Stuart Kaminsky - Death of a Dissident

“I present you with the evidence, Comrade Procurator. That is my function. It is up to you to draw conclusions.” The chill of the room went through his back.

“That is true,” she said, reaching her short arm across the table for the report file. Her uniform buttons were shiny and caught the light. “I think it best that you not testify at the trial of the cab driver, Vonovich. I don’t think it will be necessary.”

“Nor do I, comrade,” he said.

“Granovsky’s wife insists that her husband’s murder was political, was somehow an act of the state,” said Anna Timofeyeva, looking through the file, “but the evidence of the case is quite clear and will be so even to foreign journalists. You have done well, Porfiry, and you deserve a rest.”

“I would like one, comrade, a brief one,” he said.

“And I would like to grant you one, but I’m afraid I need your services. An American staying at the Metropole Hotel has been murdered. It looks like a routine case, but…”

“It is politically awkward,” said Rostnikov.

“Let’s hope not,” smiled Procurator Timofeyeva. “Let us hope not.”

“And I assume I can use Tkach and Karpo if he is back on duty before we have the murderer?”

“Yes,” said Timofeyeva handing him the police report on the dead American and turning back to her pile of work.

Rostnikov tucked the file under his arm and made his way back to his office. Malenko, the K.G.B., the corpse of Granovsky and that of Marie Malenko drifted into the file of unconsciousness, ready to come out when least expected. Tangible and dancing in his hand was the report on the murder of an American. An American.

Rostnikov’s phone was ringing when he got to his office. It had been ringing as he walked through the outer office past the night shift of officers, but he did not hurry. When he got to it, he spoke evenly, efficiently, and with authority.

“Inspector Rostnikov,” he said.

“Porfiry,” came his wife’s voice. “Iosef is back in Kiev. He just called.”

The bloody face of Ilyusha Malenko leaped out of the darkness of memory and Rostnikov held back a surge of weakness.

“Good,” he said, and his voice broke as he repeated, “good.”