“And during the subsequent investigation,” he said, “the name of the now-dead Shmuel Prensky came up. Then there was good luck followed by bad. You found this killer, this Mikhail Posniky. That was good. Unfortunately, the killer was run down by a hit-and-run driver. Case closed. A fine job done by the police. But you did not close the investigation. You went to a retired assistant procurator and got her to delve into the old files on this Prensky.”
“It was another case, another old man,” Rostnikov said, finishing his tea. “A man named Lev Ostrovsky who worked in the Moscow Art Theatre, a man who mentioned the name Shmuel Prensky before he died. It was that murder I was investigating.”
“I admire your dedication to justice,” said the old general, putting his hand to his shaved head. “Even after you were told to forget, to stay out of the files.”
Rostnikov shrugged.
“How much do you understand here, chief inspector?”
“Too much,” Rostnikov sighed.
“Too much,” the general agreed. “Now for the other story.”
“I’m not sure I have to hear it,” said Rostnikov softly.
“It’s too late,” said Shakhtyor, leaning back. “This is a fairy-tale alternative. What if Shmuel Prensky did not die, huh? What if another young revolutionary died and this Shmuel Prensky simply took his place? It could happen. It happened all the time. Shmuel Prensky, the Jew from Yekteraslav, becomes a Gentile orphan and demonstrates his value to the state with years of devotion.”
“Like a chameleon,” said Rostnikov.
“Somewhat,” agreed the general, “but the analogy is limited. The environment of the chameleon is minimal and simple. Human life is not so simple. I’ll go on with my story. Prensky, who is now living a new life, moves up in the military, eventually goes into intelligence work, and rises high in the KGB. It could happen.”
“It could happen,” agreed Rostnikov, shifting his leg.
“More tea?” asked the general, and Rostnikov agreed. “But the new life did not exist without shreds of the old. Two old friends from Yekteraslav, old friends who had once taken a photograph together, know about the new life, but the former Shmuel Prensky is not without loyalty to his past life. He finds work for them, a job for the one called Abraham, who has come back from the United States, come back to escape the vengeance of the other old friend he betrayed. And then there is the actor, the fool. They serve a purpose, have a function, to keep the barrier between the past and present covered. You see where we are going, Rostnikov?”
Rostnikov nodded that he understood, and something like a grin appeared on the ancient beak before him.
“Shmuel Prensky could have had the old friends killed, but they were old friends, and they cost little,” the general went on. “They served as extra ears. But when this Mikhail Posniky came back, this gangster from America, things changed. Prensky’s name began to draw attention. You began to draw attention to it. So what could Prensky do? Had Mikhail Posniky gotten on his plane and left, all would have been fine, but he did not. You were too efficient.”
“Thank you,” said Rostnikov dryly.
“And so Shmuel Prensky had the gangster from America killed. And knowing that the chief inspector would go back to the actor, he managed just in time to have someone beat him to the theater and dispose of the old man. And so …”
“Only Shmuel Prensky remains,” finished Rostnikov. “The fourth man in the photograph.”
“If you prefer the second tale,” agreed the general. “Which do you prefer?”
“The first,” said Rostnikov, putting down his cup. He had drunk enough tea. His stomach felt uneasy. In the corner the chameleons scurried over rocks, rustling the cage.
“Then Shmuel Prensky is dead,” said the general with a smile.
“Dead,” agreed Rostnikov.
“Would you like to continue living?” the general said matter-of-factly, pressing his hands together.
“I would prefer it to the alternative,” Rostnikov said, controlling his voice and quite aware that the old man was watching the inspector’s hands to see if there might be a betraying tremor.
“Good,” said the old man. “If you were to die, there are so many people who have heard of the name of Shmuel Prensky-the assistant procurator; Anna Timofeyeva, the former assistant procurator; your two or three assistants; perhaps your wife. You could all have accidents, but that might draw attention to this situation, might make others who have ears in the KGB suspicious, might get them asking questions. No, if you live and let the matter drop, see to it that the matter drops, questions about Shmuel Prensky end. Of course you can be, will continue to be, watched, listened to, checked. A mind can always change. Six or seven accidents can always be arranged. It would be simple to do so. You understand?”
“Fully,” said Rostnikov.
“One more thing,” said the old man, rising. “Colonel Drozhkin does not know about this Shmuel Prensky fairy tale. Very few people have heard the story. Colonel Drozhkin also believes that you have dangerous information secreted outside of the country, information that would provide evidence that the KGB arranged for the murder of a dissident several years ago.”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov, also rising.
“That evidence is worthless,” said the general, moving back to the chameleons on his safe. “If it were released now, we would simply deny it or suggest that it was the plan of Yuri Andropov when he was responsible here. In a world where people are obsessed with oil and bombs, your information would be lost. I do not, however, plan to share this observation with Colonel Drozhkin. He might well decide to remove you and possibly your charming Jewish wife and your son, the soldier.”
“I understand,” Rostnikov said, keeping himself from clenching his fists.
“Good,” said the general. “You are a good policeman. I’ve examined your file. Go back to being a policeman. You might yet have a long life.”
It might have been a dismissal, but Rostnikov stood while the old bird tapped at the wire mesh atop the cage to get the attention of the chameleons.
“You have a question, chief inspector?” he said without turning.
“In your fairy tale, general, Shmuel Prensky betrays his own people, becomes the claw that grips the Jews?”
The general stopped tapping and turning to look at Rostnikov. Rostnikov had gone too far. He knew it, knew he should have simply left, but it had come almost unbidden. It had come as a small sign of his own remaining dignity.
“Shmuel Prensky in the tale survives,” the general said. “He survives and prospers. He knows that distinctions such as Jew, Christian, capitalist, Greek, are meaningless, that they stand in the way of progress, that they are artificial barriers created by petty humans to preserve minimal distinctions that evade and avoid progress. Shmuel Prensky in the tale knows that people are and must be equal, that differences based on myths must be eliminated. Shmuel Prensky in the tale lives for progress.”
“But Shmuel Prensky is dead,” said Rostnikov.
“Quite dead,” said the general. “Now leave and tell no fairy tales. Leave before I decide that your final moment of audacity is simple stupidity.”
Rostnikov went to the door, feeling the old eyes on him, went out and walked past the secretary, who did not look up. Outside, in the green corridor, Drozhkin stood waiting.
“What did he say? What did he want?” the colonel said.
“It had nothing to do with you,” said Rostnikov, moving forward in the general direction of the stairway. “I’m permitted to say no more.”
Drozhkin’s teeth came together tightly, and he strode in front of Rostnikov, led the way out of the Center, and stepped back at the front lobby without letting his eyes meet the detective’s.
Rostnikov, in turn, did not glance back but crossed the lobby as a quartet of men flowed around him. He went out the door and into the square where he continued to control himself. He wanted to let himself shake, wanted some slackness to ease the mask into which he had set his face, but he dared not, feared he was being watched.