“I am sorry,” said Rostnikov.
“I killed Sister Nina for the family I never had,” Petrov said, his head bowed. “For the secret she had kept for him. I was mad. I killed her to keep that secret and now I’ve told you and-”
“Where is Peotor?” asked Rostnikov.
“In the tower of the church,” said Petrov. “I was going to kill him, to keep him quiet, but I couldn’t. My brother is worth more than my honor. I am very tired.”
Petrov stood up and looked around the room as if it were some completely unfamiliar landscape. “Comrade Inspector,” he said. “Do you have a wife?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
“Children?”
“A son.”
“Parents?”
“Long since dead.”
“Consider what it is worth to destroy the name of a beloved priest and the family of his child,” said Petrov, leaning forward, both hands on the table.
“You must go to trial. I have no choice, Vadim Petrov?”
“I will give you one,” said Petrov, picking up the bread knife.
As the knife rose Rostnikov put his hands against the table and shoved. Petrov tumbled backward. Though his leg kept Rostnikov from lunging forward, he did manage to shove the heavy table out of the way as the door opened and Karpo ran in followed by Misha Gonsk.
“Wait,” cried Petrov, his back against the wall.
The three policemen hesitated and Vadim Petrov plunged the bread knife into his throat.
From the window through which the crow had looked the day before, Klamkin the Frog watched Petrov’s suicide. He had heard little of the conversation, but enough for his needs.
He hurried back into town and attempted to reach Colonel Lunacharski by phone, but the colonel had left his office and no one was sure where he had gone.
Instead of waiting for the four o’clock train, Klamkin went to the home of a former KGB informant in Arkush. Colonel Lunacharski had supplied him with the name.
The woman had not been happy to see the ugly man at her door. She wanted to tell him that she was no longer able to perform any duties in Arkush, but recognized that this was not a man one wanted for an enemy.
She let him take her car, a very old Moscova, which he promised to return “soon.”
Klamkin first drove to the Arkush telephone exchange, a small white stone building on the road back to Moscow. The exchange handled all calls from the region. It took Klamkin no more than five minutes to destroy the new cable into the building. There was no way, he was sure, that it could be repaired till the next day, at the earliest.
Getting to Moscow was not easy. The roads were in need of repair. Buses blocked the lanes and wrecks slowed down traffic, but Klamkin had no choice. He had to be patient. When he finally arrived in Moscow, he called the office of the Gray Wolfhound, identified himself as a representative of the new minister of the interior, and demanded to know where Colonel Snitkonoy was.
Pankov held out for seven whole seconds.
Klamkin caught up with Colonel Lunacharski just as he was about to enter the elevator to the Seventh Heaven Restaurant in the TV Tower.
After listening to Klamkin’s report, Lunacharski took the roughly written sheets the Frog handed him and read them quickly. A trio of Japanese businessmen moved past him as he read.
Lunacharski was clad in a conservative gray suit and blue tie. He carried a very slim briefcase that he opened a crack so that he could drop the report into it. “Good,” he said. “Very good. Go back to my office. I’ll be there when I am finished here.”
Satisfied, Klamkin the Frog walked back into the cold Moscow darkness.
Since Colonel Lunacharski had arrived almost an hour before the scheduled meeting with the Wolfhound, he had plenty of time to call the general, give a full report, and still be more than half an hour early. He announced himself to the maître d’, giving his full title. The maître d’, a dour old man with a white mustache, was unimpressed. He led Lunacharski across the slowly rotating floor to a table near the broad window, where Colonel Snitkonoy was sipping a glass of mineral water.
“Ah, Colonel,” said the Wolfhound, rising to his full height and extending his hand to the man who stood nearly a full foot below him, “you are early.”
“I was nearby,” said Lunacharski, shaking the extended hand and sitting down quickly.
“As was I,” said Colonel Snitkonoy. “As was I.”
The Wolfhound had chosen to come in full uniform minus the medals. It was clear that other diners recognized him and pointed him out to their companions. Colonel Snitkonoy succeeded in appearing oblivious to the attention. “May I recommend the Strogonoff,” he said. “One of their better dishes, though recently a bit deficient in beef.”
“I’ll have bread and some soup,” said Lunacharski.
The opening of this dinner meeting had been a decided defeat for Lunacharski, but the entrée, he was sure, would be his to savor.
“You know General Piortnonov?” asked the Wolfhound. “Special Political Branch?”
“By name only,” said Lunacharski.
“Old friend,” said Snitkonoy. “Haven’t seen him for several years, though I understand he is back in Moscow.”
“So I understand,” said Lunacharski.
“If you happen to run into him …” said the Wolfhound.
“I will give him your regards,” said Lunacharski, accepting a glass of sparkling mineral water from an elderly waiter and reaching down for his briefcase. “I really do not have much time, Colonel. I am here to offer you some assistance.”
“In these trying times it is reassuring that there are those who wish to offer assistance,” said the Wolfhound, smiling sadly.
“I have information on two cases which have been assigned to your department,” Lunacharski said. He removed two envelopes from the briefcase and placed them on the table. “I have already passed the information on to my superiors.”
Snitkonoy nodded and looked out the window. “There, look, the Cosmos Pavilion. Impressive. The sun against its dome.”
“Very impressive,” said Colonel Lunacharski without looking. “The first case involves the death of the priest in Arkush. We have evidence to identify the killer. I have the authority, should you agree, to turn this over to your office. You will have full credit for the discovery, but you will sign a report which is now being prepared in the office of General Karsnikov indicating that I was the source of the information which led you to the arrest and apprehension.”
“Vadim Petrov,” said the Gray Wolfhound. The restaurant floor slowly rotated away from the Cosmos, and the tip of the Vostok space rocket appeared above the roof of the Mechanization and Electrification Agriculture Pavilion.
Colonel Lunacharski placed his hands in his lap.
“Petrov was an ardent party member who detested the Church and feared its renewed position in a besieged Soviet Union,” explained the Wolfhound. “Poor man killed the nun and then, when confronted, confessed to two of my men and committed suicide.”
“When did you get this information?”
“Oh, an hour ago, maybe two. The phone lines are down in Arkush. There is speculation that it is the work of angry Marxists,” said the Wolfhound. “One of my men, Inspector Karpo, brought me the news by motorcycle. I filed a report immediately with Secretary Panyushkin in President Yeltsin’s office.”
“Then we will simply forget my offer,” said Lunacharski.
“A very generous offer,” said the Wolfhound as the elderly waiter approached with two plates of food. “I know you are not hungry. Please forgive me, but I took the liberty of ordering the Strogonoff. It is my treat. I hope you will try it.”