
“In an hour, maybe less if the road is clear, you’ll come to Nartchev Road. Take it left.”
“We thank you,” said Ilyusha, taking the girl’s arm and leading her out the door. The boy and man remained inside. He urged the girl to hurry. When they reached the road, Ilyusha goaded her into a trot. He began to smile again. The sun was out, and he knew where he was going.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The night had been long for Rostnikov and Tkach as they dozed in his office. However, Rostnikov thought, it had been a much longer night for Sonya Granovsky and her daughter-if she were still alive-and for Emil Karpo, and even for Ilyusha Malenko.
The sun had not yet come up, but Rostnikov’s watch told him it was five in the morning. He looked at Tkach and was surprised to see the stubble of a yellow beard that made the junior inspector look even younger.
“Let’s shave,” Rostnikov said, clearing his throat. “I have a razor in a drawer here someplace.”
Rostnikov leaned over to open a drawer and discovered that the pain in his leg had neither gone away nor eased. He found the razor and handed it to Tkach, who took it with a nod and left the room.
As soon as he was gone, Rostnikov picked up the phone and called his home. Sarah answered before the second ring.
“I’m still in the office,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t tell you last night, but I have reason to believe that Iosef may be on his way back to Kiev or possibly on his way here.”
“How could you…” she began and stopped. “I don’t care. Is it true?”
“I think so,” he said quietly. “We’ll know soon.”
“What did you have to do to get this information?” Sarah said with sympathy.
“Nothing I don’t have to do every day of my life,” he said. “Now I must go back to work. I’ll let you know if anything…if I learn more.”
“You’ll be careful, Porfiry,” she said.
“About what?” he chuckled.
“I don’t know,” said his wife and hung up.
Tkach came back in five minutes, clean-shaven and bearing hot tea and hard rolls. Rostnikov ate quickly and took the razor.
“Can I use the phone to call my wife?” he asked Rostnikov, who limped painfully to the door.
“Call,” said Rostnikov.
His leg would not bend without great pain, so he marched stiff-legged past the desks of the few junior officers who were either still on duty from the night before or had come in early. A phone rang, and Zelach picked it up about fifteen feet in front of the slow-moving Rostnikov.
“Yes,” came the officer’s voice. “I understand. The location. Yes. Inspector.” Zelach had his hand over the mouthpiece as he called to Rostnikov. “I think we have a woman on the phone who had her car taken by Malenko.”
Rostnikov hobbled over to the desk and grabbed the phone.
“Yes,” he said swiftly.
“My name is Vera Alleyanovskya, and my car was stolen last night by a mad young man with a young girl.”
“Where did this happen and why didn’t you call us earlier?” Rostnikov said, motioning for Zelach to go to his office and get Tkach.
“I almost died in the woods,” she explained. “Some people on a farm took me in. They had no phone.”
“Tell me where you are, and I’ll have a man out there to pick you up immediately.”
She told him, and Rostnikov hung up just as Tkach moved to his side.
“Another chance, Sasha,” he said. “Take Zelach and a car and find this woman whose car was stolen. Try to follow Malenko’s trail.” Tkach nodded and motioned for Zelach to get his coat.
What, thought Rostnikov, is Malenko doing out there? The thinking of this madman still eluded him. He headed for the washroom, to shave. He would worry later about thinking.
By six in the morning, Emil Karpo was prepared for surgery. He lay in the preparation room next to another patient, a woman who, he heard, had a stomach cancer. They said nothing to each other. Karpo’s arm had ceased to hurt. It had no feeling at all, which allowed Karpo to channel his thoughts elsewhere.
“Emil,” came a voice through his thoughts. He looked up at Rostnikov, whose eyes were heavy with sleeplessness.
“Inspector,” said Karpo, his mouth surprisingly dry. He tried to lick his lips but there was no moisture. “They are going to take the arm.”
“I know Emil,” said Rostnikov.
“It will be a great inconvenience,” said Karpo, growing drowsy.
Rostnikov laughed. The sick woman prepared for surgery looked at him, as did a male nurse.
“A great inconvenience,” agreed Rostnikov. “I’ve asked Procurator Timofeyeva to assign us together permanently. You are too valuable an officer to lose over a disability. Many of us operate under disabilities. My leg…”
“I will be pleased to serve with you,” said Karpo, fighting sleep. “But there is something else. Something I have figured out that will be of value. How long will I be asleep from this procedure?”
“The doctor tells me it will be six or more hours before you can speak,” whispered Rostnikov.
“Too long,” said Karpo, his voice fading. Rostnikov had to lean forward to hear his words. “The sickle.”
“The sickle?”
“Yes,” said Karpo weakly, “the sickle. A rusty sickle and a rusty hammer. We thought it was political, but the hammer and sickle are more than a symbol. They are a symbol of something. The union of agriculture and labor. And you said Malenko was carrying a rusty scissors. Hammer, sickle, scissors. Tools, old farm tools. They are not political symbols. They are memories of his childhood. He was raised on a farm until he was ten, his father’s farm.”
“How can you remember such things?” Rostnikov shook his head.
“My job,” said Karpo, his voice fading. “My job.” And he was asleep.
Rostnikov moved away and took a doctor by the arm. The doctor was busy and glared at the inspector. But something in the heavy man’s eyes and the firmness of his grip made the doctor stop and pay attention.
“Is his life in danger?” asked Rostnikov softly.
“Yes,” said the doctor, who was dark and seemed foreign in some way. “But he will most likely survive. He is a very strong, determined man.”
“Yes,” agreed Rostnikov, letting the doctor’s arm go.
Rostnikov left the hospital and got back into his waiting car. Michael Veselivitch Dolguruki turned on the engine and drove into the street.
“May I ask Chief Inspector, how Sergeant Karpo is?” said Dolguruki.
“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “He is improving.”
Ten minutes later Rostnikov was at the office of Sergei Malenko’s factory. It was a large factory with machines and a modest office, but Malenko was not in the office. His secretary, a young man, informed Rostnikov reluctantly that Malenko was at a meeting with some foreigners at the Praga Restaurant. Rostnikov was welcome to wait, but Rostnikov had no intention of waiting. Natasha Granovsky might still be alive. He went out of the factory and stepped into the silence of the street. It was only then that he realized how noisy the factory had been and understood why Sergei Malenko had been so slow to respond to him during the interview at his dacha. He was probably partly deaf. The price Malenko had paid for his success was mounting.