“I’d like to beat the hell out of you,” said the boy.
“A natural reaction,” said Karpo. “But beyond that?”
“You are a policeman,” said Yuri.
“I am aware of that,” said Karpo.
“I’m not afraid of you,” said Yuri.
“You’re not?”
“Well, I am, but it makes no difference. That’s not why I’m going to say this,” Yuri said. “I’ve given up … what I was considering. You understand?”
“I understand,” said Karpo.
“But … I can’t stop Jalna. She plans to … I think she might… She has my gun … tonight. When he gets back to the dacha. She said … I can’t get out there. They stop me when I try.”
“Then,” said Karpo, “I suggest we go together.”
It was a bit after six. If they hurried, Karpo could get a car on an emergency requisition and they could get to
Morchov’s dacha by seven-thirty if they rode the center lane all the way.
By six, when Peotor had not returned, Vasily and the girl Lia went to the nearby village to call Sonia. They left the three others with Boris Trush, who was ordered to ready his bus for action “very soon.”
Boris, in fact, knew almost nothing about the mechanics of buses, automobiles, or bicycles, but he went to work in the dark barn fiddling with tools, calling for wrenches, and working himself into a sweat, which he hoped would convince his captors of both his zeal and his ability.
Vasily and Lia found a phone in a small all-purpose grocery that sold Coca-Cola. The old woman who ran the store eyed them suspiciously but backed off when Vasily asked her pointedly what she was looking at and offered to show her much more if she was really interested.
Sonia’s phone rang eight times before someone picked it up.
“Sonia?” Vasily said.
A long pause and a woman’s voice, “She’s not in. She had to go out to pick up some flowers for tomorrow.”
“Who are you?” Vasily demanded.
“Mrs. Barakov, across the hall. Wait, I think I hear her coming in downstairs.”
The line went silent as Vasily waited, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and drained what was left of his Coke.
“Hello!” he shouted after ten seconds. “Where the hell …”
And then it dawned on him. He looked at the phone, let out a yowl of pain that made Lia turn to him from a stack of canned fruit she was examining, and brought a frightened gasp from the old woman who ran the little store.
Vasily hung up the phone and turned to Lia.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“I just-” she began but he didn’t let her finish. He pushed her toward the door.
At the door, Vasily turned to the trembling woman behind the counter.
“Old woman,” he said, “in a few minutes men will be here looking for us. You tell them I am a tall, dark and fat man. You do not tell them about her. You tell them any more and I will be back to rip out your nostrils and scream into your skull.”
Outside, Vasily looked one way and then the other.
“What’s going on?” Lia asked.
“They got Sonia. They probably got my father.” Vasily was crying with rage. He stamped his foot on the ground. “I let them have time to trace the call. We have to hurry. We have to hurry. We have to do it now. Tonight.”
The drive to Morchov’s dacha in Zhukovka took Karpo and Yuri thirty minutes. Karpo drove down Kalinin Prospekt, turned left at the arch commemorating the defeat of Napoleon, and displayed the pass that allowed them to drive in the fast lane of the highway. They said nothing as they passed row after row of housing developments, developments that looked just a bit cleaner as they moved farther away from the city. Twenty minutes from the time they left the center of Moscow, they were in the middle of a forest. Police sentry boxes came more frequently now, and many of the license plates began with GAL and ended with four letters, signaling to citizens that the KGB were inside each vehicle watching, protecting the nearby elite. Karpo knew that these men were not here to remain hidden. They were here to warn off those who were not welcome, the curious and the unwary travelers.
Karpo was stopped once on the way to Morchov’s dacha. He identified himself to the KGB man just at the turnoff to the dacha and said that he had an appointment with the representative.
“We weren’t informed,” the man said.
“I suggest you call Comrade Morchov to confirm,” said Karpo. “He may simply have had other things on his mind.”
The KGB man checked his identification, glanced suspiciously at Yuri, and motioned for them to pass. There was no car on the path in front of the wooden house. Karpo parked and got out. Yuri did the same, and they walked to the front door.
Karpo knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again. No answer. He tried the door, and it opened.
Once inside they heard a voice, a deep, even voice. The policeman and the boy moved toward the voice, through the doorway, and into a large, bright room with modern Scandinavian furniture. Sitting in one chair was Jalna Morchov, a gun in her hand. Across from her sat Andrei Morchov.
Morchov looked up at the intruders. His expression revealed nothing.
“You are not welcome here,” he said. “You will turn around and leave immediately.”
Karpo and Yuri stopped in the doorway.
“No!” cried Jalna. “No more orders. You can’t give orders. You are a dead man. Dead men don’t give orders.”
“Jalna,” Morchov said reasonably, “if you were going to do it, you would have done it by now.”
In response, Jalna fired. The bullet ruined Andrei Morchov’s new suit as it entered just below his right shoulder. Morchov jerked back in pain, bit his lower lip, and then sat upright again.
“I was wrong,” Morchov said. He turned to Karpo and Yuri. “You might as well sit down.” Then to Jalna. “If you plan to shoot me again, I would appreciate your giving me some notice. I do not like surprises.”
Jalna held the pistol tightly, still aimed in the general direction of her father. Though he was the one who had been shot, she was the one who seemed to be in shock.
“Jalna,” Yuri said.
“I’ve got to do it now,” she said.
“No,” said Yuri.
“I think she’s right,” said Morchov.
“We can’t,” Yuri said.
“Perhaps we can reach some manner of compromise,” Karpo suggested.
“I don’t see how,” said Morchov. “What options have I? You know the law, Comrade. A member of the Politburo has just been intentionally shot.”
“She’s your daughter,” Yuri said.
“Inspector, is that a legal consideration?” Morchov asked, wincing. The blood was pulsing from the wound.
“No,” said Karpo.
“Do you believe in circumventing the law, Comrade?” Morchov asked.
“Stop it!” screamed Jalna. “You are always so sure, so reasonable. Aren’t you in pain? Aren’t you worried about dying?”
“I have lived by reason and argument,” Morchov said reasonably. “I see no reason because death is facing me to abandon what I have lived by. You understand me, don’t you, Inspector?”
“I understand,” said Karpo.
He stepped forward and held his hand out to Jalna. She hesitated for only an instant and then handed the weapon to the policeman.
Yuri moved quickly to the weeping girl and took her in his arms. Morchov sat watching.
“Where is the phone?” Karpo asked.
“In the room you came through,” answered Morchov. “Near the door to the bedroom on the left. There is a medical unit in town no more than ten minutes away.”
Karpo moved quickly, found the phone, and called for an ambulance before moving back into the bright dining room. No one spoke. No one had anything to say. Karpo found a clean towel and attempted to stop the bleeding. The wound was certainly painful if not serious, at least not serious if the bleeding was soon stopped.
The ambulance arrived within five minutes. Karpo handed the gun to Morchov and went to the door to let the driver and accompanying doctor in. Behind them were the two KGB men who had stopped Karpo and Yuri on the road outside.