Stuart Kaminsky - The Man Who Walked Like a Bear

With this the colonel rose to his full height behind the desk. This was the cue for Rostnikov to rise, but he did not do so.

“There is something more, Porfiry Petrovich?” the colonel asked.

“Yes,” Rostnikov said, and he proceeded to tell the Wolfhound about the death of Peotor and Sonia Kotsis and his belief that an attack on Lenin’s Tomb would be made within minutes or hours.

Simeon Propkin, the young MVD officer guiding late-afternoon traffic crossing the bridge just below the Lenin Hills, was surprised to see the bus moving slowly in the stream of traffic. He was surprised for several reasons. First, according to the sign above the window, the bus was far off route. Though Peotor Kotsis had told him to change the route sign, Boris Trush had simply in his ongoing fear forgotten to do so. The second and perhaps more important reason Simeon Propkin, the traffic officer, was surprised was that he recognized the number of the bus as the one that had been reported missing three days earlier.

Propkin had been an active member of the MVD for only three weeks, which turned out to be fortunate, since, from the moment he saw the bus, he never considered doing anything but that which he had been told to do. Propkin let the bus pass, left his post, and hurried to the phone in his car parked in the restricted area just beyond the bridge.

“Don’t speed,” Vasily said as they moved away from the bridge. He punctuated his order with a sharp jab of his gun into Boris Trush’s ribs.

Boris, who had been unaware that he was going too fast, slowed down.

“When we get to the square, go past the old church. If no one tries to stop you, drive slowly to the front of the tomb,” Vasily said. “If someone tries to stop you, get to the tomb as fast as you can. Roll over anyone and anything in your way. You understand?”

“I understand,” Boris said.

“And then,” Vasily said, “we will all do our job and meet for a toast in hell.”

They were less than a block from the entrance to the square when a series of events took place. The first was that a barrier had been placed across the road to the square. Boris was the first to see it. It was a yellow-and-white gate. In front of it stood two uniformed MVD men with weapons held ready across their chests. Behind the barrier stood three men, one heavyset, one young with his hair falling over his forehead, and the third tall and pale, as pale and serious as death.

Vasily saw the barrier and the men only an instant after Boris.

“Go through it,” Vasily said, putting the gun to Boris’s head.

“I can’t,” Boris said.

“You will,” Vasily said, hitting Boris on the top of his head with the barrel of the gun. “You will or this bus will be painted with what little brains you have. You will because I will not fail my father and my sister. You will because this is the best moment of my life and I’ll not have it screwed up by a sweating fool.”

The bus was moving slowly forward. Boris could clearly see the faces of each man at the barrier. Their guns were now leveled at the window of the bus, at Boris Trush.

From somewhere behind them, within the bus, a woman’s voice, Lia’s, called: “Give it up, Vasily! We can’t get through!”

“Shut up!” Vasily shouted, looking out the front window as the bus moved to within fifty yards of the barrier.

“We can’t get through!” came another voice. Vasily let out a terrible shout, a howl of madness. He turned and fired a burst from his machine pistol into the rear of the bus. Windows exploded. Someone screamed. Boris lost control, and the bus careened to the right, hit a light pole, and came to a stop as it tilted over. Vasily tumbled toward the door, losing his grip on the gun. His head hit a window and went through it. Boris, who clung to the steering wheel in fear, reached over to open the front door with the vague thought of getting out. Behind him the terrorists screamed and shouted, and those who were uninjured and alive went through windows.

Boris let go of the steering wheel and rolled toward the door in total panic. As he went through, Vasily, his face a mask of blood, grabbed him. Boris yelped like a dog and dragged Vasily with him into the street. Boris struck at the hands that clung to him, at the face that bubbled something angry and unintelligible.

Over Vasily’s shoulder as they rolled on the ground Boris could see the MVD officers and the three men behind the barrier running toward them. He struggled madly to get free of the creature who clung to him. And then Boris Trush found himself on top of Vasily Kotsis and a rush of something animallike and liberating came over him. Boris punched at the creature beneath him, the creature who was trying to strangle him with crimson, sticky fingers. Boris struck and shouted something not even he understood. He was punching furiously when the officers pulled him off the subdued man beneath him.

“Enough,” said the young man with the hair in his eyes, the one who had been behind the barrier.

“Enough,” Boris Trush agreed as he was led away.

His last glimpse of the scene was of the terrorists kneeling on the ground with guns trained on them and more uniformed officers rushing from doorways.

“Enough,” Boris Trush repeated one more time before he passed out.

When he awakened hours later in the hospital, Boris Trush would be informed that he was a hero. And he would believe it.

Immediately after Rostnikov received the report from Karpo that the terrorists had been caught, the bus recovered, and the driver released, the inspectors left for the hospital. He could return to his office later to complete the reports. A trip to the hospital would also give him time to consider how he would deal with the fact that he had interfered with a terrorism-and-hostage case that had officially been turned over to the KGB. In anticipation of an affirmative outcome to the situation, Rostnikov had already prepared a rough statement, with the Wolfhound’s approval, to the effect that the colonel had simply responded to an informant who indicated that an unnamed criminal was expected to attempt a robbery not far from the Kremlin.

It was weak, but Rostnikov knew he could fill in the holes. The fact that the policeman at the bridge had called in the approach of the bus gave Rostnikov a fortunate option. Word of the approaching bus had been called in to the KGB, but since Rostnikov’s people were already in the vicinity, they responded and, fortunately, were present.

It was easier to take an elektrika train than to try to get an automobile and a driver. Besides, the train ride gave him ample time to think.

Sarah was sitting up in bed and eating when he arrived. She was still wearing a bandage, but it was much smaller than the turban he had last seen. Her red hair was beginning to grow back.

The two other beds in the room were empty. The girl and the old woman were capable of walking and were down in the patients’ dining room.

“Don’t look at me,” Sarah said when he came through the doorway. “I have no hair.”

“It will come back,” said Rostnikov, moving to her side to kiss her cheek. “What are you eating?”

“I don’t know,” she said, looking down at the tray on her lap. “It’s wet, white and has lumps of something in it. Would you like some?”

“No, thank you,” he said, resting on the side of her bed. “What does the doctor say today?”

“Three, four more days and I can go home,” she said. She handed him the tray, and he put it on the table nearby. “Porfiry, why have we not heard from Iosef?”

“He’s all right,” he said, taking her hand. “I’ll find out tonight or tomorrow. I’ll talk to him.”

“It’s not a good experience, the army,” she said, looking at him.