This train of thought reminded him that Russia, even with the passing of Communism, was still among the three countries in the world with the highest rate of alcoholism.
“You will learn,” said the Yak leaning forward, folding his hands on his desk and meeting his Chief Inspector’s eyes with a practiced, unblinking look that caused at least a drying of the mouth in everyone-everyone except Rostnikov.
Rostnikov blinked, adjusted his leg, and looked back at the Yak. Rostnikov nodded. He was not sure whether the Yak was issuing an order about diamonds or warning him that he was going to be in a situation in which his survival might be at stake when the lesson came. Rostnikov pursed his lips and nodded his head as if he knew what the Yak was talking about. And then the connection came.
“You are going to Siberia, to a diamond mine where a man, a Canadian geologist, died two days ago. You will determine if he was murdered. If he was, you are to tell me who killed him.”
“When am I leaving?”
“Tonight. There is a supply load of medication for the mining town, Devochka, leaving at nine by plane. You will be on it.”
“I will take Karpo.”
“Take whomever you wish. Pankov will arrange for a car to pick you and Karpo up at your home and get you to the plane.”
Pankov was the sweaty, frightened little man who sat at a desk outside of Yaklovev’s office, listened at the doorway when he considered it safe to do so, and did what he was told with nervous dispatch and an impressive number of contacts who owed him for small favors.
Rostnikov nodded again, considering the oddity of the name Devochka, a man’s name that meant “little girl.” Why had it come into being and why had a mining town in Siberia been given such a name?
Rostnikov started to rise, no mean trick for a box of a man with an artificial leg. The Yak held up a hand to let him know that the conversation had not ended. Rostnikov eased himself back into the chair and looked at Yaklovev. Was the Yak enjoying his Chief Investigator’s discomfort? Perhaps.
The two men had an uneasy and mutually beneficial alliance. The Yak protected Porfiry Petrovich, and the small band of investigators working under him, from political pressure on the outcomes of their investigations. He protected them well and with keen sincerity. In return, each success by Rostnikov was another potential step upward for the Yak. Except at the moment, he did not want to step upward. He gathered information, evidence, tapes, confessions, and indiscretions and locked them away in a safe hidden in his apartment.
Thanks to Rostnikov, when the time was right, the contents of that safe would secure Igor Yaklovev’s future, a future that would move the Yak far above his present office.
Rostnikov knew all this. It was the way of the world.
In a system in which the old laws had been thrown out and new ones still not fully defined, Rostnikov addressed puzzles, found the answers to questions, met people, and, when possible, engaged in the dispensation of justice, something the courts did only on occasion.
His was a fragile and questionable pursuit, but one he had accepted and in which he did well enough to survive.
“Your lesson,” said the Yak, handing Rostnikov a file folder.
Rostnikov took it.
“Devochka is one of the oldest diamond mines in Siberia. It dates back to 1887 when the Tsar ordered the exploration of Siberia for precious metals. It is estimated that as many as 40,000 people died looking for jewels in the ground that could be polished to fit into the rings, tiaras, bracelets, and precious little jewel boxes and precise gleaming eggs of the nobility. Aside from those who supervised, most of the workers were convicts, criminals, and political prisoners. They died, as many as twenty-five a day at the site of Devochka, where they began to mine. And then the mine was abandoned for lack of success after four fruitless years, but remained a prison camp.”
The Yak pointed at the report.
“The mine was and is not the most productive and profitable. The rocks containing the tiny gems are reluctant to give up their treasure.”
Rostnikov didn’t ask the Yak why he was telling him what must surely be in the report. He knew the Director well enough to know that there was a point-not historical, but very much in the present, and possibly the future.
“The mine has always been the bastard stepchild of Siberian diamond mines, almost closed when Stalin ordered new exploration for Siberian diamonds in 1957. Geologists and a new generation of convicts, political and criminal, died in the digging in numbers greater than those who had died at the mine in the service of the Tsar. Diamond pipes, veins of diamonds, were discovered. New mining machines were brought in, modern techniques employed, but Devochka kept steadily producing in a small stream. It was and is a mine and a town passed by time, its residents a congregation of generations of criminals and outcasts.”
And then Rostnikov knew why the Yak was telling him about the diamonds. He looked at the man as he spoke and saw a dreamy glaze in his eyes as if he were looking somewhere at something that didn’t exist. It was the first time Rostnikov had ever seen a hint of imagination in the Yak, and it had been brought on by a vision of diamonds or what diamonds could give him.
The Yak went silent. Moments passed. Rostnikov spoke.
“I see.”
But what I see is not what you are seeing, Rostnikov thought. You want me to deliver to you the key to control a crumbling diamond mine and the possibility that one more vein will be struck and bleed.
Rostnikov started to rise.
“Wait,” said the Yak, coming out of his reverie.
He turned his head not to see if Rostnikov had noticed his weakness. The Yak was certain that he had. The question was how he would handle this instant.
Rostnikov pretended not to have noticed.
“We are taking on two other cases related to this investigation. Assign who you will to them and have those doing the investigation report to you and only you. You, in turn, will keep me informed on a daily basis.”
“From Siberia?”
“From Siberia. The connection of sorts between the cases,” said the Yak, “is not a coincidence.”
Two more folders appeared in the Yak’s right hand. He passed them to Rostnikov.
“The cases must be resolved in nine days,” said the Yak, “one week from Tuesday.”
Rostnikov looked for a sign in the man’s eyes or the movement of his fingers. There was none.
“You know who General Mihail Frankovich is?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
Frankovich was Director of the Division of Murder in the Investigative Directorate. The joke in Petrovka was that Frankovich was well qualified for the job because he was reported to have murdered at least two suspects who had refused to confess. Frankovich was not of the KGB old-boy network. He had risen from the ranks in the Army as his father had done before him.
“General Frankovich would like to incorporate the Office of Special Investigations into the Division of Murder,” said the Yak. “We have been too successful. This office has moved, at least in the eyes of some, from being a dark hole to being a small diamond.”
Rostnikov nodded.
“Nine days from now there will be a meeting of the Moscow Criminal Investigation Commission,” the Yak went on, carefully watching the emotionless face of his Chief Inspector. “General Frankovich will bid to take over this Office. It is possible he will succeed, unless. .”
“You present evidence of a success so great that the General will have to withhold his bid,” said Rostnikov.
“Precisely,” said the Yak. “I do not intend for the Office of Special Investigations to be lost.”
That was not exactly the truth. The Yak’s plan was far more bold. He had prepared for it over the past four years, gathering information about the failures of the Division of Murder and the weaknesses of General Frankovich. The Yak had his own plan to take over the Division of Murder, employing concise reports of failure and private documents that might uncharitably but accurately be labeled blackmail.