“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
“You’re to come to Comrade Timofeyeva’s office. It is urgent. There’s a car downstairs waiting.”
Rostnikov looked at the Bulgarians and back over his shoulder at the toilet.
“Karpo, what do you know of plumbing?”
“I’m a police investigator,” Karpo replied.
“That does not preclude your knowing something,” Rostnikov said.
“You are joking again, Comrade Inspector,” Karpo said expressionlessly.
“Why is it you can recognize a joke, Emil Karpo, but you cannot engage in one?” Rostnikov said, walking past him toward the door.
“It is not functional to engage in jokes,” Karpo said. “There is too much to do. Lenin had no sense of humor either.”
“I know.” Rostnikov sighed, and then said to the Bulgarians. “Do not touch the toilet. Use the one at the end of the corridor. Above all do not tell anyone of this.” He put his fingers to his lips. “I’ll be back tonight to fix it.”
“But-” the woman began. The thin man tugged at her sleeve to quiet her.
“Security,” said Rostnikov, allowing Karpo to precede him through the door.
“We understand,” said the Bulgarian, rushing to close the door behind the two policemen.
As they walked down the corridor, Rostnikov said, “Are you curious about that?”
“No,” said Karpo, and the conversation ended.
Twenty minutes later, after getting his jacket and saying good-bye to Sarah, Rostnikov arrived with Karpo at the entrance to Petrovka in a yellow police Volga with a blue horizontal stripe.
Petrovka consists of two ten-story L-shaped buildings on Petrovka Street. It is modern, utilitarian, and very busy. It is prominent-everyone knows where it is-and so are the thousands of gray-clad policemen who patrol the city. The ratio of police to civilians is higher in Moscow than in any other major city of the world.
In spite of this, crime, while it does not flourish, exists. Files of doznaniye or inquiries, cover the desks of the procurators working under the procurator general of the Soviet Union. The police work with the procurators in the twenty districts of Moscow and are responsible for all but political crimes, which fall within the sphere of the KGB (Komityet Gosudarstvennoy Besapanost) or State Security Agency. It is a constant puzzle to both procurators and police what qualifies as a political crime. Economic crimes are generally political because they threaten the economy of the state and thus are subversive. In fact, any crime can be considered political, even the bludgeoning of a husband by a jealous wife. Officially, the procurator general’s office is empowered by the constitution of the U.S.S.R., Article 164, to exercise “supreme power of supervision over the strict and uniform observance of laws by all ministries, state committees and departments, enterprises, institutions and organizations, executive-administrative bodies of local Soviets of People’s Deputies, collective farms, cooperatives and other public organizations, officials and citizens.”
Which was why Procurator Anna Timofeyeva, a thick box of a woman, about fifty, spent at least fourteen hours a day, seven days a week in her office in Petrovka, trying to shorten the pile of cases on her desk. She looked quite formidable in her striped shirt and dark blue procurator’s uniform. She drank gallons of cold tea, did her best to ignore her weak and frequently complaining heart, and went on with her massive task.
Procurator Timofeyeva was in her second ten-year term of office. Before that she had been an assistant to one of the commissars of Leningrad in charge of shipping and manufacturing quotas. She had no background in law, no training for her position, but she was dedicated, reasonably intelligent, and, above all, a zealot. She was an excellent procurator.
She was behind her desk as always when Rostnikov entered her office after knocking and being told gruffly to enter. Then the ritual began. Rostnikov sat in the chair opposite her, glanced up at the picture of Lenin above her head, and waited. As always she offered him a glass of her room-temperature tea.
“Murder,” she said.
Rostnikov sipped his tea and waited.
“Poison,” added Procurator Timofeyeva.
Rostnikov looked down at his glass, hesitated and again sipped at the tea. He liked sugar in his tea, or at least lemon. This had neither and very little taste, but it kept his hands busy. Procurator Timofeyeva’s one vice was her taste for the dramatic in assigning cases.
“An American,” she went on. “During the night, at the Metropole.”
“An American,” Rostnikov repeated, shifting his left leg. Keeping it in one position for more than a few minutes always resulted in stiffening and at least minor pain.
“And two Soviet citizens. And a Japanese.”
“Four,” said Rostnikov.
“Let us hope our powers of addition are not taxed beyond this number,” she said, sipping her own tea.
“And the inquiry, I take it, is now mine?” said Rostnikov.
“It is yours, and it is, once again, delicate. The American was a journalist here for the Moscow Film Festival. The Soviets were businessmen. The Japanese was also here for the festival, but it is the American who causes concern. It seems he was well known in his country.”
“An accident?” tried Rostnikov.
“According to the preliminary medical report from the hotel, this poison could hardly have been an accident. So, you must work quickly. There are several thousand visitors in Moscow for the festival from more than a hundred countries. There must be no rumors of a poisoner, no panic to spoil the festival. It is an important cultural event, a world event. The Olympics as you know were successfully sabotaged by the Americans and their puppets. Moscow cannot be the scene of another such embarrassment.”
Comrade Timofeyeva’s knuckles were white as she clutched her glass.
“Forgive me, Comrade Procurator, but are not such fears a bit premature? This is but-”
“Sources have informed me that there may be those who wish to embarrass the Soviet Union during the festival and that this may be part of their scheme,” she said, looking over her shoulder at the portrait of Lenin as if to seek approval.
“In which case, would this not be properly handled by-” Rostnikov began, but she interrupted him again.
“The KGB wishes us to investigate this as a common crime and not a political one. I’m afraid, Comrade Rostnikov, you have gained a reputation for discretion in such matters.”
The meaning of this, Rostnikov well knew, was that if he failed, his enemies could throw him to the dogs. He was expendable, and this precarious state was becoming part of his life with each delicate case he handled.
“I understand,” Rostnikov said, rising. “I assume I am to go to the Metropole immediately. I am to keep you informed, and I am to work, as always, as swiftly as possible.”
She stood and took the empty glass from his hand.
“An American is dead, poisoned,” she said. “It is already an embarrassment.”
“And Karpo is to work with me?”
“If you wish,” she agreed, sitting again and already reaching for the next file on her desk. “But he must keep up with the rest of his case load.”
Rostnikov moved toward the door.
“If you need Tkach, yes,” she said.
He opened the door but paused before he stepped out. The next thing he was going to say would surely be dangerous, but it was worth saying, for he both liked and admired the homely, far too serious, and officious woman who sat behind the desk in this hot office.