Stuart Kaminsky - Death of a Dissident

The knock at the door was firm and insistent. Sonya started and wasn’t sure that it had been a real sound and not just something in her head. Then it came again.

“Coming,” she said. It was probably her brother Nikolai, stopping to see her on the way to work.

Before opening the door, Sonya paused at the wall to look at the photograph of her and Aleksander on the day of their wedding. She knew that it would soon become a ritual, a requirement. She would have to look at the photograph every time she passed. There were no words to give to this sensation, but it was welling in her nonetheless.

Sonya opened the door, not to the pale sad face of her brother, but to the figure of a young man in a black coat.

“Ilyusha,” she said softly. “What are you doing here?”

He moved quickly past her.

“Is Natasha here?” he said, looking around.

“Yes,” Sonya said confused. “What is wrong?”

He paused for a moment and looked at her. He looked as if he had not slept in days. Certainly he had not shaved.

“Don’t you know about Marie?” he asked, his hands plunged deeply into his pockets.

“Marie? No. What?”

“She’s dead,” he said, taking a step toward her. Sonya Granovsky stepped back.

“Dead?”

“Dead, dead, dead,” he repeated. “And so is Aleksander. ”

“I know,” said Sonya softly. “Please, Ilyusha, sit down. I’ll make some tea and we’ll talk.” She moved toward the kettle, but Malenko stepped in her way.

“Do you know who killed Aleksander?” he whispered.

“A man named Vonovich,” she said. “I know you’re upset Ilyusha, but you’ve got to keep quiet. Natasha is sleeping. It’s been very hard for her.”

Malenko shook his head and ran his hand through his hair.

“Hard for her,” he chuckled.

“Ilyusha, are you sure Marie is dead?” Sonya Granovsky said softly. “Maybe you’re just upset by what happened to Aleksander and-”

Ilyusha Malenko’s sudden move forward sent her staggering back. Panic was in his eyes.

“Oh no,” he said, holding his hand out while the other remained in his coat pocket. “That’s what happened before. I wasn’t sure what had happened, but I proved it with the cab driver. I proved it. It did happen. She is dead. I hit her and hung her up. I killed her and the cab driver and Alek. I did. You aren’t going to convince me that I didn’t.”

His hand came out of his pocket slowly, holding a large, heavy pair of rusty scissors.

“Ilyusha,” Sonya started to scream.

“But it’s not enough,” he said, stepping toward her. “Simon convinced me, showed me, it’s not enough. He’s the one I should have listened to all the time. I’m going to make things even.”

Sonya was paralyzed with fear. She imagined herself turning to run, feeling the thud of a heavy blow to her back, and knowing that filmy thing in his hand was plunging into her. There was nowhere to run. She stood in confusion and terror as he moved to her.

“I’ll explain,” he said, holding his free hand up to his lips. “Let’s be quiet and not wake Natasha yet. I’ll explain and you’ll understand why I will do what I must do.”

At the moment Ilyusha Malenko had entered the Granovsky apartment on Dimitry Ulanov Street, Porfiry Rostnikov was on his way back to his office from his meeting with Colonel Drozhkin. He weighed in his mind the possibility of trading what he knew for the safety of his son. The deliberation was brief. He would do what he could to protect Iosef. He would trade with the odious colonel. What difference did it make if Malenko went to Siberia for killing his wife or for killing Granovsky and the cab driver too? The K.G.B. wanted it finished so the political crisis could end. Then so be it, it was ended. Of course it meant that Vonovich would go to trial and be quickly convicted of murders he did not commit, but Rostnikov was also convinced that Vonovich had murdered some unknown human in his past. It didn’t matter to Rostnikov who murdered whom as long as the killers were all caught, stopped, and punished. What nagged Rostnikov was something much more basic than that. The “who” was no longer important. What was important was “why.”

“Wait,” he called to the driver as they turned down the street less than a block from Petrovka. “We have someplace else to go.”

The driver made a broad U-turn and headed back where he was told without comment. There was no time to waste. Rostnikov would confront Lvov directly and see what he could discover. Tkach had had two chances, but there was a limit to the amount of time he could give the young man when the issues were so important. There was a chance, Rostnikov realized, that he had given Tkach too much authority, had relied too heavily on him, had treated him and viewed him as a substitute son, a hedge against the possible loss of Iosef. If it were true, it may have jeopardized this investigation, for Tkach was not yet worthy of the responsibility he had been given.

When they pulled up to the apartment building where Simon Lvov lived, Rostnikov told the driver to turn off the engine.

It was easy to find the apartment of Simon Lvov. What proved to be more difficult was getting the old man to open the door.

“Lvov,” Rostnikov shouted, after knocking loudly. “I can hear you in there. This is the police. I’ll give you fifteen seconds to open the door, and then I call my man in to shoot it down.” Rostnikov knew he would do nothing of the kind, but he was not worried about losing face in front of this old dissident who had some information he might be able to use.

“You have ten seconds,” he said, not knowing if five, ten, or thirty seconds had passed.

Behind the door he could hear the shuffling of furniture, something heavy being moved and then the padding of footsteps to the door. A chain was pulled and a latch thrown before the door creaked open.

Rostnikov pushed his way in and turned on the tall, thin grey man in a worn purple robe that failed to cover his white boney knees.

“You are Simon Lvov?” Rostnikov barked.

“Yes, I…”

“I am Chief Inspector Rostnikov. You will sit, and I will sit, and you will answer some questions.”

Lvov sat dutifully across from the policeman, who stared at him. Rostnikov felt a stirring in him to back off. The old man before him was a pathetic, drifting creature, showing none of the elusiveness of tongue or mind that Tkach had reported. Either something had changed him, or Tkach had badly misjudged the man, which was unlikely.

“What did Malenko tell you?” he asked.

“Malenko?”

“Ilyusha Malenko. You saw him, met him. You know where he is hiding, what he is going to do. You can be put on trial for aiding a murderer.”

Lvov pushed his glasses back on his nose, and a spasm rippled across his face.

“He was going to kill me,” Lvov said. “I thought I didn’t care, but when the moment came, I cared very much.”

“What did he say? Why didn’t he kill you? Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” said the old man. “He said he had to even things with Granovsky. That killing me would not do it.”

“Even things?” Rostnikov asked. “What quarrel did he have with Granovsky?”

“I don’t know,” said Lvov. “They were friends, more like-I don’t know. Ilyusha worshiped Alek, would have done anything for him. Then this.”

“There has to be a reason,” Rostnikov insisted. “Why kill his friend and his own wife? Why-was there something between Granovsky and Malenko’s wife?” The idea seemed obvious and yet elusive. It depended totally on the association of the two murders for a motive. It meant, as Rostnikov was certain anyway, that Malenko was the sole murderer.

“Perhaps,” shrugged Lvov.