Stuart Kaminsky - A Cold Red Sunrise

"I'm not going to stop him," said Rostnikov. "I'm going to have Emil Karpo arrest Dr. Samsonov. I'm going to tell Mirasnikov's wife to give him the brew in that jar, and I am going to get a few hours of sleep."

At the door, Kurmu said something and left without looking back.

"What did he say?" asked Rostnikov.

"He said that we should tell Mirasnikov when he awakens that there is no longer a need for demons, that there has been no need for demons since the whites came across the mountains and brought their own demons within their soul."

"Religious philosophy," said Rostnikov. -.

"Of the highest order," Galich agreed. "Of the very highest order."

When Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov awakened from his few hours of sleep, he was very hungry. He had slept on top of his bedding in his clothes, taking off only his boots. And now he awoke ravenous. He massaged his left leg into feeling, considered taking one of the pills Samsonov had given him and made his way past Karpo and Sokolov's doors and down the stairs.

It was in the dining room, after he had gathered a bowl of cold soup and a half loaf of bread, that he found himself facing a quivering Sokolov who stood in his unbuttoned coat, his fingers clutching his hat. Sokolov's mustache was drooping slightly on the left side.

"Comrade Inspector," Sokolov said, his voice barely under control. "I have been informed that you have asked the commander of the weather station to allow no phone calls out of Tumsk."

"You understand correctly, Comrade," Rostnikov said putting his food on the table and sitting. "Join me."

"I'm not hungry," Sokolov said. "I am angry. You have arrested Samsonov, announced a public hearing this afternoon, informed me of nothing. Your actions are not those of an investigator but of a jailer."

"A situation not unheard of in Siberia," said Rostnikov dipping a torn piece of bread into the soup and taking a bite. The potato soup wasn't as good as Sarah's but it was better than just acceptable. The thought of Sarah brought him abruptly back to the small dining room in Siberia.

"You do not have the authority," Sokolov hissed. "I wish to call the Procurator General's Office in Moscow. I doubt that the government wishes to arrest Samsonov. I was under the impression that we were sent here to placate Samsonov, reassure him about his daughter's death before he left the country. You are threatening… threatening glasnost." Rostnikov paused in his eating to look at Sokolov.

"Glasnost?" "Better relations with the West," Sokolov said impatiently.

"A very good idea," Rostnikov agreed, putting the bread aside to get at the soup with the spoon he had brought from the kitchen.

"Then let Samsonov go," shouted Sokolov.

"Even if he killed Commissar Rutkin?" asked Rostnikov.

"You have no evidence that he committed the murder."

"A man named Kurmu is reported to have seen the murder and identified Samsonov as the killer," said Rostnikov.

"Kurmu. Kurmu. Galich says he's a native medicine man," Sokolov shouted, pounding on the table. The bowl in front of Rostnikov rattled and a bit of soup splattered onto the table.

"Comrade, I was under the impression that you were here to observe my investigative methods, not to ruin my I

humble meals. And I thought I was here to find the person responsible for the death of Commissar Rutkin."

"It is not that simple," Sokolov said, making a fist for another assault on the table.

His hand started down but was intercepted by Rostnikov's fingers which caught the fist as if it were a falling ball. Rostnikov had a spoon full of soup in his other hand. Not a drop spilled.

"No," said Rostnikov releasing Sokolov's fist. The investigator for the Deputy Procurator staggered back holding his aching fist.

"You attacked me," he shouted. "As God is my witness, you attacked me,"

"God is not considered a very reliable witness in a Soviet court, Comrade," said Rostnikov. "And I'm rather surprised that you, an officer of the court, would invoke the name of God. I might have to put that in my reports, though it is an invocation I encounter with surprising frequency."

With a combination of fear and face-saving front, Sokolov pulled himself together as he backed toward the door and muttered that things would be quite different when they returned to Moscow.

"Let us hope so, Comrade," Rostnikov said, finishing the last of his soup by scouring his bowl with the remainder of the loaf of bread. "I'll be over at the People's Hall for the hearing as soon as I get my boots on."

The killer paced back and forth across the room glancing from time to time at the window, trying to decide what to do. The hearing had been a disaster.

The People's Hall had been set up by Famfanoff complete with chairs and a table behind which Rostnikov could sit like a judge conducting the hearing. To the left of Rostnikov the man from the Procurator's Office, Sokolov, sat brooding throughout, his hands folded except when his left hand moved up to stroke his mustache. To the right of Rostnikov sat the ghost, the pale unblinking creature with the straight back who examined everyone, seemed to register everything. They looked like a comic version of the jury in the Pudovkin movie, Mother. Famfanoff had served as warder of the court, hovering warningly over those who might shout, giving stern looks to those who coughed or whispered.

Samsonov had protested, shouted, screamed, claimed that he was being railroaded to cover his daughter's murder. He had shouted that the western press would be incensed, that glasnost would be dealt a serious blow.

Rostnikov had sat there without the slightest hint of emotion, his eyes focused far off, though they occasionally scanned the faces in the hall and fell frequently on that of the killer.

When Rostnikov repeated that the primary evidence against Samsonov was the testimony of an Evenk shaman, Samsonov had to be restrained by Famfanoff who, surprisingly, found enough strength within his abused body to control the furious doctor.

The entire hearing had lasted no more than an hour. There were no speeches and very little evidence.

The hearing had closed with Rostnikov's announcement that he was holding Samsonov for removal to Moscow for possible prosecution, that Famfanoff would keep the doctor under guard in a spare room volunteered by the commanding officer of the weather station. He further announced that no phone calls would be permitted for the next twenty-four hours.

The situation was a disaster. The killer's mission would be ruined if Samsonov were brought to Moscow, tried and convicted or even refused the right to leave the country. The ultimate irony of the situation was that the killer knew Samsonov to be completely innocent of the crime.

Something had to be done and very quickly.

By the end of the day Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov would hear two confessions, watch someone die, conspire against the government and nearly meet his death for the second time since his arrival in Tumsk. At the moment, however, he stood over the bed of Sergei Mirasnikov who drank the dark liquid Kurmu had left for him.

Liana Mirasnikov held the cup in her shaking hands and the old man, who was already looking much better, complained constantly that she was trying to drown him.

"How are you feeling, Sergei Mirasnikov?" Rostnikov asked.

"Hungry," gurgled the old man. "Hungry and stiff in the arms."

"Good signs," said Rostnikov.

"Good signs," repeated Mirasnikov sarcastically after another sip from the cup. "If I died you would feel guilty the rest of your life because I got shot instead of you. So you feel relieved because it looks like I might live. Am I right or am I right?"

"You are right," Rostnikov agreed.

That seemed to satisfy the old man who finished off the last of the drink and gave his wife an angry look as if the taste of the liquid were her doing. She shuffled away silently and Mirasnikov, who was no longer perspiring, looked up at the Inspector.