Stuart Kaminsky - Black Knight in Red Square

A twinge hit her just below the breast bone. Angina, the doctor had called it. She considered cursing it and changed her mind. If rest would return her to the desk in Petrovka, then she would try to rest.

Unlike Tkach and Anna Timofeyeva, Rostnikov did not sleep. Neither did Sarah. Part of the reason for his restlessness was the condition of Emil Karpo, but Rostnikov did not blame himself. He had considered doing so, had sat up drinking tea and talking about it to Sarah after he returned from the office, but he could find no logical reason to blame himself for Karpo’s condition.

The guilt I feel, he finally decided, is not because of Emil Karpo.

Some time after two in the morning Sarah went to bed, knowing she would not sleep. Rostnikov chose to sit at the table touching his trophy and deciding on how long to wait until he called Drozhkin. He expected that the colonel would eventually call him, but he could not wait too long.

When dawn came, Rostnikov moved to the window and looked across the wide street at the apartments where others were rising to meet Monday. Lights were on, and people were boiling water, rubbing their sleepy eyes, brushing their teeth. Unlike Rostnikov, they did not sense the significance of this Monday.

If Karpo survived, Rostnikov might change his mind, his course of action. But he could not wait. Instead, he told himself that if Karpo died, it was but the final reason for him to act. It was the cutting of a tie.

Sarah rose at eight and silently made breakfast. She wore a long white linen nightgown, and her hair was down.

“Shave,” she said.

He got up, made his way groggily toward the bathroom and shaved. In the small mirror he examined his dark face.

“It is time,” he told himself. “Time, you dull-looking oaf.”

“I’m calling,” he told Sarah as he returned to the room and picked up a piece of bread and butter. She nodded and sat down with her tea and toast to watch him. He reached out a hairy hand and touched her before picking up the phone.

Though it was before eight, Drozhkin was in and took the call almost immediately.

“A somewhat disappointing conclusion to the case,” the colonel said icily.

“In many ways,” Rostnikov agreed.

“Yet,” said Drozhkin, “it could have been worse, much worse. Your man Karpo still lives.”

“He is still alive,” Rostnikov confirmed.

“You will, I am sure, accept responsibility for what has taken place.”

“I will take responsibility for that which was within my scope of authority,” Rostnikov said.

The silence went on for about five seconds during which Rostnikov looked at his wife and nodded.

“The German,” Drozhkin said finally.

“The German,” Rostnikov echoed.

“You will have to explain,” Drozhkin’s voice was somber.

“I plan to do so, Comrade Colonel. If I may, I would like to discuss it with you this morning.”

“Come to my office,” said the colonel. “As soon as you can get here.”

“No. I will meet you in the little parkway in front of the Polytechnical Museum,” Rostnikov said, “right near the entrance to the Dzerzhinski metro station.”

“Comrade,” Drozhkin said ominously.

“I’ll explain, Colonel.”

“We shall see,” said Drozhkin. “Twenty minutes.”

Rostnikov hung up.

“He will come,” Rostnikov said softly.

When Rostnikov limped up the stairway of the metro twenty minutes later, Colonel Drozhkin was standing at the corner squinting into the morning sun and looking at Lubyanka across the Dzerzhinski Square. The man, Rostnikov could see, looked older, smaller, more gnarled, and tougher outside his own environment. The colonel was wearing a slightly rumpled dark brown suit. He looked at his watch to indicate that Rostnikov was wasting his valuable time.

“I hope there is a point to this secrecy, Rostnikov,” he said in greeting.

“There is a point, Comrade,” Rostnikov answered, assuring himself that no one was close enough to overhear him. “Shall we walk?”

“No,” said Drozhkin irritably, “we shall not walk. We shall stand here and talk briefly. What is it that you could not say in my office?”

“Your office is wired, is it not?” said Rostnikov.

“Does that require an answer?”

“No,” Rostnikov replied, “but I thought you might prefer that what we will say be kept between us.”

Drozhkin’s eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips.

“Weigh carefully whatever it is you are about to say, policeman,” he said softly.

“I shall,” Rostnikov responded with a smile. They stepped out of the flow of traffic and walked toward the grass.

“And be brief,” warned Drozhkin.

“As you wish,” agreed Rostnikov. “In the past six months, I have been involved in two investigations that have brought me in contact with the KGB and with you. In both cases, I have come across information that might be a source of some embarrassment to the parties involved.”

Drozhkin stopped walking and glared at Rostnikov.

“Are you going-”

“I am in a dangerous position,” continued Rostnikov looking past the colonel. “I know more than I should about the supposed murder of a dissident by a madman who was manipulated by the KGB.”

“You are a fool, Rostnikov,” Drozhkin whispered.

Rostnikov shrugged. “Perhaps, but it was something we both knew,” he said, “just as we both know that the two explosions and a number of very public deaths in the past three days have been as much the responsibility of your apparatus as they have been of me and my men. In short, you have been hiding behind me, Colonel, because you wanted a scapegoat in case that woman and World Liberation were not stopped.”

Drozhkin’s face was quite red, but Rostnikov did not look at him.

“What have you done?” said the colonel, grabbing Rostnikov’s jacket. It occurred to Rostnikov that he could lift this man up and throw him into Kirov Street with very little effort.

“Just what you fear,” he said. “I made copies of all the papers and interviews and investigation reports on both cases and copies of the tapes of all conversations I have had with you in the last week. Those documents have gone out of the country and now rest safely in West Germany.”

“You are a traitor,” hissed Drozhkin.

“No,” said Rostnikov rubbing his neck. “That material would be an embarrassment to our country. It would not constitute proof of anything. What it would do, Colonel, is raise a series of very small questions, a few news stories that would result in waves that would wash you out of power. You have survived a great deal, Colonel, but I don’t think you would survive this.”

Rostnikov looked down at the colonel and imagined the thoughts that were racing through his mind.

“No,” said Rostnikov. “Bintz has already put the material where even he cannot get it. In the event of his death, it will be released. If I do not contact him periodically, he will order its release. Even if he is tortured, he cannot retrieve the material. We worked it out. I’m afraid, Colonel, if anything happens to me or to Bintz, you will be in quite a bit of trouble.”

“All this to ensure your safety, Rostnikov,” Drozhkin said.

“No, Colonel, I want more than my safety. I realized when this investigation began that I was a dangerous man in your eyes, that you would have me watched, and that my future was precarious at best. I also know that, given enough time, you will find a way to get around my plan.”

“So…?” prodded Drozhkin.

“I wish to emigrate,” said Rostnikov, looking around the square. “My wife, my son, and I want to go to America.”

“That is impossible,” said Drozhkin. “I can’t-”