Stuart Kaminsky - The Man Who Walked Like a Bear

Vasily, who Boris had decided the moment the young man had shot the passenger was quite insane, was suddenly on a new level of madness. It was evident in the young man’s blue eyes.

With Vasily threatening, ordering, screaming, the bus was rolling down the side road near the farm ten minutes after Vasily had returned. Inside the bus were Boris, Vasily, Lia, the three others in the band, weapons piled on the seats, and a box that, Boris knew, contained explosives.

As he had on the morning Boris and the bus had been taken, Vasily stood at Boris’s side. Vasily’s gun was held low, out of sight of any approaching or passing vehicle. The barrel of the gun was aimed at Boris’s side.

Vasily ordered Boris to drive to the right, away from the city, when they reached the main road. Vasily wanted to stay away from the store where he had made the phone call. Checking frequently with one of the members of the gang who apparently knew the local roads, Vasily prodded Boris into a series of sharp turns and down cow paths until they came to a highway.

The spot under his right armpit where the nozzle of Vasily’s gun was pressed was now sore from each bump on the side roads. Boris was sweating again through his uniform.

“Can you sit down?” he asked. “You’re making me-

“Shut up and drive, drive, drive,” hissed Vasily.

“I’m one of you,” Boris reminded him. “Peotor said that I’m one of you. I shot the … I shot that man in Klin. I … you can trust me.”

“You are a fool, bus driver,” Vasily said. “My father knew you for a fool. I know you for a fool. The games have ended with you. You will drive. We will destroy the tomb, and we will all die. You understand that, bus driver? We, you, will all die. I have a list of all of our names in my pocket so they will know who we are. Your name is on that list, bus driver. My sister was to have mailed that list out of the country so the world would know. My father and sister, if they are alive, will hear what we’ve done and be proud.” And then turning to the others in the bus, he shouted, “Today is the day we die!”

The returning shouts, Boris thought, were less than enthusiastic.

Pankov, sitting behind his desk, looked up at Rostnikov, who held out the bunch of flowers.

“For your desk, Comrade Pankov,” Rostnikov said. “I thought you could use a touch of color.”

Pankov had not been aware that this afternoon was particularly dark, but he was pleased to have any consideration shown to him, particularly by Rostnikov, whom he liked to consider as a possible ally against the forces that threatened his security.

“Thank you, Comrade Inspector,” Pankov said, rising to take the flowers. “The colonel is expecting you.”

“You might want to put them in water immediately,”

Rostnikov suggested. “I brought them from the Arbat, and they’re beginning to wilt just a bit.”

Pankov grimaced slightly, retrieved a drinking glass from his desk, and hurried to the outer door.

“I’ll be back instantly,” he said.

“I’ll explain to the colonel if he says something,” said Rostnikov, and Pankov was out the door.

As quickly as his leg would allow him, Rostnikov moved around the desk, kneeled, and pulled out the bottom drawer. He reached under it and tore off the envelope in which he had placed the copies of papers he had taken from the Lentaka Shoe Factory. He closed the drawer, stood up, and was still two steps from the colonel’s office door when Pankov returned, glass of water in hand.

“I ran,” he said, looking at the envelope in Rostnikov’s hand. Pankov was certain, or almost certain, that the inspector had entered the office with nothing but the flowers.

“I see,” said Rostnikov, who knocked at the colonel’s door and was told to enter.

Colonel Snitkonoy was resplendent. His uniform, the blue dress suit with all the medals, was pressed and without a speck of dust or lint. The Wolfhound’s hair was neatly and recently brushed. The colonel had risen behind his desk and was pointing with his open hand at the seat across from him, which he invited Rostnikov to take. Rostnikov sat.

The afternoon was bright through the recently cleaned windows in the colonel’s office. Both men paused. Just a beat. Just a moment. Just a breath. But enough for them to understand that each recognized the conversation that was about to begin would be serious.

“I’ve just heard from the hospital,” the Wolfhound began. “Andrei Morchov is doing very well. He seems to have had an accident with a gun. Embarrassing. Comrade Morchov would prefer that very few people knew of this accident. I have given him every assurance of our full cooperation, and I understand our counterparts in the KGB will do the same. You understand?”

“Fully, Colonel,” said Rostnikov. “There will be no report filed.”

“And the investigation your staff was conducting related to Comrade Morchov is …” The Colonel paused.

“… closed,” said Rostnikov. “No report. It turned out to be nothing.”

The Wolfhound placed his long-fingered hands on the dark wooden desk.

“You have something you wish to discuss with me, Inspector?” he said.

“I do,” said Rostnikov.

“Is it something I should know or must know or would want to know?” asked the Wolfhound.

“I’ll let the colonel decide,” said Rostnikov, placing the envelope on top of the recently polished and highly glossed dark wooden desk.

Colonel Snitkonoy did not move. His gray eyes met Rostnikov’s and paused. Without looking at the envelope, the colonel reached out and pulled it to him. He hesitated a moment and then opened the flap and pulled out the papers, laying them neatly in front of him.

While Rostnikov sat, the colonel read, slowly, carefully. At one point-and Rostnikov was sure it was when the colonel saw the name of Nahatchavanski-the Wolfhound’s facade dropped for the first time in Rostnikov’s memory. The colonel’s hand trembled slightly. His lower lip dropped just enough to reveal even, white teeth. And then, instantly, the Wolfhound regained control and went on.

When he was finished reading the papers, the colonel looked over at Rostnikov and then proceeded to go through the papers once again. At one point while he was doing so, the phone on his desk rang. The Wolfhound ignored it.

“Badgers, ladders, and copying machines,” the Wolfhound said, putting the papers back into the envelope. “You are aware, I know, of what this means, Porfiry Petrovich.”

“I believe so,” said Rostnikov.

“Tell me,” said the colonel.

“If we turn in this evidence against a high-ranking member of the KGB we run many risks, not the least of which is the possible enmity of those in the KGB who will resent our action even if we succeed in bringing the man named in those documents to justice,” said Rostnikov.

“You say ‘we,’” the colonel said. “It is I who will be presenting this evidence, Inspector. Where do I say that I obtained it?”

“It came to my attention during the routine investigation of petty pilfering at the Lentaka Shoe Factory. I was completely shocked and surprised and brought it to your attention immediately.”

“This could also be the pathway to new respect for our division,” said the colonel. “I spoke to you recently of ambition, Porfiry Petrovich. Respect and ambition have a price. The question is: Are we willing to pay that price? I could, you know, simply turn this over to someone in the procurator’s office and let them take the credit and risks.”

The Wolfhound looked at Rostnikov for a long moment and made a decision.

“These medals are not simply decoration, Porfiry Petrovich,” he said. “I earned them by taking chances, youthful chances, necessary chances. And when I earned them, I had the respect of those I respected. I would like to feel like that again. We will do it.”