The Yak said nothing, sat with hands folded before him on the wooden table. There was nothing in front of him. In a few moments there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” called Yaklovev, and the diminutive Pankov entered, juggling a small tray with two cups.
Pankov moved slowly, afraid of dropping the coffee, and placed a cup before the director and another before the chief inspector. The Yak’s was black. The chief inspector’s was white with two sugars. Pankov took the small tray and departed.
“He is learning to make better coffee,” said the Yak after taking a sip.
“Much better,” Rostnikov agreed.
“Progress?” asked Yaklovev.
“Closure on all three current investigations,” said Porfiry Petrovich, handing the director three reports in clean manila folders.
His leg was definitely bothering him. He would have to see Leon, his wife’s cousin, for an adjustment to his prosthesis. The park competition was coming soon. With any pain it would be difficult to lift.
“Andrei Vanga, director of the Center for the Study of Technical Parapsychology, has been arrested for the murder of Sergei Bolskanov,” said Rostnikov, taking a sip of coffee and opening his pad.
“The motive?”
“The theft of Bolskanov’s research. Vanga had produced nothing of note in almost two decades. He was afraid of losing his job and his reputation.”
“And now he has lost both,” said Yaklovev. “He has friends and enemies.”
“Bolskanov’s research paper is contained on a computer disk in the report before you,” said Rostnikov, beginning to draw.
If the research was worth theft and murder, thought Yaklovev, it might well be of value to certain prominent people behind the center. They would definitely be grateful for the swift conclusion of the investigation and for the disk, of which Igor Yaklovev would make a copy.
“And Kriskov is dead?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “We did not succeed in protecting him.”
“But the stolen negative has been recovered.”
“Sasha Tkach and Elena Timofeyeva recovered it,” said Rostnikov, letting his fingers mindlessly create the image on the pad.
“They are to be commended,” said the Yak.
“Some time off with pay for Sasha Tkach would be …”
“He is a hero,” said the Yak. “His picture was on television, in the newspaper. He generated very positive promotion for our office. He risked his life to save a boy. He can have a week.”
“Three would be better,” said Rostnikov.
“Three,” Yaklovev agreed.
“Elena Timofeyeva believes Kriskov’s wife was a party to the crime,” said Rostnikov.
“Is there any evidence of this?”
“None. Valery Grachev died insisting he acted alone.”
“Then tell Elena Timofeyeva that she will be commended and the issue dropped.”
Rostnikov nodded.
“And the cosmonaut?”
“Vladovka is dead,” said Rostnikov.
“And so is a State Security operative who was assigned to protect him,” said the Yak. “Died in a St. Petersburg alley, apparently the victim of a random mugging.”
“I have heard something of that,” said Rostnikov. “Others will be sent to investigate, I presume.”
“It is a reasonable presumption, Chief Inspector.”
“It would be better if they did not,” said Rostnikov.
The Yak finished his coffee, patted the reports before him, and took the small package being handed to him by Rostnikov.
“You might prefer that Konstantin Vladovka, the brother of Tsimion Vladovka the cosmonaut, not be bothered,” said Rostnikov.
Rostnikov looked over at the package that lay before the director.
Yaklovev opened the package and found a cassette.
“That will explain,” said Rostnikov.
“I am sure you did your best to save Vladovka,” said the Yak.
“While I would far prefer that he remain buried, if it becomes essential for him to be resurrected, it might be a good idea that the resurrection take place when the dead man is somewhere safe, perhaps France or the United States. I would like to think that what is on that tape will protect a dead man.”
The Yak nodded and played with the cassette.
“If what is on the tape is of value, I believe I have the power to keep State Security and Mikhail Stoltz from the village of Kiro-Stovitsk. One more question and you may leave. I’ll give you new assignments tomorrow.”
Rostnikov looked up.
“What have you just drawn?”
Rostnikov turned the pad and slid it across the table to Yaklovev, who looked down at it.
“It looks like two fat worms,” he said.
“The tape will explain,” said Rostnikov, getting up, deciding that he would see Leon that very day.
When the chief inspector had left the room, Yaklovev rose, tapping the cassette against the palm of his open hand, and moved to his desk where he kept his tape recorder.
He pulled the tape recorder from his desk drawer, placed it on his desk, inserted the tape, and pressed the play button.
“Fat worms,” he said, shaking his head and wondering if his eccentric chief inspector might be going mad.
“My name is Tsimion Vladovka,” came a voice with an echo behind it. “I was a cosmonaut and I have kept a terrible secret about my last flight.”
Before the tape was over, Igor Yaklovev had decided that his chief inspector was not mad and that what he was listening to might well be the most valuable possession in his collection of well-protected secrets.
He would make his usual three copies, as he did of all documents and tapes for his private file, and while he was doing so would decide how best to make use of what he had. He was fairly certain that he would soon be having a talk with Mikhail Stoltz.
And that afternoon-
“You have a body for me?” asked Paulinin as Emil Karpo made his way through the tables and specimens.
“I have lunch for you,” said Karpo.
“Lunch is fine. A corpse would make it better. They’ve taken my scientist and cosmonaut. I have no one to talk to now except the living. I prefer to talk to you and the dead.”
“I accept the compliment,” said Karpo.
“It is simply the truth,” said Paulinin.
Paulinin had what appeared to be a rusty automobile part in front of him. He was working at it with a fine-haired brush. Karpo opened the bag in his hand and stood across the table, lit by the bright overhead light casting black shadows.
“Do you think I am mad because I talk to the dead, Emil Karpo? Do you ever talk to the dead?”
“Yes,” Karpo said. “I talk to the dead.”
“Do they answer you as they answer me when I probe and explore them?”
“No,” said Karpo. “I talk to only one dead person. She does not answer. For me it must simply suffice that I talk to her.”
“I understand,” said Paulinin. “In many ways we are alike, you and I. In many ways. That is why we are friends.”
“Yes,” said Karpo. “I must acknowledge that. If it were not so, I would not be talking to you as I am, telling you things that I do not even tell Porfiry Petrovich and do not even tell myself.”
“What did you bring?”
“Cheese, bread, water. And two apples.”
Paulinin looked up from the rusty metal, still holding the brush, wiped his chin with his sleeve, and adjusted his glasses.
“Let us eat.”
A knock at her door brought Anna Timofeyeva out of her near slumber. She had been sitting at her window with her cat, Baku, in her ample lap, looking out on the concrete courtyard where children played, mothers and grandmothers sat on benches and talked, and a regular group of jobless men gathered in a far corner to smoke, complain, and make weak jokes about those who were better or worse off than they were.
The door was locked, as were all apartment doors in Moscow, so she had to rouse herself, place Baku on the floor, and make her way across the room. The first step made her dizzy and irritable. Not long ago, before two heart attacks sent her into retirement, Anna had been a procurator, a rising and respected figure in the Soviet Union. Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov had worked under her. They had all worked under her, and she had worked tirelessly to enforce the law, to bring those who offended the State to judgment.