Stuart Kaminsky - Death of a Dissident

“I used to live here,” Malenko shouted, putting the knife to the young girl’s stomach. His eyes moved around the barn. “I used to sleep in this barn with my brother when I was young, and we used to talk and watch the room grow…and I told him stories.”

“You brother died when he was an infant. Your mother killed him,” Rostnikov said.

“You are a fool, policeman,” screamed Malenko. “Don’t they train you to humor people like me, not to provoke them?”

“Ilyusha, may I lean on the railing? I have a very bad leg from the war and I cannot stand like this for long.”

Malenko looked confused and Rostnikov ambled slowly another step and leaned on the rail four or five feet from the two figures. The girl was shivering with fever and fear.

“Thank you,” sighed Rostnikov. “You were saying?”

“Don’t provoke me.”

“I won’t.” Rostnikov held up his right hand. “I don’t want to provoke you. I am just a weary cripple who would like to understand a situation which has gotten far away from him. Can I ask you a question?”

“A question?” Malenko tried to pull himself and the girl further into the corner of the shed. The grain shifted under them, and the sound made the chickens behind Rostnikov scurry with excitement.

“How did you find out about your wife and Granovsky? Did you catch them?”

Malenko’s head nodded, and his body shook with emotion. Rostnikov realized that he was on the verge of action or breaking.

“He told me.”

“Granovsky told you?”

“No, a man, a friend, a member…a friend.”

Rostnikov shook his head in disbelief.

“No, no one told you. You’re starting to tell lies again. You had no evidence for what you did.”

“He told me,” Malenko insisted pointing the knife at the policeman. “Fero Dolonick told me. He saw them. He had a photograph. He showed me.”

Rostnikov scratched his head and tried not to look at the frightened face of the girl.

“He had photographs of your wife and Granovsky? Did you ask him how he got them?”

“I didn’t care. He had them. It was true. Aleksander came to see her the day I killed him. I waited. I saw him go in. I saw. No more talk. No more pain.”

Malenko’s eyes were filled with moisture, and his free hand went up to cover his ears.

“May I make a practical suggestion?” Rostnikov said, leaning forward.

Malenko wiped his sleeve across his eyes. The cow mooed behind them.

“I suggest,” said Rostnikov, “that before you attempt to get your clothes off and rape the girl that you put me out of the way. It will make your task much easier.”

“This is a trick,” smiled Malenko, his eyes going to the window and door.

“Of course,” agreed Rostnikov, “but not a very promising one on my part. I am tired, unable to move, unarmed, slow. You are young and, I understand, a madman has enormous strength. You seem quite mad to me. Consider it, Ilyusha. Or better yet, consider simply giving up. You have done enough. You have won your victory.”

Malenko seemed to be considering the choices. He pursed his lips and got to his knees.

“And you young Natasha, what do you think?” Malenko said to the girl who had followed none of the conversation. “Perhaps I won’t kill you. Perhaps, to have you will be enough. I’ll-”

He turned and leaped at Rostnikov with the knife before him. Rostnikov had been ready, but had not anticipated the speed of movement from Malenko. The knife blade scraped along the top of his skull, opening a long thin cut and sending Rostnikov sprawling backward onto an unwitting chicken which was crushed beneath his body. Malenko came over the top of the shed, and Rostnikov brought up his good leg to kick at the young man. The kick caught Malenko’s shoulder and sent him sprawling across the barn into the legs of the frightened cow. Chickens went wild, and Rostnikov tried to rise. His own blood blinded him, and Malenko was on him again.

Rostnikov caught the hand with the knife and pushed it back. The young man grunted and struggled and threw his knee toward Rostnikov’s groin, but the policeman turned sideways, taking the knee against his thigh. Rostnikov grabbed for the young man’s leg and caught it at the thigh. With one hand gripping the arm with the knife and the other squeezing into the young man’s shoulder, Rostnikov lifted. Malenko weighed at least one hundred fifty-five pounds, a simple bench press with a dead weight, a bit difficult with living, unevenly distributed weight. With a tensing of his shoulders Rostnikov prepared to throw Malenko into the shed door and end the battle.

Then something exploded in the room. For an instant Rostnikov thought that the wound to his head had been more severe than he had sensed, that he must be suffering some kind of hemorrhage, but the sound cleared and Malenko’s body went limp. Still holding the limp form over his head, Rostnikov tried to see through his own blood and had only the image of Malenko wearing a red mask. He dropped the body and rolled over.

“Are you all right?” came a voice. Rostnikov wiped his face with his sleeve and turned toward the barn door, where he could see a man in a policeman’s uniform. It was Dolguruki, the driver. A gun was in his hand.

“I am all right,” said Rostnikov, struggling to his knees. “You did not have to kill him.”

“He had a knife,” said Dolguruki, stepping toward the body. A crowd of chickens followed him.

“Yes,” said Rostnikov, pulling himself up and removing his coat.

He looked over the top of the shed at the girl, who cowered back when she saw his bloody face.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “A scratch. You are all right now. We’ll get you to a hospital.” He handed her his coat and she grabbed for it and hugged it to her thin body.

“He’s dead,” said Dolguruki, kneeling at the body.

“I’m not surprised,” said Rostnikov, opening the shed to help the girl.

Tkach and Zelach ran into the barn, guns drawn, to take in the sight. Zelach’s eyes went from the body of Malenko to that of the crushed chicken. Tkach looked with horror at Rostnikov.

“It’s a deep scratch,” Rostnikov explained, looking around for something to stop the bleeding as he lifted the girl in his arms. He could feel the warmth of her fever right through his coat.

“Does it hurt?” said Tkach.

“Only when I think,” replied Rostnikov, looking at Doguruki and the sprawled body of Ilyusha Malenko. “Only when I think. Now we must get her to a hospital.”

Emil Karpo had a dream. In the dream, he was floating on his back, absolutely stiff, as if he had been hypnotized by a magician. He was quite comfortable and mildly surprised to see the magician hovering over him. He was even more surprised that the white turbaned magician looked exactly like Porfiry Rostnikov. Rostnikov looked as if he were deep in concentration to insure the success of his trick, and Karpo wanted to insure that the trick would indeed work.

“What can I do?” Karpo mumbled in his dream.

Rostnikov touched his arm, and Karpo started. It was not a dream. Rostnikov did hover over him in a turban. He also discovered that it was true that one had the illusion that one could feel an amputated limb. Karpo, had not logic stayed him, could have sworn that he felt Rostnikov touch his non-existent arm.

“Turban?” Karpo mumbled dryly through the first sign of coming out of the anesthetic.

Rostnikov touched the bandage and shook his head, no.

“Wounded, stitches, twenty-seven,” he said. “We got Malenko. And there is a tale to tell. How are you feeling?”

Karpo looked around the room. A man in the bed next to him looked away.

“My arm,” he said.