The grunt Rostnikov gave was less of exertion than of minor concentration. His two arms came forward, taking with them the full weight of the men holding him. They barely had time for surprise to register. Their bodies collided, and Ilya brought the wrench down solidly on the shoulder of one of the two, who screamed in pain and panic.
The injured man let go of the inspector and grabbed for his broken shoulder while the other man continued to hold his grip on the policeman, which proved to be a mistake of the highest order. Sasha scrambled up and saw a calm look of satisfaction on the inspector’s face as he grabbed the man in overalls with his now-free hand and lifted him off the ground to ward off Ilya’s resumed attack. The injured man, meanwhile, staggered blindly toward the office door and crumpled; gripping his shoulder as Rostnikov, now carrying the bewildered man above him, advanced on Ilya. There was no strain-on Rostnikov’s face, though the man he held above him easily weighed two hundred pounds.
Sasha looked around for Marina and saw her duck behind the half-painted Volga. He staggered after her, skipping over the whimpering man with the broken shoulder and watching with fascination as the wrench-armed Ilya felt his way back from the advancing Rostnikov.
A pause, a beat, and with a slight grunt Rostnikov hurled the screaming man toward Ilya. The grimy missile struck Ilya, sending them both sprawling backward into and over a heavy automobile jack. Ilya scrambled, dazed, out from under the apparently unconscious man atop him and searched for a way of retreating from the patient, limping figure that moved toward him. Sasha would later swear that Rostnikov was humming, humming something that might have been Bach, though later Rostnikov would claim that it had been Vivaldi.
Marina was nowhere to be seen. Sasha moved around the Volga, looking behind machines and parts, into corners. He thought he saw a movement ahead but stopped when the sound of that whirring machine screamed behind him.
Across the room Sasha saw the steadily advancing Rostnikov less than a dozen feet from the now-wild-looking Ilya, who held the grinding saw in front of him. Ilya’s muscles and T-shirt were dark with sweat.
“I’ll cut you in half,” he said through closed teeth, but Rostnikov, whose humming could no longer be heard, simply continued forward until the younger man had his back against the wall, the saw held out in front of him.
Something was said by Rostnikov that Sasha could not quite make out. He thought it was a patient “How long can you hold that?” or something equally conversational. He wasn’t sure over the sound of the saw. If indeed that was the question, it was never answered. Ilya shouted and rushed forward, the saw in front of him. Rostnikov’s left arm shot forward, his sleeve brushing the blade, which tore into the dark material. With his right hand, Rostnikov grasped Ilya firmly by the shirtfront while the inspector’s left arm continued its movement and slapped the still-spinning saw away. The saw struck the floor, sending up sparks as it bit in frustration at the cement. The cord slithered, and it looked to Tkach like an angry snake with a whirring, screeching metal head slithering out of control.
Rostnikov held Ilya up in front of him with one hand as the younger man tried to free himself and punched at the thick arm. Rostnikov whispered something as the snakelike saw skittered and continued to scream until it hit the wall, let out a bright final flash of anger, and went quiet.
“… were going to cut us into little pieces,” Sasha could now hear Rostnikov saying. The man with the broken shoulder was sobbing very gently, feeling sorry for himself.
Ilya’s T-shirt had begun to tear as he screamed, “Bastard,” and swung again at Rostnikov. Rostnikov shook his head in disgust at the inability of men to learn from their mistakes. His arm came back, and with a slight grunt he sent the startled Ilya sailing through the air, his arms flaying behind him, trying to grab something, to look back at where he was going, but the flight was too short. He hit the wall with a sick thud and slipped down in an unconscious heap. There was a stain of blood on the wall where his head had hit, and Sasha was sure that the man’s head was at least broken, if he wasn’t dead.
Rostnikov stood watching as Ilya shifted slightly, tried to rise, and failed, and sat back. Only then did he turn to look for Sasha, whose eyes met his across the room.
“The woman,” Rostnikov said.
“I-” Sasha began, but never finished his answer.
“Here,” she said, and the two men looked around, finding her at the same moment.
She stood next to an old wooden hoist dangling from the ceiling behind the Chaika in the air. The hoist was connected to the chains that held the Chaika in the air. Her hands on the hoist had set the dangling car slowly spinning like a massive white magnet seeking the elusive north. What troubled Sasha even more was that the slowly spinning car was directly above Inspector Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov.
“You move and I drop the car,” she said with a smile, her hands firmly on the lever of the hoist. “And I don’t think you are fast enough with that dead leg to get out from under in time. What do you think?”
Rostnikov shrugged rather indifferently.
“We must deal,” she said.
Her eyes were fixed on the inspector as Tkach slowly edged behind the Volga and moved behind her.
“What can we do?” Rostnikov said gently. “Would you believe my promises? You let go of that and we have you. You might crush me, it’s true. I don’t think I can make it out from under here in time, but what do you gain? You don’t leave here free.”
“But,” she said, “I’ll have the satisfaction of smashing one bear of a policeman and destroying someone important’s beloved car.”
Rostnikov glanced up at the car slowly spinning over his head and remembered Procurator Khabolov’s look of concern about his beloved white Chaika.
“I don’t like cars,” Rostnikov said softly, conversationally. Moving slowly, carefully, Tkach knew that the inspector was stalling, giving him time and cover to move. Marina’s grip on the hoist lever was firm, and for a horrible instant Tkach considered that his life might well be easier if he shouted, and let her crush Rostnikov, who had seen him naked and compromised. He could then simply murder Marina and- But it was only the next level of guilt upon guilt. He knew it was not in him to act on the evil thought. It came, went, was gone. He crept forward, very carefully.
“You are going to die, policeman,” Marina said with a laugh. “Do you know that?”
“You mean I’m going to die eventually or now? The former I am well aware of and have come to terms with. Of the latter, who knows? The scene is not yet played.”
Tkach was now about seven or eight feet away from her. He crouched next to the fender of the dark car. He could see the woman’s fingers slipping on the lever and knew that whatever was to be done must be done quickly. If Rostnikov were to be crushed, would Sasha wonder if he had purposely made the wrong move?
“Policeman,” she said with some admiration, “you are mad.”
Rostnikov put up a hand-his left hand, with the sleeve that had been cut by Ilya’s saw-and let it sweep the room.
“You are standing there with a dancing car threatening to kill me. Bodies are strewn over. You have no chance to get away, and you call me mad.”
“Perhaps we are both mad,” she countered.
“We are both Russians.” Rostnikov sighed. “You will do what you will do.”
The man with the crushed shoulder decided to let out a small whimper, and Ilya stirred slightly against the wall. The other man Rostnikov had thrown lay quite motionless.
Tkach tried to signal to Rostnikov as he stepped away from behind the dark car. He wasn’t sure the inspector saw him, but he had no time to check.