The Yak, head shaven, imperially slim in a dark blue suit with a pale blue tie, sat not behind his desk but at the conference table to Rostnikov’s right. There was nothing on the shining table except a pad of white paper and a fine-point pen at a place opposite the Yak. For an instant, Rostnikov imagined Pankov furiously using his handkerchief to coax out the nearly perfect finish on the table.
Rostnikov placed the folder he had brought on the table and sat with the white pad and pen in front of him. Porfiry Petrovich was certain that the conversation would be recorded and, given the nature of what he was about to impart, was reasonably certain that most, if not all, would be edited and deleted.
“I have approved five days’ leave for both your son and Elena Timofeyeva for their wedding and honeymoon.”
“Thank you,” said Rostnikov.
“That is provided their departure will not stop the progress of ongoing investigations.”
The Yak fixed his eyes on those of Rostnikov, who picked up the pen and began taking notes.
“If need be, Inspector Karpo can assist Inspector Zelach in the pursuit of the boxer and Inspector Tkach can continue his mission of protecting the British journalist with the assistance of two assigned people from the uniformed division.”
Rostnikov wrote a single word in small block letters, “Yalta,” and put a dark box about it to remind himself to confirm the honeymoon arrangements.
“Zelach and Tkach,” Yaklovev said. “The former does not and never has impressed me, and the latter continues to appear to be unstable.”
“I trust them both,” said Rostnikov, starting to draw a square with a circle inside touching the top, bottom, and both sides of the square.
That was what the Yak wanted on record and what Porfiry Petrovich was quite willing to give.
“You will be coming to the wedding?” asked Rostnikov.
The Yak shifted his weight in the chair. The invitation had been a surprise to him, as it had been to Rostnikov. Porfiry Petrovich could not remember ever having seen the Colonel uneasy. Now Rostnikov expected an excuse or a lie or a simple “no.”
“Yes.”
Rostnikov expected the wedding gathering would consist of, as other such weddings did, hours of eating, noise, and drinking. Rostnikov could not imagine this officious man at any informal function.
“It will be an honor,” said Rostnikov. “And, of course, I will when I leave remind Pankov that he has agreed to come.”
The box with the word “Yalta” inside was now upon the head of stick figure of a man with a crude hammer in one hand and a can marked “Soup” in the other. The man was standing on a compact disc. Yes. Rostnikov owned a compact disc player given to him by his son. Gradually, slowly, Rostnikov’s collection of cassette tapes was being replaced with CDs of his favorites-Dinah Washington, Ella Fitzgerald, Billy Eckstine, Sarah Vaughan, the Basie band, and Italian opera.
The Yak sat silently waiting for the reason his Chief Inspector had asked them to meet. In response to the unasked question, Rostnikov stood, but not completely, and pushed the file folder in front of the Colonel, who opened it.
“One year ago Major Aloyosha Tarasov, who was then in charge of the investigation of the Bitsevsky Park murders, allowed a very suspicious suspect to walk free after being held for sixteen hours and interrogated.”
“A very suspicious suspect?” asked the Yak, reaching into his inner jacket pocket to extract a pair of glasses and perch them on his nose.
“The suspect was and continues to be almost certainly the murderer,” said Rostnikov.
The Yak read quickly, turning pages in the file, pausing once to say, “Aleksandr Chenko?”
Rostnikov nodded “yes” and added, “Notes on the interrogation of Chenko are reasonably conclusive, but the interrogator stopped just short of extracting a confession.”
“The interrogator was. .?”
“Major Tarasov.”
“And General Misovenski knew this?”
“His initials are on the last page.”
“Why did they let Chenko go and why did they not destroy this file?”
“Aleksandr Chenko claims to be the nephew of the Prime Minister,” said Rostnikov.
“How do you know this?”
“Internet family tree. Emil Karpo found it. There is a Chenko on the Putin family tree.”
The Yak was shaking his head in understanding.
“And you are sure this Aleksandr Chenko is one of the family on that tree?”
“No,” said Rostnikov. “I think he may be taking advantage of a coincidental name.”
“Misovenski and Tarasov were taking no chances. They did not want to embarrass the Prime Minister by exposing his nephew as one of the worst serial killers in the history of Russia.”
“Almost certainly the worst,” said Rostnikov.
“This cover-up goes all the way up to Putin?”
“I do not think so,” said Rostnikov.
“And so they dropped the case on us.”
“Yes.”
“So we would be almost certain to find the murderer and we, not they, would be responsible for embarrassing the Prime Minister,” said the Yak softly, contemplating aloud. “If our suspect is indeed his nephew.”
The Yak no longer needed an answer to the question of why the evidence had not been destroyed. Tarasov and probably Misovenski were holding it as insurance should the Prime Minister need to be informed about his nephew. The situation was now one that required some caution. Colonel Yaklovev had long courted the rumor that he and Putin were judo workout partners. In fact, the Yak had, twice a week, left the office giving no information on where he was going, not even to Pankov. The truth was that the Yak indeed worked out at a judo club with a personal instructor, but Vladimir Putin was neither a member nor a friend. All that might change one day when Colonel Yaklovev was ready to ascend to a higher level of influence.
“I will see what I can discover about this Chenko’s claim of being a nephew to Prime Minister Putin. Why did Tarasov give this evidence about Chenko to you?” the Yak said.
“Because he does not wish me to open a closed case of suicide,” said Rostnikov, “which I believe was not a suicide but a murder.”
“Who was murdered?” asked the Yak, hands now folded atop the file.
“The wife of Major Aloyosha Tarasov.”
The Yak was silent for a long minute looking at Rostnikov, who continued to allow his fingers to draw without giving thought to the images. He had drawn the compact disc flat beneath the feet of the man with the hammer and soup can. Now he began writing on the disc itself.
“With your approval, I would like to move a very old couple from their apartment and into a hotel for a few days,” said Rostnikov.
“They are in danger? They are witnesses to Chenko’s crimes?”
“No.”
“Then. .?”
“I have need of their apartment.”
“Their specific apartment?”
“Yes.”
“You have my approval. I will order Pankov to draw whatever funds you may need. Keep me informed. Thank you, Chief Inspector.”
A sincere “thank you” from the Yak was almost unheard of.
The Yak rose. So did Rostnikov, looking down at what he had written, actually printed, in very small block letters: “Georges Simenon and Fyodor Dostoevsky.”
The plan for Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov was definitely inspired by the two authors. He was sure that if he could open the CD cover he had drawn and play what was on the disc, he would hear the two novels that his plan brought to mind.
When Rostnikov had closed the door behind him, the Yak moved to his desk and picked up his phone without sitting.
“Pankov, approve anything Chief Inspector Rostnikov requires and get General Misovenski on the telephone when the Chief Inspector leaves. Do not indicate to the Chief Inspector whom you are going to call. You understand?”
“Yes,” said Pankov in the outer office, where he was perspiring again. He looked up at Rostnikov, who stood patiently and told Pankov what he needed.