Stuart Kaminsky - Red Chameleon

Like former procurator Timofeyeva, Procurator Khabolov had no training in law. Anna Timofeyeva had been the assistant to one of the commissars of Leningrad in charge of shipping and manufacturing quotas. A zealot, she had learned the job of procurator well and with reasonable intelligence had done as well as anyone to combat crime. Khabolov, on the other hand, had come to his first ten-year term as a deputy procurator after having made a name for himself as a trouble-shooter who ferreted out slacking and shirking among factory workers. It was the hound-dog-faced Khabolov who had discovered the tunnel in the piston factory in Odessa, the tunnel through which workers were smuggling vodka, which they consumed in large quantities, leading to the slowdown of production and the failure to meet quotas. Comrade Khabolov had also, through the payment of strategic bribes, discovered how a trio of government dock workers had funneled Czech toothpaste into the black market. Suspicion was the primary tool of the new deputy.

Rostnikov made his way to the door of the deputy procurator and knocked. There was no answer for about fifteen seconds, and then the high voice shouted, “Come.”

Khabolov sat behind the desk, looking down at the file in front of him, apparently barely aware of Rostnikov. But Rostnikov knew that the man had set the scene, had picked up the file as a prop to prepare himself for the inspector.

“Sit,” Khabolov said without looking up.

Rostnikov sat in the wooden chair opposite the deputy and looked up at the photograph of Lenin left over from the days of Anna Timofeyeva. The photograph had meant much to that box of a woman. Rostnikov was sure that it remained only as another prop for the ambitious dog of a man behind the desk.

Like Anna Timofeyeva, Khabolov also wore his uncomfortable brown uniform, but the button at the neck was undone. To Procurator Timofeyeva, the uniform had been a reminder of her duty. To Khabolov, it was a badge of his authority. That Rostnikov had little respect for the new procurator was evident to both men, but nothing on the inspector’s face or in his manner let the fact be known.

Finally, Khabolov made a check mark on the file in front of him and put the file on the stack to his left with the pencil atop it to indicate that he planned only a brief moment or two with Rostnikov before he got back to the more serious business that awaited him.

Rostnikov wanted to shift his stiff leg but did not do so. Instead, he sat, betraying no emotion, and waited.

“The old Jew,” Khabolov said. “Are you making progress?”

The game would have to be played out. Khabolov had no interest in the dead Abraham Savitskaya. Whatever was really on his mind would come when he was ready, after he had reminded Rostnikov once again of his demotion, had hinted, once again, at his vulnerability and his Jewish wife.

“I am making progress, comrade procurator,” Rostnikov said evenly.

“Good,” the procurator said, looking down at his folded hands. Rostnikov, too, looked at the hands. The knuckles were white. Rostnikov had more experience reading people by their actions than did the new deputy procurator. It was quite evident that Khabolov did not want to get on with what he planned.

“Are you aware of what has been happening here today?” Khabolov said. “The various … cases.”

“No, comrade. I have just returned from Yekteraslav as part of the-”

“My automobile has been stolen.” Khabolov’s watery brown eyes rose to meet those of Rostnikov, to challenge them, warn them, search them for the slightest flicker or sign of amusement. Rostnikov displayed nothing.

“I am sorry to hear that, comrade procurator,” Rostnikov said.

“I want that car found,” Khabolov said. “This ring of car thieves is operating right under our feet. They must be found and finished, quickly and quietly. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Rostnikov said, and he did indeed understand. Khabolov was embarrassed. He could keep the theft quiet for a while, perhaps as long as a week, but eventually it would get out, and he would become a joke, his reputation ruined, his likelihood of advancement stunted.

“Assistant Inspector Tkach has been searching for the enemies of the state who have been stealing automobiles,” Khabolov said. “He has made no progress. You are to assist him, to find my Chaika, to find all the cars and to find them quickly.”

“And the murder …”

“The murder of an old Jew is not as important as this threat to public confidence,” Khabolov said.

“I understand,” Rostnikov replied.

“I’m sure you do.”

“I’ll begin immediately. But comrade, I thought I was not to be assigned to important cases, that I was considered-” Rostnikov began, trying to sound as innocent as possible.

“I’m not a fool, Rostnikov,” Khabolov said. “Don’t play me for one. We understand each other.”

Khabolov had been right. Rostnikov had risked too much, perhaps because he was tired, perhaps because he disliked the. man before him so intensely. Rostnikov pushed himself up.

“I’ve not dismissed you, chief inspector,” Khabolov said, and Rostnikov realized that more was coming.

“A police officer has been killed, shot near the Kalinin Bridge on Kutuzovsky Prospekt,” Khabolov said, softly reaching for his file again.

Rostnikov sat again and waited patiently, forcing himself to imagine the three moves it would take to clean and jerk three hundred pounds, forcing himself to cover the urge to shout or reach over and strangle the putrid bureaucrat across from him.

“I’m sorry,” Rostnikov said as he was supposed to. “Who …?”

“We do not know who did it,” Khabolov responded, pretending to read the file in front of him. “It was probably the sniper we have labeled the Weeper. The shot was apparently fired from the roof of the Ukraine Hotel, as was the shot several days ago.”

“I meant who-” Rostnikov tried again.

“Karpo,” Khabolov interrupted, savoring the game. “Inspector Karpo is in charge of the case, but he has just come back from a long illness and could use help.

I’d like you to supervise that investigation also. We must have results quickly.”

“Who was the policeman?” Rostnikov said slowly, almost slowly enough to be considered insolent, but Khabolov had dealt Rostnikov a card that permitted the risk. Khabolov needed the disgraced chief inspector, was admitting that his experience was essential if the deputy procurator was to retain his own job. It was also evident that Khabolov resented this need and hated Rostnikov even more than he had when the morning had begun.

“The officer’s name was Petrov,” Khabolov said, pursing his lips at the file. “Did you know him?”

“I knew him,” Rostnikov said, remembering the freckled, eager face of Sergeant Petrov; the cold day almost a year earlier when Petrov had volunteered to enter a state liquor store in which three frightened and armed teenagers were trapped; Petrov’s rush across the open space of the narrow street, steam coming from his mouth.

“I knew him,” Rostnikov repeated.

“I heard you the first time, comrade,” Khabolov said. “We can’t let lunatics shoot our officers on the street in broad daylight.”

“Yes, nighttime would be much better,” Rostnikov agreed.

“Inspector,” Khabolov said, putting the file down slowly, deliberately. “Let us understand each other.”

“I am sure we do, comrade procurator. I will talk to Inspector Karpo immediately and make the investigation of the sniper murders our number-one priority.”

“Wait,” Khabolov said, rising as Rostnikov limped toward the door. “I don’t want those automobile thieves lost sight of.”

Rostnikov turned to the man behind the desk, blinked once, and said, “Then the auto thieves have priority over the killer of a police officer?”