“Old things,” said Zelach, knowing there was something Rostnikov hoped he had observed, but not sure of what it was. “An old banner, an old portrait, old furniture, that book, the photograph over the bed.”
“Excellent,” said Rostnikov, reaching for the phone.
It took him only ten minutes to get through to Saint Petersburg, another five minutes to locate the security office, and another seven minutes before General Snitkonoy came on the line, his voice as deep and confident as ever.
“Inspector Rostnikov,” he said.
“General,” answered Rostnikov. “May I congratulate you on both your promotion and the responsibility the state has given you.”
“Thank you,” said the Gray Wolfhound. “You have a purpose other than social in calling?”
“If you would be so good as to help me with a case,” said Rostnikov, watching Zelach’s puzzled face and shifting his false leg by dragging it across the floor under his desk.
“Of course,” said the general.
“Pavel Pestel,” said Rostnikov. He spelled out the name. “Supposedly a member of the czarina’s guard, an army officer, probably in the 1850s or 1860s. Whatever can be discovered.”
“I will have a good man on it right away,” said Snitkonoy. “What has he to do with the Hermitage?”
“I don’t know,” said Rostnikov. “Maybe nothing.”
“I shall have someone call you back,” said the general.
“Thank you, General,” said Rostnikov, hanging up.
Although Zelach said nothing, the look on his face said “I don’t understand.”
“See if you can find Tkach,” suggested Rostnikov, returning to his book. “He reads French.”
Zelach got up.
“After General Snitkonoy’s people call back with the information, we will visit the two friends of the dead man as you suggested,” said Rostnikov.
Zelach’s look of confusion turned to one of slight satisfaction as he left the room.
Tkach and Elena Timofeyeva had just returned from Trotsky Station, where Magda Stern had been unable to identify any officer as the one who attacked her the night before. None even looked like a possibility. The men, about half in uniform and half in civilian clothes because they were supposedly off duty, filed out disgruntled, tired, and puzzled.
They would move on to another station or two the next day. Elena was setting it up. They would start with those nearest the District 37 and work their way out. On the way back to the station, Elena had come up with a plan. It had been a good one, but one that would keep Sasha away from home for a number of nights. He had told her his plight, and she had suggested that they go to Porfiry Petrovich.
So, when he entered Rostnikov’s office, the senior inspector looked up and said, “No luck.”
“No,” said Tkach, who then told Rostnikov the plan.
“Sounds good,” said Rostnikov.
“The baby is sick,” said Tkach. “I have to be home. Maya is already … upset.”
Rostnikov nodded in understanding and said he would assign someone else to work with Elena at night. And then he handed the book to Sasha.
“Read it, please,” said Rostnikov.
“Now?” asked Sasha.
“Sit. Read. Summarize for me as you go along. The book is not long.”
Sasha had just started reading when the phone rang. Rostnikov picked it up.
“Inspector Rostnikov?”
“Yes.”
“This is Leo Horv, State Security. I would like a few minutes of your time this afternoon. It is a matter of importance. I believe we have some information on the bomber.”
“So I was informed by Inspector Timofeyeva. Would two o’clock be acceptable?” asked Rostnikov.
“Two o’clock,” the man said, and hung up.
Rostnikov looked at the phone and then began drawing on his pad, a cage with a faceless man inside, while Sasha went on reading and summarizing.
Sasha had almost finished the book when the phone rang. Sasha placed the open book on his lap and rubbed his forehead wearily. The call was from a civilian who identified himself as one of the historians of the Hermitage.
Rostnikov took notes as the man spoke, and made no sound as the man gave him far more information than he probably needed. The conversation, almost completely one-sided, lasted a little more than twenty minutes. When it was over, Rostnikov looked up from his notes at Sasha, who seemed to have fallen asleep.
“Sasha,” he said.
Tkach was immediately awake, brushing the hair from his eyes and ready to continue his reading.
“Go back to what you were reading about the gold wolf,” Rostnikov said, looking at his notes. “Translate every word. Then go home and get some sleep, be with your family.”
Sasha did not argue. He found the section Rostnikov wanted and translated it word for word as best he could.
The afternoon before, when Rostnikov had brought the girls back home from visiting their grandmother, Sarah Rostnikov listened to them as they sat around the table. The girls were more animated than Sarah had ever seen them. They spoke of their visit. They told of how Inspector Rostnikov had promised to see what he could do about getting their grandmother out of prison. They both emphasized that he made no promises, but that he said he would try.
Sarah smiled. The girls ignored the tea she had placed before each of them, though they had finished the cookie they had each been given.
The pain had come back, perhaps ten minutes earlier. Sarah showed no outward signs but continued to smile and listen. The pains had grown more frequent. They had started recently, months after her cousin Leon was reasonably certain that the delicate surgery had been successful. But then, about two weeks ago, the head pains had come. Not really headaches but pains. At first they lasted only a few seconds, but now they were getting longer. At first she told herself they had nothing to do with the surgery she had undergone, that this was something entirely different. But the last three times the head pain had come there had been slight tremors in both her hands. She hid her hands in her pockets or, as she did now, under the table.
The girls talked.
Suddenly the pain stopped and perhaps a second later the tremors stopped, too. It had felt as if someone had stuck an electric probe into her head with no warning and then, suddenly, pulled it out.
She would have to do something about it. She knew she would. She had promised herself the day before that the next time it happened, she would call Leon. If it was serious, she would think of a way to tell Porfiry Petrovich, and she would ask him to do whatever he could to free the girls’ grandmother. It wasn’t that Sarah had not grown to love them. She had. But Sarah Rostnikov had the distinct fear that a time might come when she would be unable to take care of them.
Sarah did not usually procrastinate. She kept her promises to others and to herself. It was one of the many traits of his wife that Rostnikov admired. Since he had met her, when she was just a young girl, she had been resolute. Although she could easily have hidden the fact that she was Jewish, she would quickly proclaim her heritage whenever the word Jew came up in conversation. She tolerated no injustice at work, though a bit of such tolerance would have saved her job on two occasions. In both cases, the injustice had not been to her but to coworkers. Sarah’s sympathy for the girls’ grandmother was very strong.
She decided not to wait. When the girls had left for school this morning, at least an hour after Rostnikov had left, she reached for the phone, first to call her job to say she was ill, and second to call Leon.
It was difficult in both cases to keep her voice steady. It was even more difficult to keep the phone from falling from her trembling hands.
NINE
The call announcing Porfiry Petrovich’s visitor came exactly on the hour. State Security Agent Leo Horv showed his identification card at the Petrovka guard station, where the young uniformed officer with pink cold cheeks looked at it and called the lobby check-in desk. Sergeant Sismikov answered in a bored, deep voice that let the guard know that the sergeant was warm enough to be bored. Sismikov checked his appointment log and told the guard to send Agent Horv in.