“You cannot go back to your skinhead anti-Semitic friends,” Nikoli said. “They know you are a Jew. Sit down. We will talk. First, I want to get medical attention for your brother. Then, I consider that you think about this offer. I will send you to South America. We have holdings, a television station in Buenos Aires. That is what I have planned for you. I can see no choice, Misha.”
“You are wrong,” Misha shouted. “There is no Misha Lovski. There is only the Naked Cossack.”
The gun was leveled at the man behind the desk now, and Misha had closed the distance to no more than ten feet. It was at this point that Emil Karpo stepped between father and son.
“I will shoot you too,” said Misha. “Get out of the way. “
From behind the ghost before him, Nikoli Lovski said, “In a very odd way, I am proud of you, Misha. I did not think escape was possible. There is hope for you. You still have a brain.”
“With no thanks to you, Popchick,” Misha said with venom. “Now, out of the way, you.”
“You have never fired a gun before,” said Karpo.
There was something hollow in the man’s voice, something hollow, unafraid, something almost dead.
“I have,” said Misha.
“I am a policeman,” Karpo said. “You may put the gun away and we will accompany you out of here. If not, you will have to shoot me and you will have failed in your resolve. My partner will kill you before you have a chance to shoot your father, who will fall to the floor behind his desk as soon as you shoot me.”
Zelach felt a quiver run down his back. He was not at all certain he could accomplish this mission, could shoot his second man the same day, but he did not fail to notice that Karpo had called him “partner” and not “associate.”
“We shall see,” Misha shouted. “Live to fight another day,” said Zelach. “When death is near don’t run away, but hide until the strength is yours, the true cossack always endures.”
Misha turned to look at the odd rumpled man in glasses who was reciting Misha’s own words, words from one of his distinctly lesser-known songs from a compact disk that had sold but a few thousand copies.
“You know my work?” Misha said.
Zelach nodded and said, “I would not like to shoot you. I do not know much about South America, but I believe you could begin a new career anywhere. You have something new to say now.”
Misha looked at the rumpled man whose brow was definitely moist. And then he looked at the ghost before him.
Zelach willed neither Nikoli Lovski nor Emil Karpo to speak. He did not know where his own words had come from but he feared that either of the other two might, for very different reasons, say something that would cause Misha to pull the trigger.
“He deserves to die,” Misha said.
“We all deserve to die,” said Karpo.
Zelach cringed.
“I need revenge,” said Misha angrily. “I need revenge. Do you not understand? That is the cossack way. I cannot let this pass. I cannot live with this.”
Zelach was at a loss. This conversation was beyond him. He needed Porfiry Petrovich or even the old Emil Karpo, not the one standing there asking to be shot, but neither was present.
“There are many ways to get revenge,” Zelach said. “Do not be what others demand. Listen to your own command. Follow the path you wish to choose. Leave the bloodsuckers behind to live and lose.”
“Apache Cannibals?” Misha asked.
“No,” said Zelach. “The Finnish band Living Dead.”
“I do not know them,” said Misha. “They are good?”
“I like them,” said Zelach.
Karpo stepped forward, his chest inches from the barrel of the gun in Misha’s hand.
“Leave the bloodsuckers behind to live and lose,” Misha repeated to himself.
Karpo reached out and took the weapon from the young man’s hand.
Misha Lovski, the Naked Cossack, crumpled to his knees.
Zelach moved forward quickly and grabbed the young man before he passed out. Karpo had stepped to one side.
The last image Misha had before he closed his eyes was of his father behind the desk, looking at his son with eyes distinctly moist.
The last sound he heard before fainting was of his father on the phone, saying to someone, “Get to the cell. My son is in there. Get him to a hospital.”
Chapter Seven
The world is long, there is no consolation
For those who join at the end of the line
The skeletons were at the feast
"We get snow. Don’t get me wrong. We get snow in Cincinnati, but look at that. Look out that window.”
The old American, Susman, was seated at a table near the rear of the dining car, an empty seat beside him.
Rostnikov had paused next to the little bald man who now said, “Have a seat?”
With his usual difficulty Rostnikov sat next to the old man, checking his watch quickly. In less than an hour they would be arriving at the Sverdlovsk-Pass station, Ekaterinburg.
“You a religious man?” asked Susman, looking out the window again.
“I have a respect for the mystical,” said Rostnikov. “The wonders of existence.”
“Me, too,” said the American. “But can’t say I understand it. Life. Hell, I’m feeling small today. You know what I mean?”
“I do,” said Rostnikov.
“Overcast,” said the American. “Sometimes I wonder …”
“The sun,” said Rostnikov.
The man turned to the Russian with a smile. “Yes, the sun. It looks big to us but it’s just a pip-squeak of a star.”
“You are intrigued by the heavens?” Rostnikov asked.
“I’m an astronomer,” said the American. “Retired. Professor emeritus, Ohio State University.”
Rostnikov nodded and they went silent for a moment before the detective asked, “Is the sun shrinking?”
The American smiled and said, “Follow this. The solar radius is four hundred and forty-one thousand miles and is ninety-three million miles away. It subtends an angle of thirty arc minutes at this distance, so … you’re not following?”
“No.”
“The sun’s not shrinking. If the sun were shrinking by three percent it would be a two-hundred-mile-a-year loss. If it were shrinking at one hundred times smaller than this, astronomers would have noticed a long time ago. The size of the sun hasn’t changed over the last one hundred million years. If it had changed, even a minute part of a fraction, we would have gone into a global heat wave or ice age. In fact, the sun is expanding.”
“Expanding?”
“In five or six billion years, the sun will become a red giant star, swell to be the size of the entire orbit of the earth,” Susman said with enthusiasm, turning fully to face Rostnikov. “In a few hundred million years, there won’t be much life on earth, maybe thermophilic bacteria that can live in nearly boiling water.”
“I see,” said Rostnikov.
“I’m sorry. This kind of information seems to scare lay people.”
“It has implications,” said Rostnikov.
“Yes,” said the American, sitting back. “But, hell, within a few-dozen centuries, we should have the technology to pack everyone up and move them to another galaxy. No more America,” said Susman.
“No more Russia,” said Rostnikov.
“We’ll probably start the battle for new nations the day the first colonists reach a reasonably inhabitable planet near Alpha Centuri,” said Susman.
Rostnikov sat silently for a beat and looked past Susman at the sky before asking, “How long have you known Mr. Allberry?”
“Bob? Met him in the railroad station in Moscow. Came right up and introduced himself, said he’d been told there was a fellow American in his compartment. We hit it off right away. Never know where or when you’ll make friends.”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “Do you know where Mr. Allberry is now?”
“Back in the compartment, I’d guess.”
“No, I just came from there. I was looking for him.”
Susman looked at Rostnikov with curiosity.
“I was in Rostov during the war,” Rostnikov said. “The same area where Mr. Allberry was an intelligence liaison.”