“It is imperative that I have a decision on this within a month,” said Rostnikov.
“Or what?” asked the colonel, stepping away from him. “Do you know what will happen to you and your wife if the material is released?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov, “the same thing that will happen if it is not released and I remain here. This conversation commits me, Colonel. You know it, and I know it. We are too old to play such games, and we have other work to do.”
“I will not be denied the last word, Chief Inspector,” said the colonel. “I’ll do what I can to stop you.”
With that, the colonel turned and walked quickly back toward Dzerzhinski Square.
In the Moscow office of Pravda, Viktor Shisko sat waiting for the call from Comrade Ivanov. He was in no hurry. He had endured similar waits during the past thirty years, and things could have been much worse.
Somewhere a committee of Party members was meeting to determine what to tell Ivanov to pass on to Shisko. Viktor drank a cup of coffee, knowing it was not good for his weak bowels, and checked his watch. His lunch would be late today.
People moved around him from desk to desk, talking, working, writing, but the level of sound was low, quite unlike the bustle of the newsroom in the American movies he had seen. Viktor had never visited an American newsroom, but he had seen All the President’s Men and, long ago, The Front Page, and he wondered what it would be like to go out and actually investigate a story and then return to a madhouse of an office and write it.
When the call came at a little before one, Shisko took it, wrote down the information on lined paper, asked two questions, and promised to call Comrade Ivanov back in less than an hour with the story for his approval.
Viktor was surprised at the information Ivanov had given him. Rarely had such a story made the news, though he well knew such things happened. By two o’clock he had finished the story and called Comrade Ivanov, who checked it with someone else and called Viktor back at three-thirty. At that point it was decided that the story could run:
MOSCOW, July 23 (Pravda)-English filmmaker James Willery, 36, was killed in Moscow when a gas main exploded destroying a wall in the Zaryadye Cinema today. The gas main defect also caused a small eruption almost immediately after the explosion in Red Square though little damage was done.
Screenings scheduled for the Zaryadye Cinema for the Moscow Film Festival now under way will be held in the Metropole Cinema until repairs can be made, which should take no more than two or three days.
The gas mains that caused the damage were part of a system that remains from before the Revolution. The few hundred feet of piping that failed will be replaced immediately to ensure that such an accident will not occur again, according to the Moscow Energy Board.
Willery, whose film
To the Left
was shown at this year’s festival, was a prominent socialist filmmaker who had been invited to the festival because of his innovative approaches to socialist film.
No one else was injured in the accidents.
Lieutenant Galinarov sat at his small desk absorbed in the duty roster in front of him. His head was cradled in his hands as if he were deep in thought. Iosef Rostnikov concluded that he was trying to give the impression that he was deep in thought over who would be responsible for barracks duty today or whose turn it was to pick up fresh sheets on Tuesday.
Iosef stood patiently before the desk and waited while Galinarov played out his scene. For three or four minutes Galinarov examined the sheet, grunting occasionally, feigning concentration, or reaching for a drink from the glass nearby, which he kept filled from a bottle of Pepsi Cola, but which, Iosef was sure, did not contain Pepsi.
“Yes,” he said finally, taking a drink and looking up, “it can be done.”
Iosef said nothing.
Galinarov’s next move was to examine Rostnikov from head to boots.
“You have finished cleaning your weapons?”
“I have, Comrade,” Iosef said.
“And do you have any outstanding obligations for the next four or five days?” Galinarov asked.
“My only obligation is to remain alert at all times and be ready to be transported to wherever my unit might be needed in five minutes’ notice,” Iosef said. It was the required response, but he could not discern why Galinarov was putting him through this secular catechism.
“That is good, Corporal,” Galinarov said. “And do you remember what you are to say when questioned by civilians or if the subject of your tour in Afghanistan is brought forth?”
“That all discussion of that subject is military and confidential and that I can say nothing of it,” answered Iosef.
Galinarov nodded and then looked back down at the duty roster. “I suppose it can be arranged,” he sighed. “Rostnikov, you are to receive four days’ leave to visit your parents in Moscow.”
“For that I thank you, Comrade Lieutenant,” Iosef said, knowing that Galinarov surely had nothing to do with the granting of such leave and certainly, if given the opportunity, would have fought it. The business of examining the duty roster to see if he could let Iosef go was a childish attempt at reminding Iosef of his authority.
Galinarov reached under the duty roster, removed a folded sheet containing orders for leave, and tapped the sheet against his palm as if still considering whether to grant this favor.
“I’m not sure you deserve this, Rostnikov,” Galinarov said. Iosef looked into the man’s eyes and could now see that he had been drinking heavily. It was a bit early on a Monday evening to look as far into alcohol as the lieutenant did, and Iosef concluded that the order to give his hated underling leave had been most painful.
“I think you are right, Comrade,” Iosef said somberly. “I don’t deserve this. Since you do not want me to have it, I will, regretfully, go back to my duties.” His face a blank, Iosef turned and took a step toward the door.
“Rostnikov,” the lieutenant’s voice shot past him.
“Yes, Lieutenant?” Iosef said, turning around with as innocent a look as he could present.
“I hate you. You know that, do you not?”
Their eyes met and locked.
“Yes, Comrade,” said Iosef, holding out his hand for the folded sheet of paper. Galinarov threw it at him. Iosef caught it neatly and thrust it in his pocket. “Will there be anything else?”
“When you return from your leave, there will be a great deal else, Corporal, a great deal else.” Galinarov drank from his glass without removing his eyes from Iosef. “You are dismissed.”
Iosef turned his back, took three smart strides to the door, opened it, then looked back and said, “Thank you again, Comrade, and I hope you have a good week. May I bring you something from Moscow, a bottle of brandy?”
“You speak when you should be silent and are silent when you should speak,” Galinarov hissed. “I will teach you when to do which.”
“Yes, Comrade Lieutenant,” said Iosef, and he went out into the corridor.
He marched slowly out of the building and across the open field, looking neither right nor left. Galinarov was probably standing at the window of his small office watching. Not until he had entered the barracks and closed the door behind him did he reach into his pocket and remove the leave orders. They were effective immediately. He hurried to his locker, waving the paper at Misha Svedragailov, who lounged in his bunk reading a newspaper.
“Why are you looking so pleased?” asked Misha. “Galinarov fall into the pisser?”
“No!” shouted Iosef. “I’ve got a leave, four days, starting now. If I hurry, I can catch the afternoon train to Moscow.”
“Moscow’s not such a safe place to visit,” answered Misha with envy obvious in his voice. “I was just reading that they had some gas main explosions, one right in Red Square.”
“I’ll risk it,” said Iosef, removing his small travel bag and filling it with underwear and shaving gear.