“I cannot tell you. You can take my job, put me in prison even, but I am sworn to secrecy.”
“There may well have been something in his diary or in another file that would help us find his murderer. You have willfully destroyed potential evidence,” said Karpo.
Vanga smiled ruefully. “I didn’t think of it that way. I just thought of what I had promised my friend.”
“You are under arrest, Dr. Andrei Vanga,” said Karpo. “For possible concealment of knowledge regarding a murder, and for suspicion of murder.”
“Why? Are you joking? Why would I kill my friend, my colleague?”
Karpo handed the disk to Tayumvat, who took it carefully by the edges, and then Karpo stepped toward Vanga, who backed away.
“Wait, wait,” said Vanga. “What if I were to tell you what secrets he had in his diary, why he didn’t want it seen? What if I did that?”
Karpo paused, and Tayumvat looked up with a smile that showed he anticipated another lie.
“Bolskanov was a homosexual,” said Vanga.
“That’s it?” said Tayumvat. “You can do no better than ‘Bolskanov was a homosexual’?”
“And …” Vanga said, his voice breaking, “and he had committed crimes when he was young, terrible crimes, crimes of which he was very much ashamed. He stole other people’s work, passed it on as his own.”
“A terrible crime,” Tayumvat said with a shake of his head. “Come, Vanga, this has turned into the most interesting human contact I have had in half a century. Don’t disappoint me. Don’t disappoint Inspector Karpo. Tell us more terrible crimes.”
“What and … oh … yes, let me … he murdered someone, many years ago, in … in Lithuania, Kaunas. And in another country.”
“Much better,” said Tayumvat.
“Why?” asked Karpo.
“Why what?” said Vanga.
“Why did he kill these other people?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”
“In any case, you are guilty of concealing a murder, possibly several murders,” said Karpo.
“But that was in another country,” said Vanga. “Lithuania is no longer part of greater Russia, which may be good or bad, depending on your politics. But that is another country now and I do not know who he murdered. I think it was a cab driver. No, a-yes, it was a cab driver.”
Vanga looked at Karpo, whose face revealed nothing, and then at Tayumvat, whose face revealed everything in its myriad lines and shadows.
“You don’t believe me,” Vanga said. “You think I am lying.”
“You are under arrest,” said Karpo.
“I stand by what I have told you,” said Vanga indignantly. “I stand by the memory of my best friend and his wishes.”
“But you told us his secrets,” said Tayumvat. “In a bizarre attempt to save yourself, you told us what you had supposedly sworn to destroy. I wash my hands of you. Consistency is essential if one is to propose a scientific theory, especially one who works with the paranormal. You can’t even create a decent lie. I will but guess why you killed Bolskanov. It was you who stole something from him, an article, speech. He caught you. You killed him.”
“I don’t need to steal someone else’s ideas and work,” Vanga said.
“Yes, you do,” said Tayumvat. “You can’t come up with an original thought of your own.”
“I will get a good attorney,” said Vanga. “I will see to it that you, Inspector Karpo, are dismissed from service. I will demand an apology from the highest levels.”
“Karpo,” said Tikon Tayumvat, “at my age I don’t wish to hear rehashed speeches from old television shows. Please, the scene is over. Take me home and take him away.”
And that is just what Emil Karpo did.
Chapter Thirteen
“We will walk back rather slowly,” said Rostnikov to his son and Tsimion Vladovka. “For two reasons. First, I am incapable of moving quickly, and, second, I do not want our driver, Laminski, to think that anything is wrong. I am sure he would prefer that nothing be wrong. Iosef, engage him. Tell Ivan Laminski of your exploits in the theater or in Afghanistan or with women. Smile, listen to him, and reassure him that everything is fine and that we will soon be going to St. Petersburg.”
Iosef nodded as they moved forward through the field. Rostnikov turned his head to Tsimion and said, “And you will come with me. We will talk calmly of farming. I will ask a question. You will answer. And we will improvise if your father comes out of the house.”
“I have grown accustomed to improvising,” said Tsimion.
“I like the smell of freshly harvested potatoes,” said Rostnikov as they cleared the field and neared the farmhouse. Laminski stood waiting. He adjusted his blue uniform as they approached. He said nothing, but there was certainly a look of curiosity in his less-than-brilliant eyes. Iosef moved toward the somewhat bewildered driver.
“What? …” Laminski began.
“I’ll explain,” said Iosef. “I made a mistake. There was no reason for me to go running after Inspector Rostnikov. He had forgotten to take some medication and I wanted to be sure he got it quickly.”
“Are there parts of Russia where potatoes grow better?” asked Porfiry Petrovich, loud enough for the driver to hear them.
“Different, not better necessarily,” said Tsimion. “There are different kinds of potato. In this region …”
And they were inside the door. Tsimion closed it behind them. They found Boris in the kitchen, alone with the corpse. Boris was sitting at the table, looking down at the body of the man who had called himself Primazon. The dead man was sprawled awkwardly, one leg straight, the other bent backwards in an L. He was on his back. His head was turned toward the nearest wall and he was looking upward at a spot where there was nothing to see. His umbrella lay a foot or so away.
Boris looked up at his son and the detective.
“He said he wanted to talk to Konstantin,” Boris said, looking at Rostnikov. “I could see in his eyes that he knew, just as I saw in your eyes that you knew. It was the way he said it. I was certain.”
Rostnikov sat in a chair and motioned to Tsimion to do the same.
“Where are the women, the child?” asked Rostnikov.
“Where? I don’t know. I think they are in my bedroom.”
“Did they see? …” asked Rostnikov.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” said Boris.
“My son says they did not.”
“Good,” said Boris.
“I think it would be a good idea for your son to go to them, comfort them, explain that our friend on the floor was here for bad reasons, but that everything will now be fine.”
Tsimion rose, nodded in understanding, and put his hand on his fathers shoulder. Boris put his hand on top of his son’s. And then Tsimion moved toward the bedrooms.
“Money is tight for our government security services,” said Rostnikov. “That umbrella has an ejection button. By pressing it … it is on the handle … by pressing the button, a very thin needle with a very lethal dose of poison pops out. Death is swift and looks like a stroke or a heart attack to all but the best pathologists. It is an effective but rather old means of murder. The Bulgarians used it a great deal. Too much. There are far better ways, but they cost more. And I think our dead Primazon preferred this method. Are you following me, Boris Vladovka?”
“Yes,” he answered, staring at the dead man. “I’ve never killed before.”
“I, on six occasions, have killed,” said Rostnikov. “It was, I believe, necessary in all six of those instances. At least it is what I have told myself. Four of those killed were Nazis during the war.”
“You are too young to have been a soldier,” Boris said.
“I was a boy soldier. There were many of us, some barely ten, some even younger. My leg was injured during the war.”
“You said four Nazis. The other two, the ones you killed?”
“I am a policeman. It happens. I am not proud of what I did, but it was necessary, and like you, Vladovka, I killed one of them with my hands. I believed I had to kill to protect myself and a very small child.”