“I am making progress, comrade procurator,” Rostnikov said evenly.
“Good,” the procurator said, looking down at his folded hands. Rostnikov, too, looked at the hands. The knuckles were white. Rostnikov had more experience reading people by their actions than did the new deputy procurator. It was quite evident that Khabolov did not want to get on with what he planned.
“Are you aware of what has been happening here today?” Khabolov said. “The various … cases.”
“No, comrade. I have just returned from Yekteraslav as part of the-”
“My automobile has been stolen.” Khabolov’s watery brown eyes rose to meet those of Rostnikov, to challenge them, warn them, search them for the slightest flicker or sign of amusement. Rostnikov displayed nothing.
“I am sorry to hear that, comrade procurator,” Rostnikov said.
“I want that car found,” Khabolov said. “This ring of car thieves is operating right under our feet. They must be found and finished, quickly and quietly. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Rostnikov said, and he did indeed understand. Khabolov was embarrassed. He could keep the theft quiet for a while, perhaps as long as a week, but eventually it would get out, and he would become a joke, his reputation ruined, his likelihood of advancement stunted.
“Assistant Inspector Tkach has been searching for the enemies of the state who have been stealing automobiles,” Khabolov said. “He has made no progress. You are to assist him, to find my Chaika, to find all the cars and to find them quickly.”
“And the murder …”
“The murder of an old Jew is not as important as this threat to public confidence,” Khabolov said.
“I understand,” Rostnikov replied.
“I’m sure you do.”
“I’ll begin immediately. But comrade, I thought I was not to be assigned to important cases, that I was considered-” Rostnikov began, trying to sound as innocent as possible.
“I’m not a fool, Rostnikov,” Khabolov said. “Don’t play me for one. We understand each other.”
Khabolov had been right. Rostnikov had risked too much, perhaps because he was tired, perhaps because he disliked the. man before him so intensely. Rostnikov pushed himself up.
“I’ve not dismissed you, chief inspector,” Khabolov said, and Rostnikov realized that more was coming.
“A police officer has been killed, shot near the Kalinin Bridge on Kutuzovsky Prospekt,” Khabolov said, softly reaching for his file again.
Rostnikov sat again and waited patiently, forcing himself to imagine the three moves it would take to clean and jerk three hundred pounds, forcing himself to cover the urge to shout or reach over and strangle the putrid bureaucrat across from him.
“I’m sorry,” Rostnikov said as he was supposed to. “Who …?”
“We do not know who did it,” Khabolov responded, pretending to read the file in front of him. “It was probably the sniper we have labeled the Weeper. The shot was apparently fired from the roof of the Ukraine Hotel, as was the shot several days ago.”
“I meant who-” Rostnikov tried again.
“Karpo,” Khabolov interrupted, savoring the game. “Inspector Karpo is in charge of the case, but he has just come back from a long illness and could use help.
I’d like you to supervise that investigation also. We must have results quickly.”
“Who was the policeman?” Rostnikov said slowly, almost slowly enough to be considered insolent, but Khabolov had dealt Rostnikov a card that permitted the risk. Khabolov needed the disgraced chief inspector, was admitting that his experience was essential if the deputy procurator was to retain his own job. It was also evident that Khabolov resented this need and hated Rostnikov even more than he had when the morning had begun.
“The officer’s name was Petrov,” Khabolov said, pursing his lips at the file. “Did you know him?”
“I knew him,” Rostnikov said, remembering the freckled, eager face of Sergeant Petrov; the cold day almost a year earlier when Petrov had volunteered to enter a state liquor store in which three frightened and armed teenagers were trapped; Petrov’s rush across the open space of the narrow street, steam coming from his mouth.
“I knew him,” Rostnikov repeated.
“I heard you the first time, comrade,” Khabolov said. “We can’t let lunatics shoot our officers on the street in broad daylight.”
“Yes, nighttime would be much better,” Rostnikov agreed.
“Inspector,” Khabolov said, putting the file down slowly, deliberately. “Let us understand each other.”
“I am sure we do, comrade procurator. I will talk to Inspector Karpo immediately and make the investigation of the sniper murders our number-one priority.”
“Wait,” Khabolov said, rising as Rostnikov limped toward the door. “I don’t want those automobile thieves lost sight of.”
Rostnikov turned to the man behind the desk, blinked once, and said, “Then the auto thieves have priority over the killer of a police officer?”
The answer was evident to both men. Of course, the auto thief was more important. The deputy procurator’s reputation was at stake. The killer of policemen was high priority indeed, but nothing compared to a reputation.
“I understand,” Rostnikov said before Khabolov could form an answer. He closed the door gently behind him and listened. He thought he caught the sigh of a single word from the new deputy procurator. Koshmar, the sigh came, nightmare.
As he moved slowly down the stairs, Rostnikov felt two conflicting urges. The first was a sense of joy, joy at the prospect of new power, the prospect of Khabolov’s humiliation, but the joy faded before it could truly form as he remembered the freckled face of Sergeant Petrov.
FIVE
Since Sergeant Petrov was a police officer, a member of the military police and not the procuracy, Colonel Snitkonoy, the Gray Wolfhound, had to be dealt with. Colonel Snitkonoy was outraged, incensed, furious, and prepared to fuss and fume for hours if need be until serious attention was paid to him.
There was a time, Rostnikov knew, when the colonel had indeed been a wolfhound, had pursued criminals with vengeance in his heart and blood on his teeth. The Gray Wolfhound was a marked contrast to Porfiry the Washtub, his counterpart. Snitkonoy was tall, with distinguished gray temples, slender but not thin, the sculpted features of a Rublev painting. He was impressive, never a line askew on his bemedaled uniform. Even the medals were lean and orchestrated, not a double line of cartoon festoonery but a discrete trio of ribbons chosen for their color rather than their import.
The Gray Wolfhound was indeed impressive, but he had become essentially hollow. The administration of the military police had changed around him; it had, in the course of fifteen years, become more bureaucratic and, in some ways, more efficient. Snitkonoy looked like, and was, a remnant of a past era. The chiseled Sherlockian profile now seemed almost comic, and Snitkonoy found himself being used increasingly as a figurehead for public gatherings, an actor to be presented to visiting dignitaries.
Foreign visitors, at least those not experienced at such deception, left Moscow, after having met Snitkonoy, convinced that they had experienced the rare privilege of an audience with a great and busy man. One enchanted Bulgarian had even gone back to Sofia and penned a novel using a distinctly Snitkonoy-like figure as the protagonist.
Porfiry Petrovich sat quietly, hands folded on the conference-room table, and listened to the Gray Wolfhound. It was still early on Friday morning, though Rostnikov had already met with Zelach, Karpo, and Tkach briefly in his own small office. He had assigned Zelach to a new task that would keep him out of the way, had impressed Tkach with the importance of finding Comrade Khabolov’s Chaika, and had offered his assistance to Emil Karpo, who had indicated that he would do whatever the procurator thought best in the case of the weeping sniper. Rostnikov’s stomach had rumbled, bringing a nervous laugh from Zelach. It had been the only moment of levity in the brief meeting before Porfiry Petrovich and Karpo had to attend the meeting in the conference room in the second tower of Petrovka.