Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov pushed away the sleeve of a jacket that brushed against his cheek and shifted his weight on the battered wooden stool to keep his partly lame left leg from growing too stiff. He would probably need to move quickly when the moment came to act.
He was sitting in the closet of an apartment on the third floor of a building on Babuskina Street in Moscow just four blocks from his own apartment on Krasikov Street. In his left hand, Inspector Rostnikov held a small Japanese flashlight whose bulb was threatening to reject the Czech batteries which he had recently put into it. In his right hand, Rostnikov held a paperback copy in English of Ed McBain's The Mugger. He had read the book five years earlier and about four years before that. It was rime to reread it and so, while he waited for the three strong-arm robbers to return to the apartment, Rostnikov sat silent, shifted his more than 220-pound bulk, and hoped that the batteries would hold out.
If the flashlight did fail, Rostnikov would put the book away and sit silently waiting, contemplating the dinner of chicken tabaka, chicken with prune sauce and pickled cabbage, that his wife Sarah had promised him for that night if she did not get another one of the headaches she had been plagued by for the past few months.
Rostnikov read: "For as the old maid remarked upon kissing the cow, it's all a matter of taste." He had read the line before but for the first time he thought he understood the joke and he smiled slightly, appreciatively. Americans were most peculiar. Ed McBain was peculiar, including in his police novels pictures of fingerprints, maps, reports, even photographs. Delightful but peculiar.
And then Rostnikov heard the door to the apartment begin to open. He turned off the flashlight and stood quickly and silently in spite of his bulk and muscles tight from years of lifting weights. As the three men entered the apartment talking loudly, Rostnikov placed the flashlight in the left pocket of his jacket and in the right he carefully placed the paperback book. He did not use a bookmark, would never consider turning down a corner of the page to mark his place. He had no trouble remembering his place in the book.
The first man through the door was named Kola, Kola the Truck, a great bear of a man with ears turned in and curled by too many drunken battles. Kola, who would be celebrating his thirty-ninth birthday in two days, shaved his head and wore French T-shirts that showed his muscles. Unfortunately, T-shirts did nothing to hide his huge belly though no one would have the nerve to tell this to Kola, not even Yuri Glemp who was the second man into the apartment. Yuri was even bigger than Kola and ten years younger, probably even stronger, but Yuri was afraid of the older man who didn't seem to mind being hurt, didn't seem to be afraid of anything. Yuri, on the other hand, did not like to be hurt though he thoroughly enjoyed hurting others.
Together, for almost two years, Kola and Yuri had made a more-than-adequate living by robbing people on the streets at night and beating them severely if they did not have much money. They also beat them if they had money, but not with as much zeal. Watches, wallets, belts and even shoes they sold to Volovkatin.
Yuri, who paused in front of the small mirror to admire his neatly combed hair, kept track of the number of people they had robbed and beaten. His count was fifty-one. Kola had no idea and no interest in the number. He didn't even seem to have a great interest in the amount of money they had made. Between robberies Kola tended to be quiet and morose, drinking vodka, looking for arguments and watching television.
Yuri didn't know how to record the last two robberies since they had taken on the "kid," Sasha, the third man to enter the apartment. Yuri didn't like Sasha who had met them in the National Bar on Gorkovo. Sasha, who looked as if he should be in school with his hair falling in his eyes, his teeth white, had bought them vodka and mineral water chasers, started a conversation. Later, when Yuri and Kola had had enough of him, they had left, more than a little drunk, and started toward their apartment. No more than a block from the hotel, Sasha had stepped out of a dark doorway and pointed an old Makarov 9mm pistol at them. He meant to rob them. Kola had smiled and stepped toward the kid. Yuri had touched his partner's arm to stop him. The kid looked like he meant to shoot.
"Just give me your money, your watches," the kid had said, holding the gun steady and looking around to be sure they were not interrupted.
Yuri had cursed and reached for his wallet. Kola had stopped and laughed.
"We're in the same business, boy," Kola said.
"Good," Sasha had answered. "Just give me your money, and do it fast."
"How long have you been at this?" Kola asked. Yuri had already handed over his money and his watch.
"A few months. No more talk. Give me the money."
"I like you," Kola had said. "You've got a stomach for this."
"Shit," Sasha had answered, his hair falling even further over his eyes. "Money."
"You're not afraid of a little blood, are you, boy?" Kola had said.
"You want to find out?" Sasha had hissed.
"Join us," Kola had said.
"Just give him the money," Yuri had whispered.
"Why should I join you?" Sasha had asked.
"You'd be a good front. Yuri and I look like robbers. You look like a kid. No one would be afraid of you. Can it hurt you to talk about it?"
"We can talk," Sasha said. "But I'm doing fine on my own."
They had talked; at least Kola and the kid had talked after the kid returned the money he had taken from Yuri. The kid agreed to join them for a while, to see if he made more money, if they were careful enough for him.
"I like this boy," Kola said to Yuri, putting a huge arm around Sasha's shoulder.
He's turning queer, Yuri had thought, possibly with some jealousy that he did not acknowledge to himself. But Yuri had said nothing. Now, more than a week later as they entered the apartment and Yuri checked his hair, he was sure they had made a mistake. They had committed two robberies and Sasha had not engaged in the beatings that followed, had even claimed to hear someone coming before they could really teach a lesson to the second victim whom they had left about an hour ago with a closed eye and bleeding nose just outside the Dobryninskaya Metro Station.
"Let's split it up," Kola said, closing the apartment door.
Yuri could tell that Kola was not content. He had not finished with the victim, would be looking for a fight, someone to smash, and Yuri was planning to be careful so that it would not be him. Perhaps he could manipulate it so that Kola took out his rage and frustration on Sasha.
"Yes, let's split it," said Yuri, moving to the wooden table in the center of the room. Sasha had sat in one of the three unmatched but reasonably comfortable stuffed chairs near the window.
"Now," Kola said and Sasha got up and joined the other two at the table.
Kola, who held the money from the robbery, pulled it and a watch and ring from his pocket.
"Fifty-four rubles," he said. "Eighteen each. The watch and ring go to Volovkatin."
"Volovkatin?" asked Sasha.
"Volovkatin. He has a jewelry store on Arbat Street, gives cash, hard rubles in hand for things like this," said Kola.
Kola had taken a few drinks before the robbery and he was talking too much. This kid might go back on his own and deal with Volovkatin without them. Kola should have kept Volovkatin to himself. Kola should eat something, but Kola pointed to the closet and Yuri knew that he wanted the vodka from the shelf.
Yuri got up and swaggered toward the closet. If Kola kept drinking like this, Yuri might soon, but not too soon, have enough nerve to challenge him. Yuri Glemp knew he was smarter than Kola but smarter didn't determine who was in charge. Soon, soon, if Kola kept drinking, things would be different.
Behind him Kola whispered something to the kid and laughed. Yuri knew it must be about him, some joke. Yes, he would get Kola, but first he would get Sasha alone and take care of him. He clenched his fist in anticipation and opened the closet door.
Before him stood a man who looked as if he were waiting for a bus. He was a square, squat man in his fifties with a nondescript Moscow face. The eyes of this man seemed to have a light dancing behind them. The man, who wore a brown shirt and a dark jacket, seemed to be quite at home standing in the closet.
In the same split second, Yuri's mind registered the figure before him and decided to do two things at once: close the door and turn for help. Both decisions were poor ones. As he tried to close the door, the bulky figure stepped forward, held the door open with his left hand and struck out at Yuri with his right hand. The blow hit Yuri's mid-section, sending him staggering backward into the room.
Rostnikov stepped from the closet as quickly as his leg would allow him. The other two men in the room took in this barrel of a man and Kola rose quickly, pushed past the staggering Yuri and rushed forward with a smile. He roared at Rostnikov knowing that this man, be he police or burglar, was not to be reasoned with and Kola had no wish to engage in reason. He wanted to punish this man who had come from the closet. Kola, his arms out, threw his body into the intruder expecting to send the man staggering back into the closet, but when they met with a loud grunt the man did not stagger back, did not move. Kola was surprised but also delighted. He had expected it to be easy, perhaps unsatisfying. He thought vaguely that if this were indeed a policeman there might be other policemen nearby and if he were to get any satisfaction, have any chance of getting away, he would have to smash this man quickly, but he didn't want it to happen too quickly.
Kola looked into Rostnikov's eyes, saw the dancing light and had an instant of doubt, though he clutched the older man in a bear hug, a hug with which Kola had crushed the chest of at least three victims in the past two years. Kola could hear the man's breath and was surprised that it was not in the least labored. Kola locked his hands and squeezed, imagining Sasha sitting in wonder and admiration. Kola grunted, watching for the fear and pain in the eyes of the man in front of him, but there was no pain, no fear. The man even seemed to smile or almost smile and Kola felt the veins on his bald head swell with strain. Still the man smiled.
Behind him Kola heard Yuri catching his breath, hissing, "Turn him, Kola, so I can shoot."
Kola was enraged. He had lost face. Yuri could see that the bear hug which had never failed him before was not having its effect. And so Kola changed tactics. He let out a savage growl and stepped back with clenched fists to pummel the man in front of him, but he never got the chance to use his hands. Rostnikov reached out swiftly to grab Kola's right wrist with his left hand and his corded neck with his right. Kola tried to step back and free himself from the grip of the smaller man but he couldn't break free. He hit the man's hand with his left fist and tried to ram his head into the placid face before him but Rostnikov yanked at his left wrist, bent over as Kola leaned forward, grabbed his leg and put his head under Kola's arm. Kola found himself over the shoulders of the barrel of a man. He screamed in rage and humiliation but Rostnikov lifted him over his head and Kola found himself falling, flying toward Yuri who stood in front of Sasha. Kola hit the table, crushing it, sending wooden legs crashing, skidding into the air and across the room. Before he passed out, Kola thought he heard someone far away playing a balalaika.
Yuri had danced back as Kola's body shattered the table. He had stood back, gut burning from the punch he had taken, to watch Kola kill the intruder, but it hadn't happened. Kola had been the one beaten. And so Yuri stood now, pistol held firmly, and aimed at the wide body of this man from the closet who stood in front of him. Yuri had no choice and wanted none. He would shoot if the man moved. He would shoot even if the man didn't move. There was nothing to think about. He raised the gun and fired, but something had hit his hand and the bullet, instead of entering the intruder, thudded into the leg of the unconscious Kola who jumped, flopped like a fish with the impact.
Yuri was confused, afraid. What had happened? What would Kola do when he was awake and sober and knew that Yuri had shot him? Yuri raised the gun again, unsure of who he should kill first, Kola or the man from the closet who was limping toward him. He was not given the opportunity to make the decision. Something hit his arm again and the pain made him drop the gun which fell gently into one of the cloth chairs. And then, as the washtub of a man reached for him, Yuri understood and looked at Sasha who tossed his hair back and punched Yuri in the face, breaking the bridge of his nose.
Yuri staggered back in pain, hit the wall and slid down, reaching up to try to stop the blood that spurted from his nose.
"Call down to Zelach," Rostnikov said, checking his pocket to be sure his book hadn't been damaged. "He's waiting down in a car."
Sasha Tkach nodded and hurried to the window. An icy blast entered the' room as he threw open the window, leaned out, shouted and nodded.
"He's coming," Sasha said closing the window and turning back to Rostnikov. "I noticed him when we came in. I was afraid they would see him too."
"Yes," sighed Rostnikov. "Zelach is a bit conspicuous."
Sasha looked at Kola's leg while Rostnikov lifted Yuri from the floor after pocketing the gun that had landed on the chair. Rostnikov propped Yuri against the wall as Zelach and a uniformed MVD officer burst into the apartment, breaking the lock. Zelach and the young officer both held weapons. Zelach's was a pistol. The young man held an automatic weapon that could have dispatched a regiment with a touch.
Rostnikov sighed and motioned with his hand for the two to put the weapons away.
Zelach, his mouth open as usual, looked around the room as Rostnikov went back to the closet to retrieve his coat and hat.
"Call an ambulance for the one on the floor," Rostnikov said. "Take the other one too. Have someone fix them up and bring the one with the broken nose to my office. Watch them both. Inspector Tkach will fill out the report. And find a jewelry store operator named Volovkatin on Arbat Street. Arrest him for dealing in stolen goods."
Zelach stood, mouth open.
"Do you understand, Zelach? Are you here, Zelach?"
"Yes, Inspector. Volovkatchky on Lenin Prospekt."
"Sasha," Rostnikov said. "Go with him. Get Volovkatin."
"Yes," said Sasha, moving toward the door.
"There's no phone here," said Zelach looking around the room.
"That is correct. There is no phone," Rostnikov confirmed. "Why don't you send Officer"
"… Karamasov," the young man said.
Rostnikov looked at the brown-uniformed young man with interest but saw nothing to be particularly interested in other than a literary name and shrugged.
"Karamasov can call the ambulance and you can wait here and then accompany these two to the hospital. Sasha, you and Zelach go to Arbat Street. You understand?"
"Perfectly," said Zelach, blinking. "Oh, they called."
"They did. Who are they?" said Rostnikov, buttoning his coat, thinking about dinner, deciding to make another attempt tonight to reach his son Josef by phone.
"Colonel Snitkonoy," said Zelach, trying to remember an approximate message. "You are to report back to him immediately. Someone has died."
"Someone?" asked Rostnikov.
Kola groaned on the floor and reached for his wounded leg. Yuri, his face bloody, looked as if he were going to say something, ask something, but changed his mind and moaned once. Karamasov looked around once more and hurried out of the apartment to make his call.
"Someone," Zelach repeated.
It was late, but there might be time to get to MVD headquarters, meet with Snitkonoy and still get back home at a reasonable hour. It was annoying. He was no more than a five-minute walk from his apartment, but Rostnikov was accustomed to annoyances. He would walk to the Profsojuznaja Metro Station on Krasikov and finish his paperback novel on the train.
"Anything else, Inspector?" Zelach asked.
"Yes, don't break down doors if you don't have to. It is very dramatic but it makes unnecessary work for some carpenter."
"I'll remember, Inspector," Zelach said seriously, moving to stand over Kola who was now definitely waking up.
Rostnikov clapped Tkach on the arm to indicate that he had done a good job. The inspector surveyed the room one last time, returned to the closet, retrieved the small stool and put it back in the corner near the sink where he had found it.
He stepped past the broken table and broken robbers and headed into the hall on his way back for what he feared would be a long lecture from the Gray Wolfhound.
One hour later, Rostnikov was uncomfortably seated at the conference table in the office of Colonel Snitkonoy, the Gray Wolfhound, who headed the MVD Bureau of Special Projects. Rostnikov had drawn a coffee cup in his notebook and was now thoughtfully shading it in to give the impression that some light source was hitting it from the left. He had been drawing variations on this coffee cup for several years and was getting quite competent at it. From time to time, he would look up, nod, grunt and indicate that he was pensively listening to the wisdom being dispensed by Colonel Snitkonoy who paced slowly about the room, hands folded behind his back, brown uniform perfectly pressed, medals glinting and colorful.
The Gray Wolfhound believed that Rostnikov was taking careful notes on his superior's advice and thought. This caused the white-maned MVD officer to speak more slowly, more deliberately, his deep voice suggesting an importance unsupported by the depth of his words.
Rostnikov had recently been transferred "on temporary but open-ended duty" to the MVD, the police, uniformed and nonuniformed, who directed traffic, faced the public, and were the front line of defense against crime and for the maintenance of order. It had been a demotion, the result of Rostnikov's frequent clashes with the Komityet Gospudarstvennoy Besapasnosti, the State Security Agency, the KGB. Before the demotion, Rostnikov had been a senior inspector in the office of the Procurator General in Moscow. The Procurator General, appointed for a seven-year-term, the longest term of any Soviet official, is responsible for sanctioning arrests, supervising investigations, executing sentences, and supervising trials. Too often, Rostnikov's path had crossed into the territory of the KGB which is responsible for all political investigations and security. The KGB, however, could label anything from drunkenness to robbery as political.
Now Rostnikov worked for the Gray Wolfhound whose bureau, everyone but the Wolfhound knew, existed because the Colonel looked like the ideal MVD officer. Colonel Snitkonoy was trotted out for all manner of ceremonial events from greeting and dining with visiting foreigners to presenting medals for heroism to workers at Soviet factories. Colonel Snitkonoy's bureau was also given a limited number of criminal investigations, usually minor crimes or crimes about which no one really cared. Rostnikov and the three other investigators who worked for the Wolfhound would conduct their investigations, and if the doznaniye or inquiry merited it, the case might be turned over to the Procurator's Office for further investigation and possible prosecution.
"Surprise, yes. Oh, yes," said the Wolfhound, pausing at the window of his office and turning suddenly on Rostnikov who sat at the table across the room in the Petrovka headquarters.
Rostnikov was not surprised, but he did look up from his drawing to make contact with Snitkonoy's metallic blue eyes.
"We will surprise them, Porfiry Petrovich," the Wolfhound said. "We will conduct the investigation with dispatch, identify those responsible, file a report of such clarity that it will be a model for others to follow for years."
Rostnikov adopted a knowing smile and nodded wisely in agreement though he had no idea of what this performance was all about. Snitkonoy began to stride toward Rostnikov who turned over the page of his notebook with the unfinished drawing. Snitkonoy approached, polished brown boots clicking against the polished wooden floor. He stood over Rostnikov with a sad, knowing smile.
"I have in this past month you have been with us come to rely upon you, Porfiry Petrovich. You and I have the same attitude, the same outlook on dealing with the criminal mind, coping with those who pose a threat to the ongoing struggle of the Revolution."
Rostnikov's deep brown eyes met the Wolfhound's soberly and he nodded in agreement, though he agreed with almost nothing the handsome military figure in front of him had said. Rostnikov had been with the MVD for more than four months. He was certain that his and the Colonel's views of the criminal mind were not at all similar, partly because Rostnikov did not believe in a criminal mind. There were evil people, truestupid, selfish, brutish peopleeven a good number of quite insane people, but few who thought themselves so. Mostly there were people who considered themselves quite decent, quite compassionate, quite reasonable. They got carried away with their emotions, beliefs or assumed needs and broke the law, sometimes quite violently. The only minds that Rostnikov thought might reasonably be identified as criminal belonged to certain kinds of bureaucrats who had the opportunity and desire to engage in ongoing illegal activities.
As for the Revolution, Rostnikov had struggled with a nearly useless left leg for over forty years as a reminder of the Revolution that never ended. When he was fifteen in 1942, Rostnikov had lost most of the use of the leg in defending the Revolution against German invaders. No, the differences between the Wolfhound and the inspector known by his colleagues as the Washtub went beyond the contrast of their appearance, but, in spite of this, Rostnikov had developed a certain affection for the caricature of an officer who paced the room before him. There appeared to be no malice in the colonel and his naivete was sincere as was his loyalty to those who worked under him whether they deserved it or not. All the colonel expected in return was admiration. So Rostnikov did his best to project admiration while retaining as much dignity as possible.
"So," said Snitkonoy standing to his full six-feet-three, "you understand what must be done."
"No," said Rostnikov amiably.
The colonel shook his head, a patient patronizing smile on his firm lips. He stepped to the polished dark table and leaned forward toward Rostnikov.
"Commissar Illya Rutkin," the Colonel whispered. "Do you know him?"
"The name is somewhat familiar," answered Rostnikov putting down his pad, beginning to sense a potential threat. Rutkin was, he knew, a relatively incompetent assistant to Party District Leader Vladimir Koveraskin, who was far from incompetent and had the reputation of a man to be avoided. Rutkin was an expendable, one of the dispensable underlings Party members keep around to throw to the KGB or whomever might come nipping for corruption or scapegoats. Koveraskin had something to do with keeping track of dissident movements, or at least he was rumored to have such a function.
"He is dead," the Wolfhound whispered dramatically.
"I am sorry to hear that," said Rostnikov shifting his left leg which threatened, as it always did when he sat too long, to lose consciousness.
"A man destined for greater service for the State," the Wolfhound said softly, sadly.
"Dead," Rostnikov repeated before the eulogy reached proportions worthy of Tolstoy.
"Murdered," said the Wolfhound.
Rostnikov shifted and put his notebook in his pocket alongside the novel he had finished reading on the metro. Rostnikov's thoughts, up to this moment, had been on dinner and on some urgency to get down to his desk for a quick interrogation of the dealer in stolen goods he had sent Tkach to arrest. Rostnikov did not like the sound of the colonel's voice which suggested something of great moment. He did not like where the conversation was going but he could do nothing to stop it.
"And we…?" Rostnikov began.
"Precisely," said Snitkonoy with satisfaction. "We have been given the task of investigating the murder of this important figure. We are responsible for the investigation and the quick resolution. There are ramifications to this case, Porfiry Petrovich."
Yes, Rostnikov thought, I'm sure there are, but I am not sure you know what most of them are. Murders of commissars were not usually turned over to the Wolfhound. Someone was not terribly interested in the outcome of this murder case. Rostnikov might be reacting with too much suspicion, but it was belter to be suspicious and survive, as he had managed to do, then to underreact and find that it is too late. There was no help for it. It was coming and he would have to deal with it.
"And I am to conduct the investigation," Rostnikov said. "I'm honored."
"We are all honored," said Snitkonoy. "This important investigation assigned to us indicates the high esteem in which we stand."
Rostnikov nodded and hoped that the case was a nice simple one, robbery or a domestic conflict that simply required a cover-up. Snitkonoy strode to his desk, boots clicking again, and reached for a brown file which he picked up and brought to Rostnikov who didn't want to touch it but did so.
"Bad business," the colonel said. "He was investigating the death of a child, the death of Lev Samsonov's child, a young girl."
Rostnikov did not nod, did not respond. This was getting worse and worse.
"You know who Samsonov is?"
"Yes," sighed Rostnikov. "The dissident."
"The traitor," hissed Snitkonoy magnificently. "He and his wife are scheduled for deportation. It was feared that without the investigation Samsonov demanded, he might go to France or whatever decadent nation would have him and cause embarrassment, imperil Premier Gorbachev's magnificent and courageous attempts to bring world peace. And…"
"… And in the course of his investigation of the death of Samsonov's child, Commissar Rutkin was murdered," Rostnikov cut in.
The Colonel did not like to be interrupted. He fixed his fourth most penetrating glance at Rostnikov who looked back at him blandly.
"It is all in the report. You are to investigate the murder of Commissar Rutkin. You need not address the death of the child. Another representative of Party District Leader Koveraskin's office will be dispatched later to deal with that. However, it is possible that the two deaths are related."
"There are many violent subversive people in Moscow," said Rostnikov.
"Moscow?" the Wolfhound said, halting in his pacing as someone softly knocked at his door. "Commissar Rutkin was murdered in the town of Tumsk, where you are to go immediately to conduct your investigation and report back within three days."
"Tumsk?"
"Somewhere in Siberia on the Yensei River," the Wolfhound said, ignoring the now insistent knock. "Arrangements have been made for you. Check them with Pankov. Take the report. It is a copy. Guard it carefully. It contains information on Rutkin, Samsonov, the child. You have my support and confidence and three days."
"Thank you, Colonel," Rostnikov said getting up carefully and clutching the file. "Can I have some assistance in this? Perhaps I can settle this with even greater dispatch if I have someone to do the legwork. Someone we can trust."
The colonel had a smile on his face which did not please Porfiry Petrovich. The colonel put his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels.
"I've anticipated your request, Gospodin, Comrade." the Wolfhound said. "Investigator Karpo will be accompanying you."
"As always, Comrade Colonel, you are ahead of me," Rostnikov said.
"Porfiry Petrovich, do not fail me. Do not fail us. Do not fail the Revolution," Snitkonoy said from his position near the window where the setting sun could silhouette his erect form.
"The Revolution can continue in confidence with its fate in my hands," Rostnikov said, hand on the door. It was as close to sarcasm as Rostnikov could risk with the colonel, but the inspector's dignity required the gesture.
"Ah, one more thing," said the colonel before Rostnikov could get the door open. "An investigator from the office of the procurator will be accompanying you. Someone from the Kiev district. The Procurator General himself wants him to observe your methods, learn from your vast experience."
Rostnikov opened the door where the colonel's assistant, Pankov, a near-dwarf of a man, stood ready to knock again. Pankov was not incompetent but that was not why Snitkonoy had chosen him. Rostnikov was sure that Pankov owed his position in life to the striking contrast he made to the Wolfhound. Pankov's clothes were perpetually rumpled, his few strands of hair unwilling to lie in peace against his scalp. When he stood as erect as he was able to stand, Pankov rose no higher than the Wolfhound's chest. Rostnikov had recently decided that Pankov looked like a refugee from the pages of a novel by the Englishman Charles Dickens.
"Is he upset?" Pankov whispered in fear to Rostnikov.
"Not in the least," Rostnikov whispered back.
"Pankov," the Wolfhound bellowed and Pankov almost shook.
"I'll check back with you in half an hour to make arrangements for my mission to Siberia," Rostnikov told the frightened little man who looked at the silhouetted colonel.
"Sometimes," whispered Pankov, "I think I would live longer if I were in Siberia."
"Perhaps," Rostnikov whispered back, "it can be arranged."
"Stop whispering and get in here, Pankov," the Wolfhound shouted. "I haven't all night, my little friend."
Rostnikov stepped out, closed the door, tucked the folder under his arm and slowly headed for his office. He did his best not to think, to concentrate on nothing at all, to select in his mind the novel he would take with him on the trip. Rostnikov had never been to Siberia. He had no curiosity about Siberia. He did not want to go to Siberia. But, and this was much more important, he had no choice in the matter.