Stuart Kaminsky - The Man Who Walked Like a Bear

The KGB man knew what was coming. He looked up from his thoughts into the eyes of his cousin and waited.

“I was hoping you might use … some influence to get us, the children, me transferred,” the cousin said, a trail of sweat on his brow from the extra glass of cognac he had needed to gain the courage to make the request.

The KGB’s man’s wife kept her head down and ate as if she had heard nothing. The cousin’s wife bit her lower lip.

“I have no influence with the trade unions,” the KGB man said evenly.

“Well, not directly,” said the cousin with a small laugh. “Of course not. Not directly. I know that, but if you wanted to-”

“I’ll see,” the KGB man said.

“It’s not as if-” the cousin’s wife said, her voice a tremulo.

“I’ll see,” the KGB man repeated, making it clear that the conversation was over.

They had finished their drinks with small talk from the KGB man’s wife about the availability of Siberian fruit. The evening had been interminable, but the children had remained quiet and distant, obviously having been told that important things were going on and their father’s cousin should not be disturbed in any way.

And now the KGB man stood in his office, the only place where he felt at peace, and considered whether he would help his cousin. It might be a good idea and it would cost him little beyond a phone call. Then the cousin, who was a ranking member of his trade union, the district power and utilities union, would owe him more than a favor. He would owe him a great debt and possibly be in position to repay it in the future. But that was the future. He moved to his phone, lifted the receiver, pressed a series of buttons, and gave his rank and name to Vadim, who had reported to him the day before.

“It proceeds,” Vadim said.

“Good.”

“He is going ahead with the investigation as we planned,” Vadim reported.

“Keep him interested,” the KGB man went on.

Both men knew well enough not to give details, names over the phone. Later, if questioned about the conversation, they had another case they could claim to be the subject. If it came to that, however, there would probably be no opportunity for further deception.

“Report as you get additional information,” the KGB man said, and hung up the receiver.

There was other work to be done. He moved to the desk, arranged the reports in front of him, and reached for his pen and a white pad of paper. He removed the glasses from his pocket and put them on his nose and around his ears. There was a computer in the room, but anyone could gain access to what he put on the computer. Someone could be sitting in another room of the vast building reading his words, his numbers, even as he considered them on the screen. No, he had learned long ago to put everything on paper first, work out what he could share and was willing to share. His own notes he shredded and each night he took the shreds home to burn even when the notes were innocent.

A bad habit could destroy a man.

As he wrote, he wondered where the policeman was at the moment. If a smile were within him, he would have smiled now, imagining the puppet going through the motions the KGB man was dictating.

The hospital administrator looked nervous, a nervousness he attempted to hide behind a mask of bureaucratic overwork.

“Transfers,” said Schroeder with a sigh, brushing back his hair, pulling down the lapels on his jacket, adjusting his tie and glasses. “Do you know how many transfers we get in a week? Six, seven. The forms, paperwork. It doesn’t end. My father wanted me to be a career soldier. Perhaps I should have listened to him.”

“Perhaps,” Rostnikov agreed.

They were standing in the record room down the corridor from Schroeder’s office. Two people worked in the room, which held dozens of file cabinets and a single computer in the corner. The two people, a man and a woman, did their best not to pay attention to the new administrator and the box of a man who walked with a limp.

“It was his family’s idea,” Schroeder said, going through the files furiously and then turning to face the detective. “Not here. It was only yesterday. They get a copy. We keep a copy. It’s probably still somewhere. It’s not my fault. In the few months I’ve been here, the bookkeeping system has improved two hundredfold, but there’s still so much … the papers could be anywhere.”

The man’s arms went up to indicate that, indeed, anywhere meant anywhere in the universe.

“But it will turn up. It should be on my desk. It will be on my desk.”

“Ivan Bulgarin was transferred to another facility at the request of his family,” Rostnikov said evenly.

“That’s what I said,” Schroeder said, looking at the two record clerks, who seemed to be absorbed completely in their work.

“And you don’t remember where he was transferred?”

“It’s in the records if I can just-”

“Who would remember?” Rostnikov went on. “A nurse, doctor?”

“I’ll ask,” said Schroeder. “I wasn’t here, you remember. And the night nurse doesn’t-”

“Let’s ask,” said Rostnikov gently.

“It wouldn’t do-”

“Let’s try,” Rostnikov insisted gently.

Schroeder was trapped.

“Well, if you-”

“I do,” said Rostnikov, touching Schroeder’s shoulder.

And they went in search of someone who might be able to tell them what had become of Ivan Bulgarin, the man who walked like a bear.

Boris Trush nodded his head in complete understanding of everything that was being told to him. He nodded his head and began to make a plan.

“We will drive slowly past the Alexander Gardens,” Peotor Kotsis explained as they walked through the dried-out field behind the wooden house and barn where Boris’s bus was parked. Boris had been given a torn pair of cloth pants and a rough sweater so his uniform could be kept neat and clean for the big day.

“Past the Alexander Gardens,” Boris repeated.

Peotor Kotsis had long since removed his coat and now wore a pair of blue pants, a white shirt, and a sweater. The madman looked like a distinguished professor with dark hair and scholarly gray sideburns. But there was no doubt the man was mad, not as mad as his killer son, but quite mad nonetheless.

“Across Fiftieth Anniversary of the October Revolution Square behind the State History Museum,” Kotsis went on.

“Behind the State History Museum,” Boris parroted. Across the field, Vasily, his weapon slung over his back, was talking earnestly to three young men and a young Oriental-looking woman. Vasily seemed to be upset with them. Boris did not want Vasily upset with him. It took very little to upset Vasily, and the result of upsetting Vasily could be fatal.

“Then,” Peotor went on, “past Twenty-fifth of October Street in front of the State Universal Stores.” He paused as they walked.

“Past GUM,” Boris acknowledged.

Across the field, Vasily laughed and began kissing each of the young people in turn, ending with the young woman, who got an especially long kiss.

“And then into the square,” Peotor said. “We move slowly, a busful of visitors, lost, cameras in hand, past the marble stands by the Senate Tower, right up to the Lenin Mausoleum. When the guards move forward to stop us, we will rush out of the doors of the bus, we will eliminate them, destroy the tomb, and be gone before they can react. We’ll all go in different directions. The crowds will be wild. Confusion. They’ve never faced a real threat. They won’t know what happened till we call the foreign press and tell them. You’ll get lost in the crowd, too, Boris. Lost with our gratitude. I’m sure you won’t give us away.”