“You are lying,” she said, starting to back away.
Rostnikov limped a step toward her.
The young woman turned to run and found her way blocked by Sasha Tkach. The woman tried to dart past the young man but Sasha reached out and grabbed the woman’s wrist with one hand as he reached into her coat pocket with the other to remove a wrapped package about the size of a paperback novel.
When he had placed it in his pocket, the young woman was released.
“I want my money,” she said, turning to Rostnikov.
“We can arrest you,” he said. “We can also let you walk away. We give you the choice.”
The young woman looked at the two who had stopped her, bumped into a woman carrying a bulging shopping bag, and ran away.
“We got it,” Sasha said, handing the package to Rostnikov. “What do you think it is?”
Rostnikov unzipped the duffel bag and placed the package inside.
“There are questions to which it is best we not know the answer. I have a cab waiting.”
They moved to the cab and got in.
“Extra for a second passenger,” said the cabbie.
“We are policemen from Moscow,” said Rostnikov. “Consider the pizza your extra fare.”
“Where do you want to go now?”
“The airport,” said Rostnikov.
“You just got here,” said the cabbie. “You came all the way from Moscow to look at a statue?”
“We collected a souvenir,” said Rostnikov.
It took them a little over an hour to arrange for a military plane at Koltsovo Airport to take them to Moscow. A call to the Yak had been needed. Their conversation had been brief.
DIRECTOR YAKLOVEV: You have it?
ROSTNIKOV: Yes.
YAKLOVEV: In what form is it?
ROSTNIKOV: A package about the size of a paper-covered copy of Diary of a Madman.
YAKLOVEV: You have not opened it?
ROSTNIKOV: No.
YAKLOVEV: The money?
ROSTNIKOV: It is in the possession of another branch of the government which provided us with assistance essential to secure the package.
YAKLOVEV: The money is of little importance. The courier?
ROSTNIKOV: Dead.
YAKLOVEV: You had to kill him?
ROSTNIKOV: No. He was assassinated by an old man who is now in the custody of the other branch which I mentioned. We are at the airport in Ekaterinburg.
YAKLOVEV: I know the commanding officer of military security in Ekaterinburg. He owes me a favor. Go to the ticket counter. There will be two tickets on the next plane to Moscow.
ROSTNIKOV: We are on the way.
YAKLOVEV: Come to my office directly when you arrive. A car will be waiting for you at the airport.
With that, the Yak hung up the phone.
The flight back was uneventful. It was a small business-flight plane with a handful of men in business suits. One of the businessmen, clutching a briefcase in his lap, his eyes closed, sat alone in the rear of the plane. His face was rigid. A brief burst of minimal turbulence made the man quiver in fear.
“Porfiry Petrovich,” Sasha said. “Maya will be home when we get to Moscow. Maya and the children.”
Since he knew this, Rostnikov said nothing.
Sasha continued. “That woman.”
“Svetlana Britchevna.”
“Yes. She …”
“I know,” said Rostnikov. “A beautiful woman, very skilled.”
“I have been tempted by those less beautiful than she,” Sasha said.
“You have no choice,” said Rostnikov. “None of us do. Temptation is … let us leave it at that. Temptation is. You make choices. Give in to it or do not because of the consequences.”
“It is a weakness in me,” Sasha said.
“Obviously,” said Rostnikov. “But it is not one which you need indulge. These things are indeed obvious, Sasha Tkach. I am giving you no great words of wisdom. Now, if you will please, I will remove this leg, this enemy with which I have a truce, place it on the floor, and indulge myself in some self-indulgent scratching.”
Chapter Eight
Before the dreams of ancient Greece
Before the shaman and the priest
Jason and the Golden Fleece
Before the Dead Sea Scrolls released
Their meaning or the experts pieced together
The epic of Gilgamesh
Trans-Siberian Express
The car was waiting for them at the Star City military runway just outside of Moscow. It was night.
Rostnikov was surprised to see Akardy Zelach seated next to the driver. However, he was grateful that Zelach was not driving. He was, Porfiry Petrovich knew from experience, a threat to mankind behind the wheel.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your coming to greet us, Akardy Zelach?” asked Rostnikov.
“I must talk to you,” Zelach said, his voice less than steady.
Rostnikov did not bother to ask if the subject of Zelach’s concern was urgent. If it were not, the slouching and obviously uncomfortable detective in the front seat would not have had the courage to impose himself on the scene.
“Can it wait till we get to Petrovka?” Rostnikov asked.
“Yes,” said Zelach, who turned his head forward, adjusted his glasses, and closed his eyes, trying to remember approximately how he and his mother had worked out what he would say to the chief inspector.
They drove straight to Petrovka, Rostnikov breaking his usual rule of sitting next to the driver so that he would be at the side of the silent Sasha. The snow was falling softly, crystals glittering in the headlights, streetlights, and the eyes of men and women.
“You did well,” Rostnikov said.
Sasha nodded and said, “Maya is back.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe I should wait till tomorrow to go home.”
“Maybe you should take three days off. Be with your family. Find your mother’s artist friend. Be a husband and father. Play with your wife and children in the snow. Let us make that an order. You are to take three days off.”
Sasha nodded and said no more.
When they pulled up in front of Petrovka’s gates Rostnikov got out, being careful to hold on to the door of the Lada to keep from slipping. Zelach was standing on the sidewalk, waiting.
“The driver will take you home,” Rostnikov said. “Give my love to Maya and kiss the children for me. And one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Brush your teeth before you go to bed with your wife tonight,” said Rostnikov, closing the door and waving the driver into the night.
“Now,” said Rostnikov as he joined Zelach on the sidewalk in front of the iron gate, “do you want to go to my office and talk for a few minutes or wait for me there while I report to the director?”
“I would like to speak here. I will be brief,” said Zelach, looking around as if he expected someone to intrude on their conversation. “It is about Inspector Karpo.”
“Karpo,” Rostnikov repeated when Zelach paused, considering whether he could go on.
“I think … I know it is not my place, but I am concerned about him. And about me. My mother is concerned. She agreed that I should tell you.”
The night was cold and the hour late. Rostnikov stood patiently, waiting for the tortured man before him to provide some clarity.
“I think Inspector Karpo is behaving very unlike himself”
“In what way?” asked Rostnikov.
“I think he might be doing things that are not … I am not doing this well.”
“Things that are? …” Rostnikov prompted patiently.
“Things that could get him hurt or killed. And me too. I mean they could get me hurt and killed too, not that I am doing such things. I mean, Inspector Karpo is the senior detective and I do whatever he orders, but …”
“You think he is behaving suicidally?”
“Sui-I don’t know. I am just concerned. I thought, my mother thought, you should know.”
“Have you told Inspector Karpo about your concerns?”
“Yes.”
“And?”