Rostnikov sat for four more hours. He had, with the exception of the time he took to walk around the room to keep his leg from going rigid and the hour he took to read Karpo's reports before Sokolov came to his room, been at the window for almost six hours. He had been rewarded twice by the sight of the old janitor in the People's Hall, Sergei Mirasnikov, who came to the window and looked directly up at Rostnikov. The sight of the inspector looking down at him had each time sent the old man staggering back into the Hall. When he worked up enough courage to move carefully to the window again and under cover of the curtain to look up, Mirasnikov was struck with terror. The inspector from Moscow was still there, still looking down. He would be there all the time. Mirasnikov shuddered and vowed not to look any more, not to imagine that man staring down at him, waiting, watching.

  Sergei Mirasnikov decided that he needed something a bit strong to drink.

  When Sasha Tkach returned to Petrovka after accompanying his wife and daughter home, there was a neatly typed message on his desk held down by the small rock he kept there for just such a purpose. The message instructed him to report immediately to the office of the Gray Wolfhound on the seventh floor.

  Sasha was in no mood to report. He had barely brought himself under control after his attack on the youthful muggers. He remembered much of what happened rather vaguely.

  He remembered Maya and the baby crying and Maya telling him to stop hitting the mugger who jabbered at him in some strange language. He remembered the little ice cream vendor, Boris, behind him telling someone, "That's him. That's him."

  He remembered someone in uniform taking the two muggers away while Maya, who should have been comforted, instead comforted Sasha. Someone in uniform drove Sasha and his family to their apartment and somewhere on the way Sasha began to pull himself together. By the time they were at the building, he had regained enough control to reassure himself that his wife and child were, as they appeared to be, unhurt.

  "It's all right," Maya comforted him quietly while holding Pulcharia close to her breasts in the rocking car.

  The driver kept his eyes fixed straight ahead and had the decency not to look at them in the rearview mirror.

  "I thought he, they…" Sasha began.

  "No," Maya said with a smile. "They just frightened us a bit. I'm fine though I have a small headache. The baby is fine. Look at her. Look at us. I'm more worried about the way you are behaving."

  "I, too, am fine," he said, taking his wife's hand.

  And so he had left Maya and the baby at the apartment and gone back in the car to Petrovka to prepare his report. The message on his desk might be about a new assignment. He had only recently been transferred from the Procurator's Office to the MVD and wasn't yet familiar with all the procedures. Perhaps his success at catching the muggers had earned him a choice assignment or, at least, a commendation or a letter of approval.

  Zelach wasn't at his desk but other investigators and a few uniformed policemen made phone calls, walked past with folders or sat preparing reports.

  Sasha adjusted his tie, brushed back his hair, examined his face in the window of the office behind him to be sure he was not bruised, and headed for the stairway.

  In the outer office, Pankov, the Wolfhound's assistant, pointed to a chair, barely looking up from something he was writing. Tkach sat. Tkach listened to the sound of voices inside the office. He couldn't make out the words but the deep, confident voice of Colonel Snitkonoy was unmistakable. He seemed to be arguing with someone who spoke very softly. After three or four minutes, the office door opened and Deputy Procurator Khabolov stepped out. A few beads of sweat dampened Khabolov's very high forehead in spite of the coolness of the room and he looked at Tkach with triumph. The look did not surprise Tkach who met Khabolov's eyes and held them till the older man strode away.

  Khabolov had reason to dislike Sasha Tkach. Rostnikov and Tkach had caught the Deputy Procurator illegally confiscating black market video tapes and video tape machines for his private property and use. They could have turned him over to the KGB. Khabolov's actions were, if the KGB wished, sufficient to earn a firing squad. Instead, they had made a deal with the Deputy Procurator. Tkach and Karpo were transferred to the MVD under Rostnikov. There was no doubt in Sasha's mind that Khabolov would be very pleased to see the men who knew about his indiscretion moved even further away from his office.

  "Investigator Tkach," said Pankov as soon as Khabolov closed the other door behind him. "You may enter."

  Tkach adjusted his tie again, nodded to Pankov who still did not look up and went into the Wolfhound's office.

  "Close the door," the Wolfhound said. He was standing behind his desk, hands clasped in front of him. He looked as if he were posing for the cover of Soviet Life. The medals on the chest of his brown uniform glistened in the path of light coming in from the west and the setting sun.

  Tkach closed the door and stepped forward. The Wolfhound nodded at a large wooden chair with arms, across his massive polished desk. Tkach sat. The Wolfhound made Sasha nervous. Everything the man said and did seemed to take on such importance, as if his every word were being recorded for posterity. The Wolfhound never perspired, never looked as if he even needed to use the toilet or eat food.

  "We live in very delicate times," the Wolfhound said, fixing his clear gray eyes on the junior investigator.

  Tkach was not sure if he was expected to respond. He elected to nod very, very slightly in agreement. The Wolfhound unclasped his hands and leaned forward over the desk. Another pose.

  "We live in a world of diplomacy and compromise," the Wolfhound said. "The Revolution has not fully ended, may not end for years, may not end, Tkach, in our lifetime or even that of our children, but we do not despair. Constant vigilance is essential. Our allies must be clasped to us with strength and support. Enemies must be given constant no-rice of determination. You understand this?"

  "I understand," said Tkach.

  "You did a fine job today, a fine job," said the Wolfhound.

  "I'll have a full report ready in less than an hour," said Tkach, now sensing that something was wrong, but not sure how wrong. The Wolfhound's words and furrowed brow suggested that nations were at stake.

  "Of course," said the Wolfhound. "Your report. What I'm really interested in is your return to the search for the missing dealer in stolen goods. What is his name?"

  "Volovkatin," Tkach supplied. "I'll get back to that immediately."

  "And concentrate all of your effort on finding this enemy of the State," Snitkonoy said, his voice rumbling with determination.

  "I'll devote my full attention to it with time out only to complete the report and attend the Procurator's hearing on the two we apprehended today at the Yamarka shopping center."

  The Wolfhound stood up straight and walked to the window. He said nothing for almost a full minute and then turned to Tkach.

  "There will be no hearing on the two young men you caught," said the Wolfhound.

  "No…?"

  "The two young men are sons of high-ranking members of the Cuban Embassy," Snitknonoy explained. "Their parents have been informed and it has been suggested that the two young men be sent back to Cuba."

  Tkach gripped the handles of the chair and tried to keep his jaw from tightening. He glared at the Wolfhound who did not meet his eyes.

  "They attacked my wife," Tkach said, angry at the small catch he heard in his voice. "My daughter could have been…"

  "Yes," said the Wolfhound, "But there are greater issues, greater consequences for the State. Individualism in this situation as in most is counterproductive."

  "I see," said Tkach as the Colonel turned once again to face him. The Wolfhound had positioned himself with his back to the sun coming through the window. He was an outline, a rearlighted black specter. Five minutes earlier Tkach would have been impressed.

  "Sometimes we must take a small step backward in order to take great strides forward in the future," said the Wolfhound, and Tkach felt the urge to shout out, to tell him that he didn't care about the State, the future, Soviet/ Cuban relations. He cared about his family.

  "There are some good things here," Snitkonoy said, stepping out of the light to reveal his face and a paternal smile. "The Procurator's Office has decided not to investigate certain irregularities in your handling of the situation though the Cuban Embassy has demanded an explanation. The Cubans must also live with diplomacy and reality."

  "Irregularities?" asked Tkach, feeling rage but speaking softly.

  "There are some reasonable questions," said the Wolfhound. "Why were your wife and daughter at the site of an undercover investigation? Why did you beat the two suspects to the point that they had to be examined by a physician?", "They were going to rape my wife," Tkach exploded.

  "Inspector," the Wolfhound said firmly, resonantly. "You will control yourself. There is no reason to believe they were going to sexually address your wife. They have done nothing of the kind before. And the young Cubans claim that they offered no resistance and you continued to beat them in spite of their cooperation."

  That, at least, Tkach thought, is partly correct. He sat silently.

  "So," said the Wolfhound, confident that he had the situation under control again. "The Procurator's Office has agreed to forget the irregularities, though a notation will be made in your file. We, in turn, will not file a report."

  "So there is no case," said Tkach. "We will act as if nothing happened and hope that the Cubans send those two home."

  "I'm sure the Cubans will administer punishment or issue consequences," said the Colonel.

  "I'm sure," said Tkach. "Now, if I may be excused I would like to get back to the investigation of the buyer of stolen goods."

  "Yes," said Snitknonoy returning to his desk. "We must all get back to work. I have a talk to give at the Likhachov Automobile Works, the Zil truck division. They have exceeded their half-year quotas."

  "I'm elated," said Tkach, rising.

  "So are we all, Comrade," the Wolfhound said with a touch of warning in his voice. "So are we all. Tread softly and you'll break no eggs. You may leave."

  And Tkach left. He closed the office door behind him and without looking at Pankov strode across the outer office and into the hall, being careful not to slam the door behind him.

  He stood still in the hall outside the Wolfhound's office for almost half a minute. An older woman he vaguely recognized from the records office strode by him. She wore a dark suit and glasses and looked at him with motherly concern. He would have none of it and made it clear from his look. She walked on.

  When Tkach felt that he was capable of moving without striking the nearest window or door with his fists, he headed for the stairway. His first thought as he walked down the stairs was that he needed to talk to Porfiry Petrovich. He would know what to do, how to deal with the Wolfhound, how to find a way to punish the Cubans, but Rostnikov was in Siberia and there was no knowing when he would be back. Sasha would have to deal with this alone and, he was beginning to realize, he would have to deal with it by putting the day behind him and — going on with his work.

  CHAPTER NINE

  "He's not there," Sergei Mirasnikov shouted, removing his glasses. "Thank God. He's not watching me anymore."

  Liana Mirasnikov shook her head and went on eating her bread in the next room.

  Her husband's voice had echoed across the meeting room of the People's Hall in which she spent little time and through the door to their room where she sat. With each passing year, Liana grew more brittle, more cold, dreading the long winters of ice which came so gray and close together. She had begun to grow angry at the brief summer, talking to it, accusing it of teasing her with its brevity, of telling her that she would experience few more of such interludes before she joined her ancestors.

  "Why do you keep going to the window?" she said when he came back into their room and closed the door. "Just stay away from the window."

  "I can't," he said, anxiously looking at her. "I know he is there, looking. I don't want to go to the window but I can't help it. He knows I can't help it."

  Sergei paced the room and in spite of or because of his fear he seemed younger than he had for years. Worry seemed to agree with him, at least physically.

  "Just so the other one doesn't come back, the ghost," she said, popping the last crumb of bread in her mouth and looking around the room and at the frosted window before crossing herself. "It will be hard enough to go over there and serve their meals. I think I'll just put out the food and stay away till they're finished."

  "What does he want from me?" Mirasnikov muttered, ignoring her words.

  "Possibly the truth," she said.

  "Do you know what might happen to us if I told him?"

  "I know," she said. "Don't tell him."

  Sergei straightened out as best he could and, as firmly as he could, said, "I won't."

  And with that he strode back to the door and opened it.

  "Where are you going?" Liana called.

  "To see if he is back at the window, just to see, to peek. I'll just be a second. Less than a second."

  She heard his footsteps stride quickly across the hall, felt the draft from the big room because he had not closed the door behind him, and she started to get up so she would have an early start preparing dinner for the visitors.

  "He's still not there," Sergei called.

  "Good," she said, moving from her soft chair to the closet where she kept her coat. She had not removed her boots when she came in earlier. They were a bit tight from the snow and it was the devil to get them on and off. She looked forward to coming back and taking them off later.

  "Still not there," Sergei said, striding back into the room as she tied her babushka under her chin.

  "Good," she repeated.

  "But he will be back," he said, adjusting his glasses and looking at the closed door. "He will be back."

  Rostnikov had left his post at the window reluctantly, but he had agreed to join Galich for dinner and he was hungry. The two sandwiches had not been enough nor had he expected them to be.

  When he opened the door of his house for Rostnikov, the former priest looked even more like a woodsman than he had that morning. He wore the same flannel shirt and jeans but he also wore a fur vest. He had shaved and combed his hair.

  "Come in," he said heartily. "I hope you like fish."

  Rostnikov closed the door quickly behind himself and said, "I love fish. In fact, as my wife will affirm, I feel a certain affection for almost all foods. She sometimes accuses me of being more interested in quantity than quality."

  "And," said Galich, taking his guest's coat, "is she correct?"

  "She is correct," said Rostnikov with a sigh, "but my interest in quality should not be entirely discounted."

  They ate at Galich's worktable. He had cleared a section at one end and set out a rough tablecloth. On the table was a bottle of vodka, a bowl of boiled potatoes, a roughly shaped loaf of warm, dark bread and four large fish which had been baked whole.

  "Caught them in the river this afternoon," Galich said after they had sat down. He let Rostnikov serve himself and the policeman did so generously. "If you're here long enough, I'll take you fishing through the ice. That's about the only fishing we get to do here for months. The Yensei, at this point, is frozen more than two hundred days a year."

  "And when it isn't frozen?" asked Rostnikov.

  "Ah," said Galich, a piece of boiled potato bulging in his cheek, "when it isn't frozen it roars north to the Arctic Ocean. Rolling waves chase one another forming great whirlpools. It's magnificent, mighty, more than 2,600 miles long. And its banks and depths hold treasures of history in spite of everything that has been swept by its force into the ocean."

  Galich paused in his chewing and seemed to be gazing into the depths of the Yensei of his imagination.

  "I should like to see that," said Rostnikov.

  "Yes," said Galich returning to the present, nodding his curly white-maned head and resuming his chewing. "It must be experienced."

  "You love it here," Rostnikov observed reaching for a second fish.

  "Yes," agreed Galich. "If I weren't so old, perhaps I would become a taiozbniki, a forest dweller. There are Evenks in the taiga beyond the town who don't encounter civilization for years. No one knows how many of them there are. The government can't find them, keep track of them. The forests have been theirs since God created man. They named the river, Yensei, "big river," a thousand years before we came. You mind if I refer to God?"

  "Not at all," said Rostnikov. "Do you mind if I help myself to more vodka?"

  "Not at all," said Galich, "but you have really had very little. Are you trying to keep a cool head while you get me to talk, Inspector?"

  "Perhaps a little," Rostnikov agreed. "But just a little. It is as difficult to stop being a policeman even for a brief time as it is to stop being a priest."

  "Sometimes more difficult than one would like," Galich agreed, downing the last of his glass of vodka and reaching for the bottle.

  "There are Evenks nearby?" asked Rostnikov.

  "A few, from time to time," said Galich. "Even a shaman, name of Kurmu, though the government thinks there aren't any shamans left. There are plenty of them. Shaman's a Evenk word. It means priest-healer, not witchdoctor. Shamans are both religious figures and healers. In some places shamanism has been wedded with Buddhism, particularly among the Buryats. It's even been merged with Christianity among the Yakuts. In this territory along the river, in the taiga and up to the Arctic Ocean it seems to have kept its base in ancient pantheism."

  "Fascinating," said Rostnikov with a smile, holding his hand over the top of his glass as Galich reached over to try to refill it.

  "I'm a bit drunk," said the former priest. "It's not often I get a guest who is willing to listen to my ramblings. I had the new captain at the weather station over for dinner once about four months ago. Too young. No imagination. No fire. No interests but permafrost. Who wants to spend a night talking about permafrost?"

 

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