Stuart Kaminsky: Fall of a Cosmonaut

Sasha leaned toward the man, not worrying about being shot, though it would have been a reasonable cause of concern at that moment. Sasha could smell blood, fever, and death now.

“There is a bicycle shop off of Gorky Street. It is called Wheels. There is a closet in that shop, in the rear. Go to it. You will find my final surprise, my last move. I will be laughing. I will have protected my queen.”

“What will I find in that closet?” asked Sasha.

“The original negative and the duplicate negative for the abomination of the life of Tolstoy. B.B. just threw away the negative of a movie I worked on two years ago, The Gambler’s Wife. That was even worse than the film you will find in that closet. That is my gift to the widow.”

“And from this you got? …”

“Look around you, Sasha. I got an audience for my final move. I got …”

He drew in a breath, broke off in the middle of it, stretched himself out, and died.

Director Igor Yaklovev was sitting at the end of the conference table in his office when Rostnikov arrived with his writing pad, a neatly typed stack of reports, some notes, and a small box in his hands. The Yak motioned the chief inspector to his usual spot, and Rostnikov nodded as he moved to take his seat and place his bundle in front of him.

The Yak said nothing, sat with hands folded before him on the wooden table. There was nothing in front of him. In a few moments there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” called Yaklovev, and the diminutive Pankov entered, juggling a small tray with two cups.

Pankov moved slowly, afraid of dropping the coffee, and placed a cup before the director and another before the chief inspector. The Yak’s was black. The chief inspector’s was white with two sugars. Pankov took the small tray and departed.

“He is learning to make better coffee,” said the Yak after taking a sip.

“Much better,” Rostnikov agreed.

“Progress?” asked Yaklovev.

“Closure on all three current investigations,” said Porfiry Petrovich, handing the director three reports in clean manila folders.

His leg was definitely bothering him. He would have to see Leon, his wife’s cousin, for an adjustment to his prosthesis. The park competition was coming soon. With any pain it would be difficult to lift.

“Andrei Vanga, director of the Center for the Study of Technical Parapsychology, has been arrested for the murder of Sergei Bolskanov,” said Rostnikov, taking a sip of coffee and opening his pad.

“The motive?”

“The theft of Bolskanov’s research. Vanga had produced nothing of note in almost two decades. He was afraid of losing his job and his reputation.”

“And now he has lost both,” said Yaklovev. “He has friends and enemies.”

“Bolskanov’s research paper is contained on a computer disk in the report before you,” said Rostnikov, beginning to draw.

If the research was worth theft and murder, thought Yaklovev, it might well be of value to certain prominent people behind the center. They would definitely be grateful for the swift conclusion of the investigation and for the disk, of which Igor Yaklovev would make a copy.

“And Kriskov is dead?”

“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “We did not succeed in protecting him.”

“But the stolen negative has been recovered.”

“Sasha Tkach and Elena Timofeyeva recovered it,” said Rostnikov, letting his fingers mindlessly create the image on the pad.

“They are to be commended,” said the Yak.

“Some time off with pay for Sasha Tkach would be …”

“He is a hero,” said the Yak. “His picture was on television, in the newspaper. He generated very positive promotion for our office. He risked his life to save a boy. He can have a week.”

“Three would be better,” said Rostnikov.

“Three,” Yaklovev agreed.

“Elena Timofeyeva believes Kriskov’s wife was a party to the crime,” said Rostnikov.

“Is there any evidence of this?”

“None. Valery Grachev died insisting he acted alone.”

“Then tell Elena Timofeyeva that she will be commended and the issue dropped.”

Rostnikov nodded.

“And the cosmonaut?”

“Vladovka is dead,” said Rostnikov.

“And so is a State Security operative who was assigned to protect him,” said the Yak. “Died in a St. Petersburg alley, apparently the victim of a random mugging.”

“I have heard something of that,” said Rostnikov. “Others will be sent to investigate, I presume.”

“It is a reasonable presumption, Chief Inspector.”

“It would be better if they did not,” said Rostnikov.

The Yak finished his coffee, patted the reports before him, and took the small package being handed to him by Rostnikov.

“You might prefer that Konstantin Vladovka, the brother of Tsimion Vladovka the cosmonaut, not be bothered,” said Rostnikov.

Rostnikov looked over at the package that lay before the director.

Yaklovev opened the package and found a cassette.

“That will explain,” said Rostnikov.

“I am sure you did your best to save Vladovka,” said the Yak.

“While I would far prefer that he remain buried, if it becomes essential for him to be resurrected, it might be a good idea that the resurrection take place when the dead man is somewhere safe, perhaps France or the United States. I would like to think that what is on that tape will protect a dead man.”

The Yak nodded and played with the cassette.

“If what is on the tape is of value, I believe I have the power to keep State Security and Mikhail Stoltz from the village of Kiro-Stovitsk. One more question and you may leave. I’ll give you new assignments tomorrow.”

Rostnikov looked up.

“What have you just drawn?”

Rostnikov turned the pad and slid it across the table to Yaklovev, who looked down at it.

“It looks like two fat worms,” he said.

“The tape will explain,” said Rostnikov, getting up, deciding that he would see Leon that very day.

When the chief inspector had left the room, Yaklovev rose, tapping the cassette against the palm of his open hand, and moved to his desk where he kept his tape recorder.

He pulled the tape recorder from his desk drawer, placed it on his desk, inserted the tape, and pressed the play button.

“Fat worms,” he said, shaking his head and wondering if his eccentric chief inspector might be going mad.

“My name is Tsimion Vladovka,” came a voice with an echo behind it. “I was a cosmonaut and I have kept a terrible secret about my last flight.”

Before the tape was over, Igor Yaklovev had decided that his chief inspector was not mad and that what he was listening to might well be the most valuable possession in his collection of well-protected secrets.

He would make his usual three copies, as he did of all documents and tapes for his private file, and while he was doing so would decide how best to make use of what he had. He was fairly certain that he would soon be having a talk with Mikhail Stoltz.

And that afternoon-

“You have a body for me?” asked Paulinin as Emil Karpo made his way through the tables and specimens.

“I have lunch for you,” said Karpo.

“Lunch is fine. A corpse would make it better. They’ve taken my scientist and cosmonaut. I have no one to talk to now except the living. I prefer to talk to you and the dead.”

“I accept the compliment,” said Karpo.

“It is simply the truth,” said Paulinin.

Paulinin had what appeared to be a rusty automobile part in front of him. He was working at it with a fine-haired brush. Karpo opened the bag in his hand and stood across the table, lit by the bright overhead light casting black shadows.