Stuart Kaminsky - Fall of a Cosmonaut

“You will interview the third cosmonaut,” said the Yak.

“I cannot,” said Rostnikov. “He is dead. An accident. He was visiting the small farm he had purchased for his father. While out alone in the nearby city of Vologda, he had a heart attack. He was thirty-two years old.”

“The Russian death rate is among the highest in the world,” said the Yak.

“Primarily resulting from smoking, drinking, poor diet, and family rage,” answered Rostnikov. “It seems the mortality rate for this group of cosmonauts exceeds the national average and that their demise came not in space but on the earth. But, I will cease to follow leads in the space program.”

“And so?”

“And so,” said Rostnikov. “I have read through our missing hero’s file and come to the conclusion that Iosef and I should go to Kiro-Stovitsk.”

“Kiro-Stovitsk?”

“The town near Pikolovo not far from St. Petersburg where our missing cosmonaut was raised, where his parents, brother, cousins still live, farm, work.”

“You think he is there?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. It is probably where I would go if I wanted to be with people I trusted, if only for a little while before continuing to run, continuing to find a place to hide.”

The drawing was complete. The one-legged man would surely fall, but his wings were strong. Rostnikov wondered if the winged man were Vladovka, Porfiry Petrovich, or a combination of both. He closed the notebook.

“Then,” said Yaklovev, “go to Kiro-Stovitsk, find him and find him quickly. And remember, no interrogation. You simply and quietly bring him to me. You will probably be followed by State Security, Military Intelligence, and others.”

“Strangers will stand out in Kiro-Stovitsk. The town, I understand, is very small and there are no hotels.”

“Good, go quickly and succeed,” said the Yak, rising. “Pankov will see to an advance for your expenses. Take what you need. I know I need not worry about your spending more than is necessary.”

“There is a flight to St. Petersburg early in the morning,” said Rostnikov, getting up. What remained of his left leg had fallen asleep. He could feel nothing but tingling. He almost fell. He steadied himself on the table and the Yak moved away, pretending not to have seen.

When Rostnikov was out the door, Yaklovev went over the reports on the other two cases now underway by the Office of Special Investigation. The missing film negative had not yet been found. It was of great importance to the government. Yaklovev had the power, with a phone call, to obtain the two million American dollars for the return of the negatives. The problem, however, was that if he did so, he would be obligated to the powerful advisor to the president. As it stood now, the powerful advisor was deeply obligated to Igor Yaklovev. A time would come when the Yak would pick up the phone and arrange a meeting with the powerful advisor, a member of the duma. That time would have to come soon and the favor asked would have to justify itself. Timing was everything. The powerful advisor might become president in the not-distant future, but then again, Russia being as dourly manic as it was, the advisor might be just another citizen within the historical change of a single day. And what if Yaklovev did ask for a two-million-dollar favor and the negative was not returned or was destroyed? No, in that direction lay a greater danger. Elena Timofeyeva and Sasha Tkach would have to succeed without the money. If they failed, Yaklovev would accept responsibility for the failure. There were more successes than failures. He could weather a few such failures and tolerate the gloating satisfaction of his enemies. While his enemies gloated with self-satisfaction, Igor Yaklovev would find a way to leap ahead of them.

The second case underway was less clear but more likely to come to a satisfying conclusion. Psychic research was an up-and-down issue. With money short, a murder could cause a shock to the system, could be disastrous. Yaklovev did not believe in ghosts, telepathy, telekinesis, or anything else that these scientists were wasting time and money on. On the other hand, he didn’t disbelieve. He simply didn’t care. What he did care about was the good will of the wealthy, very wealthy businessmen who were funding such research and wanted it to continue. Such men had arranged for the case to go to the Office of Special Investigation.

Yaklovev read the preliminary autopsy report and the trail to the shoes. There was nothing in Emil Karpo’s report about the supposed psychic powers of Akardy Zelach.

The investigation, Yaklovev decided, was going well.

He looked at the plain, white-faced clock with large numerals on the wall. He sat at his desk and touched a button that opened the line to the microphone in the outer office. There was no sound, a sign that Rostnikov had made his arrangements with Pankov for the trip.

The Yak flipped the switch off, rose, and moved to the outer office where Pankov sat, suddenly at sweating attention.

“Pankov,” the Yak said. “You know the notebook Chief Inspector Rostnikov carries?”

“The larger one or the one in his pocket?” asked Pankov, to show that he was indeed observant.

“The larger one. You know where the chief inspector keeps it when he goes out?”

“In his drawer, the middle one, or he just leaves it on his desk,” said Pankov, trying mightily not to show any curiosity about the curious questions from the director.

“In five minutes, you will call the chief inspector and tell him he is to go down to Section Seven to sign papers for his trip. You will then call our friend in Section Seven and tell him to keep Inspector Rostnikov busy signing papers for fifteen minutes,” said Yaklovev. “When he is signing papers, I want you to enter the chief inspector’s office, find his notebook, copy every page quickly on our machine, and return the notebook to the exact place where you took it from.”

Pankov wanted to plead, weep, beg. Rostnikov might come back, find him, break him to pieces. And what of the others across the hall? What if the Vampire caught him?

“I understand,” said Pankov.

“Good.”

And with that the Yak went back into his office, leaving Pankov to wonder what might be of interest or importance enough to merit this errand, an errand filled with danger for the frightened assistant.

Had he been able to ask the director, and had the director been willing to give an honest answer, that answer would have been “I don’t know.” But at a deeper level, the real answer the Yak barely acknowledged was “I want to know this man in whom I put so much trust.”

The sky was clear and the day warm as Maya Tkach crossed the Paton Bridge over the Dnieper River. She walked without thinking about where she was going, letting her body take her as it had more than a decade earlier when she had been a very young woman in Kiev.

People, cars, and buses passed her in both directions. She looked neither at them nor at the water to her right. She knew she was heading for the heart of the city, where she would probably wind up on Kreschatik, the busiest street in Kiev, where she would go into the Kreschatik metro station and head for the house of her brother and her sister-in-law.

Young men and old men glanced at the pretty, dark woman who appeared to be lost in thought or grief. Maya was vaguely aware of the glances, as she had been since she was a girl of fifteen.

Her sister-in-law would watch the children and her own till three. If Maya was back by then, there would be no problem. In truth, Rita would probably not grumble even if she were quite late. Rita had welcomed Maya and the children and refrained from commenting on her situation or making negative comments about Sasha, though Maya’s brother had told her at least something of Sasha’s behavior and the reasons for Maya’s coming to Kiev.