Stuart Kaminsky - Death Of A Russian Priest

“Ah,” said Lydia knowingly. “A man dies, my son is almost killed, and Arab murderers go home on jet planes, probably Lufthansa. Where is justice?”

“But,” said Iosef, “you got the killer of the priest and the nun. Your colonel was on the news.” He looked at Karpo and his father and raised his glass in a toast. “And he did it for no reason,” Iosef continued, shaking his head. “I’ve seen men go mad like that in the army. Something inside of them bursts into violence, madness, or suicide.”

“Like in your play?” said Sarah.

“Yes,” he agreed.

“And now,” said Rostnikov, looking at Emil Karpo, “the world will never know why he killed.”

“He was the town’s party leader,” said Karen. “The party is dying. The church is coming back. He couldn’t tolerate it, just like they said on the news.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Rostnikov, rotating his leg just enough to forestall the pain.

“The priest was a saint,” said Lydia.

“Perhaps,” said Rostnikov. “A toast. To the thirtieth birthday of Sasha Tkach.”

“Zah vahsheh’zdahrov’yeh,” they all said. Sasha looked at Maya, who smiled at him and gently touched his swollen face.

And they all drank.

“To my babies,” said Sasha, touching his wife’s stomach.

“Zah vasheh’zdahrσv’yeh.”

And they drank again.

“To Lydia, who has helped when we needed her,” said Maya.

“Zah vahsheh’zdahrov’yeh.”

And once more they drank.

Pulcharia climbed down from her father’s lap and looked toward the window. Lydia held up her glass and said, “To Porfiry Rostnikov, who has the responsibility of safeguarding my only child.”

“Zah vasheh’zdahrov’yeh.”

They drank.

“To my wife,” Rostnikov said. “Who today got a job.”

“A job?” cried Iosef.

Sarah smiled and looked at her glass. “Nothing much, clerk at a music store on Kalinin near the metro,” she said.

“Zah vahsheh’zdahrov’yeh,” they shouted.

“To my son,” said Sarah, after they had drunk, “who is home safely from the army and has written a wonderful play.”

“Zah vahsheh‘zdahrov‘yeh.”

Iosef, rising with some difficulty, held up his glass and said, “To Elena Timofeyeva, a welcome addition to our group.”

Karen, a capable actress worthy of a major role in a play about women, smiled, held up her glass, and was the first to say to the embarrassed Elena, “Zah vahsheh’zdahrov’yeh.”

And as they were about to drink, Pulcharia let out a squeal, toddled across the room, and threw herself at Emil Karpo, who reached down to pick her up. Everyone stopped drinking and looked at the vampire and the small child. Pulcharia looked at Karpo’s drawn face, touched his cheek gently, and put her head against his shoulder.

“It’s getting late,” said Anna Timofeyeva. “I need my rest and we have two buses to take.”

The party broke up quickly then. Everyone asked for coats and Rostnikov motioned for Iosef to help him. Father and son went into the bedroom while the others continued to talk.

“Karen’s a very pretty girl,” said Rostnikov.

“Very pretty,” said Iosef.

“She is also talented,” said Rostnikov.

“Very talented,” Iosef said. “But you do not understand. The policewoman Elena-I think I love her.”

Rostnikov and his son, arms full of coats, paused near the door of the bedroom and looked at each other. “It’s possible,” said Rostnikov. “But you are just a bit drunk.”

“It is true,” said Iosef. “I am a bit drunk. But you shall see.”

They carried the coats back into the living room.

Anna and Elena left first, followed by Iosef and Karen, whose dancing brown eyes, knowing smile, and unsteady legs made it quite clear that she was drunk.

“I’ll take her,” said Lydia, reaching out to Karpo for the sleeping Pulcharia as Sasha and Maya moved to the door, supporting each other.

“I will carry her downstairs for you,” said Karpo. The child’s hair brushed his pallid cheek, and his face was more relaxed than Rostnikov had ever seen it. “Mathilde and I must also leave. “

Mathilde looked at Rostnikov and smiled.

“All right,” said Lydia. “But be careful.”

“I will be very careful,” said Karpo, following Lydia Tkach through the door.

“Thank you,” said Mathilde, taking Sarah’s hand.

“There will be other times,” said Sarah.

Rostnikov paused for a moment as Sarah closed the door. Then he moved to the table and began to clear away dirty dishes. “Enough left for two meals,” he said.

“Maybe three,” she said.

“I can clean up,” he said.

“I feel fine, Porfiry, Why don’t we do the dishes in the morning. We have both had too much to drink.”

It was only a little after midnight when they climbed into bed. It was slightly before one in the morning when Rostnikov heard the knock at the door.

Sarah was sound asleep, snoring gently. He got out of bed as quickly as his leg would permit, put on his ancient blue terry-cloth robe. As he was closing the bedroom door behind him, there was another knock.

This had happened to Rostnikov many times. A murder, a missing child, a terrorist threat. The uniformed driver would be apologetic, would tell what little he knew, and wait patiently while Rostnikov dressed. He unlocked the door and opened it. Instead of a uniformed driver, there were two men. One he did not recognize. The other was Klamkin the Frog, who held a very compact but quite effective 9mm Walther.

“I could shoot you now and walk away,” said Klamkin, pushing open the door.

“But you will not,” Porfiry Petrovich answered. “Or you would have done so immediately.”

The man behind Klamkin was large and young with short sandy hair. He wore a sneer that indicated he knew something you didn’t. In this case he apparently did.

Both visitors were wearing heavy coats but no hats. “We can do our business in the hall,” Rostnikov said as Klamkin motioned him into the room with the Walther.

“Your wife is sleeping,” said Klamkin. “We know. We will be very quiet and we won’t be long. She has been ill and we wouldn’t want her to have a relapse.”

Rostnikov moved slowly back into the room and the young man closed the door. Rostnikov knew that most people in situations like this tried to get as far from the weapon as they could, as if the bullet could not travel just as swiftly across a room. But Rostnikov wanted to be as close to Klamkin as possible, close enough so that if he decided to shoot, Rostnikov would have at least a chance at disarming him.

“We can come back and shoot you tomorrow or the next night or some morning when the sun is shining and the ruble is beginning to mean something again,” said Klamkin.

Rostnikov didn’t speak.

“The officer for whom I work wishes to make you an offer,” said Klamkin.

“I’m listening.”

The big man glanced around the room. He was, Rostnikov concluded, new at this kind of work.

“You will provide me with information about your own investigations and others in your department.”

“And why should I do this?” asked Rostnikov.

Klamkin did something to his face that made his large lips curl upward. “My superior thinks you might be afraid to die,” he said. “He feels you might be afraid we would hurt your wife or your son.”

“If my wife or son were harmed,” said Rostnikov, “I would kill you and Colonel Lunacharski.”

The big man laughed at the absurdity of the threat by the old cripple.

“The help we get now,” Klamkin said apologetically to Rostnikov. “We are losing people with training and replacing them with oafs like this who do not know what you could do to him if I allowed him to get too close to you.”