“Liver disease,” Primazon confirmed. “Still …”
“I anticipated someone like you. My remaining son and his friends have dug up the coffin. It is next to the grave. The sky is clear but it has been raining. The clouds rush in from the east and …”
“We’re coming,” said Primazon. “Inspector Rostnikov?”
Rostnikov nodded, put down his tea, and got up along with Boris Vladovka.
“I’ll hurry,” said Iosef. “I can wash and shave later.”
“You saw the cemetery when you came in?” asked Boris.
“Yes,” said Iosef.
“We will be there.”
Iosef ran up the stairs, listening to the three men below him heading through the shop toward the front door. There was no mistaking his father’s footsteps, the sound of the slight limp.
The young woman was still in his room, making up his bed. She looked up at him and smiled again as he pulled a fresh shirt from his bag, put it on quickly, slipped on his socks and shoes, and grabbed his blue zipper jacket.
He found the driver, Ivan Laminski, standing next to the Mustang, reading a St. Petersburg newspaper. Laminski was still wearing his blue uniform, but Iosef noticed that the shirt under his open jacket was definitely wrinkled. Laminski looked up and nodded soberly.
Iosef trotted toward the cemetery just outside of town. He could see a very small group: his father, Boris, Primazon, Konstantin Vladovka, and another man holding a shovel.
Iosef slowed down and walked up to the open coffin in time to hear Porfiry Petrovich say, “It is him.”
Primazon looked at the dead man and then at Boris and said, “Yes, but I have a request. I would rather not make it, but it is essential. I was supposed to protect your son from harm. Now I would like to protect myself from the censure of my superiors. I would like a copy of the death certificate and I would like to take a photograph of your son.”
Boris Vladovka took a step toward Primazon, who was now carrying his umbrella, but his son stepped between them.
“It can do no harm, Father.”
“Take your photograph,” said Boris, turning away and heading back to the village.
Primazon tucked the umbrella under his arm and awkwardly reached into his pocket to produce a very small camera.
“Important in my work,” he explained.
They stood watching as Primazon took three photographs, zooming in for one head shot. Iosef, for the first time, looked at the dead man. His hands were folded. He was the pale white of death and wore a suit and tie. His hair was brushed back. The dead man looked like a ghastly version of the cosmonaut in the photograph in Porfiry Petrovich’s file. The quest for Tsimion Vladovka was over.
“Enough,” said Primazon, pocketing the camera. “I am sorry, but …”
“Let us leave so that-” Rostnikov began.
“Of course,” said Primazon with a sad smile, looking at the bearded brother of the dead man and at the man with the shovel. “It’s time to leave.”
When they got back, Podgorny’s shop was open and the shopkeeper was reaching up to take something from a shelf. “You’ll be leaving now?” he asked.
“Shortly,” said Rostnikov. “You knew about-”
“We all knew,” said Podgorny, carefully lifting a carton with a slight grunt. “The whole village. We did as Boris asked us.”
“I am leaving, Inspector Rostnikov,” said Primazon with a sigh, as the three headed up the stairs.
“No point in remaining,” said Rostnikov. “Perhaps we will encounter each other in Moscow.”
“It is possible,” said Primazon. “It is possible.”
Porfiry Petrovich was moving slowly, more slowly than usual. Primazon went into his room and closed the door. Iosef was about to do the same but his father motioned to him and Iosef followed Porfiry Petrovich into his room, where Rostnikov closed the door behind them.
“Pack quickly and then meet me in the hall when you hear our umbrella man coming out of his room,” Rostnikov whispered. “I will be waiting. I am already packed. In his presence, you will ask me if we have time to visit a farm before we leave. You have never seen a real farm.”
“I haven’t?” Iosef whispered back.
“You have not. I will say that it is all right to visit a farm, but we should do so quickly because we must get back to Moscow. You understand?”
“Not in the least,” said Iosef, “but I will certainly do it.”
“You were an actor.”
“I was a mediocre actor.”
“Mediocrity is all that is necessary in this situation.”
“May I ask why?” said Iosef.
“Because while I do know who killed the cosmonauts, I do not yet know why.”
“Primazon killed Vladovka?”
“No, I am convinced that Vladovka died of liver disease.”
“And you think you will find in this village the reason why the others were killed?”
“I am certain of it,” said Rostnikov.
In the morning Sasha Tkach sat up suddenly.
“I know who it is,” he said aloud.
“American cereal,” said Lydia, who was fully dressed and standing next to the kitchen table across the room with a box of Froot Loops in her hand.
“I’ve got to go,” said Sasha, getting up quickly and reaching for his pants. “No, maybe I should phone Elena.”
“You should eat your American cereal,” Lydia said. “There are all kinds of things about how healthy it is for you on the side of the box. That’s what the man I got it from said. All I can see are numbers. Take a look.”
“I can’t read English,” he said, looking for his socks.
“Then just eat them. I opened the box. Very pretty colors. Look. A red one.”
“Mother, I am thirty-four years old,” Sasha said, finding his socks. “You can talk to me like an adult.”
“You are thirty-four years old, which is why you need a shave before you go anywhere.”
“Yes,” he said.
“And some American cereal. I have milk. It’s sweet like candy. How can something sweet like candy be good for you?”
“A miracle of American technology and artificial ingredients,” said Sasha.
“Do not be sarcastic, Sasha.”
“I apologize. I must go.”
“What is the hurry?” she asked, looking at the picture of a big-billed bird on the front of the box.
“I have to prevent a murder,” he said.
“Then go,” she said. “Why is there a bird on the box? Do they put chicken or something in the cereal? I prefer kasha.”
“Then why did you get American cereal?” he asked, regretting it even before the question was finished.
“I thought you would like it,” she said. “I know our little Pulcharia would like it.”
Sasha nodded and looked again at the drawing lying on the table. Yes, it was him. Sasha scooped his papers into the briefcase, reached over and took a handful of Froot Loops from the box his mother was holding, and began putting them into his mouth as he moved to the door.
“Very good,” he said.
“Shave,” she said.
“When I get where I’m going. I have one of those disposable razors in my briefcase.”
He had the door open.
“Sasha,” she commanded. “I want to see the rest of that movie, the one where the men were taking off their clothes.”
“Mother …”
“You made me leave. You are an adult. I am an adult.”
“Yes, all right. We will see it again. Under one condition. You may not talk during the movie.”
“I will be quiet as death,” she said, arms folded. “As quiet as I will soon be when I am dead.”
He didn’t believe it for a moment. “You are only sixty years old. You are, with the exception of your hearing, in perfect health.”
“All I want to do is live long enough to see my grandchildren again, just one more time.”
“I am confident that you will see them again. I have an idea. You go to Kiev.”
“Maybe I will. And I’ll bring with me boxes of sweet American cereal.”
He closed the door. If he moved quickly, they might still be able to recover the negative and keep Yuri Kriskov from being murdered. At least that is what he thought.