“In the last transmission before the rescue, Vladovka mentioned your name.”
“In what context?” asked Rostnikov, pausing as his hand reached over to close the notebook.
“There was no context. He simply said ‘Porfiry Petrovich Rostov.’”
“And was he not asked of this when he returned to earth?”
“I do not know. The fact that he mentioned your name is in the file before you. The reason he did so is not in the file you have before you.”
“Then I will begin by finding someone to whom I can ask the question,” said Rostnikov, rising far less awkwardly than he had when he first acquired his unresponsive leg. “He has a wife, children?”
“Wife died several months ago, cancer. No children. He has a father, brother, somewhere on a farm near St. Petersburg. He hasn’t seen them in years.”
“Then …”
“I have arranged for you to meet with the director of security at Star City. His name is Mikhail Stoltz. He spoke to the cosmonauts when they were brought back to earth.”
Rostnikov was up now. The Yak joined him.
“He had friends?”
“Vladovka is known to be a rather solitary man.”
“The other two cosmonauts on that flight?”
“One, Rodya Baklunov, died during an experiment on earth. He was a biologist. The other, Vladimir Kinotskin, works at Star City. It’s all in the file before you.”
“Final question,” said Rostnikov, tucking his notebook into his pocket and picking up the mug. “Why has it taken a year before anyone contacted me about this mention of my name in outer space?”
“That,” said the Yak, “you will have to ask Stoltz. And remember, do not question Vladovka when you find him. Simply find him and report his whereabouts to me.”
“And,” Rostnikov added, “I am to see to it that he remains where I locate him, or bring him to you if I believe he will run.”
“Precisely.”
Rostnikov nodded. The Yak had not said, “if you find him.” He had said, “when you find him.” This could be a sign of confidence in his chief inspector, but, Rostnikov knew, it also could be a warning. Find him, Porfiry Petrovich. Do not fail.
In the outer office, Rostnikov handed the cup to Pankov.
“You didn’t finish.”
“I had enough. It more than served its purpose. I thank you, Pankov.”
“You are welcome, Comra … Inspector Rostnikov.”
“It is hard to get rid of old habits, Pankov.”
“Very hard,” the little man said, sitting back in the chair behind his desk and placing the mug before him.
Rostnikov clasped his hands together and very gently tapped his knuckles against his chin as he looked toward the window, lost in thought.
“Can I help you with anything?” Pankov asked.
“No,” said Rostnikov. “I was thinking of flying benches and flying spheres and how thoughts come to us and sometimes make contact with flying mysteries which cannot be explained by our science. Where were you when the sky went berserk, Pankov?”
Not for the first time Pankov wondered if the chief inspector were more than slightly mad, not the everyday madness of almost all Russians but a special puzzling madness.
“You mean the storm? I was here, at my desk.”
“You heard? You felt?”
“Yes.”
“Were you frightened?”
“No, yes, maybe a little.”
Pankov did not like these odd conversations with Rostnikov, but at the same time Rostnikov was the only one who talked to Pankov as if he actually existed, had feelings, ideas.
“Good, sometimes it is good to be a little frightened.”
Pankov knew his office was wired by the director. He had learned this accidentally only a few months earlier, but he should have known, should have guessed. Now he was careful and spent much of his time trying to remember if he had said anything disloyal about the director since he had replaced Colonel Snitkonoy. Pankov longed for the old days when he served as loyal lap dog and admirer of the Gray Wolfhound. But they were gone and he had yet to figure out what his role should be with his new superior.
Inside his office, Director Yaklovev was not listening to the conversation between Pankov and Rostnikov. He was taping it but he had no intention of listening to it later. In fact, it had been weeks since he last eavesdropped on his secretary. The conversations he heard yielded nothing of interest. Pankov was nearly a perfect assistant. He did what he was told to do out of fear, and he was loyal to the director for the same reason.
The Yak had come to a conclusion soon after the Soviet Union had collapsed. Some of that conclusion was the result of observing the obvious, and some had come from drawing cautious conclusions about the future.
The obvious part of his conclusion was that there was no Russian governmental, political, or economic system. Communism had gone and been replaced by a loose confederacy of flexible and inflexible powers with Yeltsin as the spokesperson, a spokesperson posing as a strong man, with little or no idea of what he was representing. There was no system. There were no checks and balances. There was a duma that complained about, supported, and waited with fear for the fall of what now served as the government.
To the Americans and the West in general, Yeltsin and his ever-changing cabinet had asserted that Russia was now a capitalist democracy in which the people voted and the government acted on their behalf. Yes, thought the Yak, they voted, but in a system in which they had no idea of what the candidates really believed or what power they actually had. Perhaps there had been no time in history when a nation was run by leaders who had no idea of what the law was or what their own philosophy might be. The new president, Putin, was no better than Yeltsin, only more sober.
Yaklovev was reasonably sure the economy would collapse again, and perhaps again, and the government would fall, each time to be replaced by a leadership that walked the line between limited reforms and capitalism and a tempered socialism that would go by the nostalgic name of Communism, socialism, or something else it really was not.
The Yak was prepared. He had weighed the names of those who were likely to take over not only the next government but the one beyond that, and he had, through his office, systematically continued the agenda he had begun when still with the KGB. He would build a collection of evidence that could be used to obtain the gratitude of any faction or factions that succeeded. It was, perhaps, a unique agenda, one that would take him quite far if he was careful, and he intended to continue to be careful.
Yaklovev was not far from making his next career move. In little more than a year he had compiled documents and tapes that would embarrass some members of the government and the business community to the point where they would be happy to cooperate with him, providing he did not ask too much. The Yak did them all favors. He asked for little or nothing beyond their support, and he did not intend to ask for more than they would be willing to give. He was not after money. He wanted to be deputy minister of the Interior, to stay there and amass more for his files and to move up to the head of the ministry if and when the times were right.
Rostnikov had helped him. Rostnikov could help him even more. With this very case, Rostnikov could provide enough for Yaklovev to consider making that move. If the times were right.
He moved to his desk and thought for an instant of the sketch Rostnikov had made in his pad while they were talking. Yaklovev had caught only a glimpse of it, but the memory was clear.
Rostnikov had drawn a very reasonable likeness of a bird in flight. The bird’s right wing was bent at an odd angle, possibly broken, and there was a distinct tear in the bird’s eye as he looked downward, toward the earth, possibly for a place to land.
Rostnikov was eccentric. Igor Yaklovev had been told that before he became director. But Rostnikov was good, very good at his job, and those who worked with him were also good and loyal. That loyalty did not, Yaklovev knew, extend to the director, but he had an agreement with Rostnikov. Rostnikov would be given the assignments and have a free hand. When trouble arose, Yaklovev would do his best to protect Rostnikov and his group. He had proven many times that he would do so. Yaklovev knew that he was only as good as his word. Those he dealt with, friends and enemies, knew that if he declared or promised, the Yak would keep that declaration or promise. There were two conditions to his agreement with Rostnikov. First, Yaklovev would receive all the credit for the difficult cases resolved by the Office of Special Investigation. He would also accept all the responsibility for those not resolved. And so it was important that those cases which no one else wanted, those cases which were dumped on his office because they were politically sensitive or unlikely to be resolved, be dealt with successfully. The second condition was that Rostnikov and the other inspectors ask no questions about the disposal of cases. They were to bring in the information, and the director was to decide on its resolution with no questions asked.