Stuart Kaminsky - Death of a Dissident

As for the rest-the shooting of the young man in the liquor store by Sasha Tkach; the shooting of the police officer by the dead boy; Emil Karpo’s arm; Malenko’s murder of his wife and a cab driver and the kidnapping of the dissident’s daughter-Viktor Shishko knew nothing. And neither, therefore, would the people of Moscow.

Dark clouds had come back over Moscow, promising more snow. Through Anna Timofeyeva’s window, Rostnikov watched the clouds push their way in front of the feeble sun. Rostnikov was in a bad mood.

“And?” asked Procurator Timofeyeva, looking particularly dyspeptic.

“And, Ilyusha Malenko attempted to rape Sonya Granovsky,” he said.

“Attempted?”

“He was unable to do so.”

“She resisted?”

“No, she agreed to be quiet so as not to disturb her daughter sleeping in the next room, but Malenko could not consummate the action,” Rostnikov said carefully. He had no idea what Procurator Timofeyeva thought about sex as a personal act or a potentially criminal one. Surely, she had been involved in enough cases to have an opinion.

“Then?”

“Yes, then,” Rostnikov went on, “he got angry. He went in and got the girl and said he was taking her with him. That he would be back for the mother when he had given the daughter what justice demanded.”

“How old is the girl?” Timofeyeva asked, looking down at her notes for an answer.

“Fourteen,” said Rostnikov. “Sonya Granovsky was told that if she mentioned what had happened, he would kill the girl, which he probably intends to do anyway.”

“But he might not?”

“He might not,” Rostnikov agreed.

There was silence in the room for a few seconds and then the distant rumbling of thunder. The room had grown quite dark, and Anna Timofeyeva rose to turn on the lights.

“And Malenko said to her that he had killed her husband?”

“That is what he said.”

“He could have been lying,” she went on, moving to her desk again. “He knew Granovsky was dead. He had killed his wife.”

“Possible, of course,” agreed Rostnikov. “Perhaps when we find him we can discover more.”

“Awkward, very awkward,” Anna Timofeyeva said between clenched teeth. Her breathing was heavy now, troubled. “What are you doing to find him?”

“We are trying to find out how he could get wherever he is through the streets of Moscow holding a crying young girl at the point of a scissors without anyone noticing.”

“He had an accomplice,” tried the procurator, opening her desk drawer to search for something. She found a small bottle of pills Rostnikov had never seen.

“Possible again, but not likely. It is more reasonable to suppose that he has also kidnapped the driver of a car, has stolen a car or has taken a cab and convinced the driver that nothing was amiss. I have some men checking on cabs, seeing if any cars have been reported missing. If he kidnapped a driver, it might be tomorrow before we find out about it if a relative calls the person in as missing.”

“And meanwhile?” asked Timofeyeva, gulping down two white pills and ignoring Rostnikov’s look of sympathy.

“I have a man guarding Sonya Granovsky’s apartment, another man watching the house of Malenko’s father. I’ve taken the liberty of doing all of this in your name, comrade.”

She waved a thick hand to indicate that it was, of course, all right to do so.

“The Procurator General is almost at the end of his term,” said Anna Timofeyeva softly. “Did you know that, Porfiry?”

“I was aware,” he said. He wondered if the pills she had taken were for pain and, if so, if they would help to relieve the agony in his leg. The run up the stairs to the Granovsky apartment would be something to regret for days, maybe long enough to ruin his training and end any hope of the park competition.

“He would like to be reappointed,” she went on. “It would be unprecedented to have such a second appointment. It would be very much to my advantage to have him reappointed, Porfiry. And if it is to my advantage, it is to yours. Do you understand?”

“I am to be discreet about my investigation,” he said.

“I needn’t tell you that my interests are not selfish,” she said, rubbing the bridge of her nose, an act which, Rostnikov noticed, she did more and more frequently. “The Procurator is a good man, a good Party member, a just man. If he remains in office, we can continue our work as we have.”

“It will be borne in mind.”

“Go, Porfiry, and report to me when you know anything, anything at all. I will be right here through the night. And one more thing.”

“Yes,” grunted Rostnikov as he forced himself out of the chair.

“I would prefer that you reserve your maudlin sympathy when you come in here. Some might find it touching, but I find your concern merely burdensome. For example, I have of course noticed the extreme pain you are in from your leg. But my feeling about it must be put aside for the sake of our efficient functioning. We have tasks which must come before human weakness. We have goals for a better future.”

“I agree,” said Rostnikov, limping to the door.

“As soon as you hear anything,” she said, pulling a thick folder in front of her.

Rostnikov went out the door thinking that Anna Timofeyeva and Sergei Malenko represented perfectly opposing wills. Malenko was a successful capitalist within a socialist country. He was the living evidence, an alternative, a corrupt alternative, perhaps, but one which refused to go away. Anna Timofeyeva labored for a Utopia free of Malenkos, elder and younger, free of dissent, free of poverty. In his deepest heart, Rostnikov was confident that neither her world nor the world of Sergei Malenko would ever triumph. No Utopia had ever survived; perhaps none was desirable. Man had evolved into a creature who lived in constant tension. Utopias might destroy him. And besides, in a perfect world there would be no room for the police.

It took forever to get back to his own office, where Sasha Tkach sat, his hair disheveled, his coat open. The young man slumped in the chair across the desk and didn’t even fully turn to face Rostnikov.

“Any news from the cab investigation?” Rostnikov asked, easing himself into his chair and feeling the pain rush through his leg as he changed position. Rostnikov wondered if the German who had shot him in 1941 was still alive somewhere and if the German was walking on two whole legs. Rostnikov did not like Germans, even East Germans. They weren’t to be trusted.

“Nothing,” said Tkach.

“Stolen cars, kidnappings, missing persons?”

“Nothing,” said Tkach, looking down at his thumbs. Rostnikov leaned over to see what was so interesting about Tkach’s thumbs, but could see nothing.

“You have something on your mind, Sasha,” Rostnikov sighed.

“I think I should be given…I should have less responsible assignments until I can prove myself,” he said. “I’ve bungled all of this badly.”

“You have,” agreed Rostnikov. “To use the terms of hockey, you have allowed as many goals as you have scored.”

“Yes. Had I remembered that the cab driver had been killed near Petro Street, I could have prevented the murder of Marie Malenko. Had I not lost Simon Lvov, he would have led me to Ilyusha Malenko and he would not have kidnapped the girl.”

“I know,” said Rostnikov. Tkach looked at him, waiting for further comment.

“Is that all you can say?” asked Tkach more in a plea than anger.

“What more can I say? You made mistakes. I am not your father. I can’t forgive you for your mistakes, neither will I sit here brooding on them. You have a job. You do it. Sometimes things go right. Sometimes they go wrong. If we demoted every police officer who made major mistakes, there would be no senior officers left. You have many inadequacies as an investigator, Sasha, perhaps even more than I, but I think, frankly, that we are the best available. So let’s stop worrying about the past and start considering the present and future. Let’s begin by your getting me half a dozen aspirin and a pot of tea.”