A Cold Red Sunrise Read online

  Tkach looked at the door, put away his identification card and continued to put his hand to his lips to quiet the old man. Then he stepped forward quickly and clasped his hand over the old man’s mouth. He could feel the man’s stubble and the sticky moisture of his mouth. Tkach leaned close to the man’s ear and whispered, “We are not going to arrest you, little father,” he said. “We are waiting for the man in that apartment. I am going to let you go and you will go very quietly to your apartment. You understand?”

  The old man nodded, Tkach’s hand still clasped on his mouth.

  “Good, very good,” whispered Tkach. “We appreciate your help.”

  He removed his hands from the old man’s mouth and immediately wiped it on his own jacket.

  “You sure …” the old man said aloud.

  Tkach put his hand back on the man’s mouth but the old man was nodding now. He understood and put his own grimy hand to his mouth. In doing so he knocked his already tilted cap onto the floor. He started to lean down for it, but Tkach stopped him, retrieved the cap and placed it firmly on the old man’s head. The old man opened his mouth to say something but Tkach shook his head no and the old man smiled in understanding and closed his mouth.

  “I don’t live here,” the old man whispered.

  “Then go where you do live,” whispered Tkach.

  “I don’t know how to get there,” the old man whispered again.

  His breath was green-brown and foul but Tkach stayed with him, wanting to open the door and throw him down the stairs. He looked over at Zelach who shrugged.

  “What is your name?”

  “Viktor,” said the old man, swaying and looking at the key in his hand.

  “Viktor,” Tkach whispered. “Go down to the bottom of the stairs and wait for us. Wait as long as it takes. When we are finished, we will take you home.”

  “All the floors look alike,” said Viktor trying to focus on the doors down the hall. “I think I live down.” He pointed at the floor.

  “Then go down to the next floor and see if you live there. If you don’t, then go to the floor below that. Work your way down and if you fail to find your apartment we will find you waiting at the bottom and will take you home.”

  “What if I live up?” Viktor said softly in triumph, pointing to the ceiling.

  “We will find out later,” whispered Tkach, resisting the terrible urge to strangle the old man. Nothing was ever simple.

  “I don’t think I live in this building at all,” Viktor announced, pulling a bent cigarette out of his pocket and putting it into his mouth so he could continue this fascinating conversation at leisure. “I have no match.”

  Tkach had a flash of inspiration.

  “Well,” he whispered. “Knock on that door and ask for one. The man in there has matches. Don’t let him tell you otherwise. And don’t mention us. You understand.”

  “Am I a fool?” asked Viktor, swaying and pointing at his chest with his key.

  “Knock and ask,” Tkach said, and the old man staggered to the door and knocked.

  “Louder,” Tkach whispered looking at Zelach, who grinned showing his quite uneven teeth.

  Viktor, bent cigarette dangling from his thin lips, knocked again and called out, “I need a match.”

  Volovkatin’s apartment was silent. Tkach mimed a knock for Viktor who nodded in understanding and knocked five times.

  “I need a match, Comrade. I am a drunken old fool in need of a match and I know someone is in there. I was told by …” Tkach put up a warning hand and Viktor winked. “… a little brhat, a brother.”

  He knocked again and sang, “I need a maaatch.”

  Something stirred in the apartment. Zelach and Tkach went flat against the wall and pulled out their pistols. Viktor looked at them with new interest and as the door started to open Tkach motioned for the old man to look at the door and not at them. It was beyond his ability.

  The door came open a crack while Viktor stood staring to his right at Zelach’s pistol.

  Tkach stepped out, kicked at the door, pushed Viktor out of the way and jumped into the apartment his gun leveled and ready but it wasn’t necessary. Volovkatin, his hands going up automatically, stepped back looking at Tkach and Zelach.

  “Don’t shoot me,” he said.

  Tkach’s eyes took in a warehouse of a room, a floor-to-ceiling collection of phonographs, cameras, coats, hats, tape recorders, television sets, even three computers. There was barely enough room amid the mismatched furniture and boxes containing, as Tkach saw, watches, jewelry and wallets, to fit three people in the room.

  “We don’t intend to shoot you,” said Tkach.

  “I saw something like this in a magazine or a movie or on the television or something,” Viktor said, stepping into the already crowded room and looking around.

  “Volovkatin,” said Tkach. “You are arrested.”

  “Arrested,” sighed Volovkatin touching his forehead, looking over his glasses in panic. He wore a threadbare suit and tie but the tie was loose and off to one side. He needed a shave. “We can come to an understanding. Look, look around. There’s plenty here. You want a television? Take a television. Take a television for each of you, a television and a watch. I’ve even got Swiss watches, American, French, anything.”

  “I’ll take a watch and a television and that chair,” said Viktor trying to step past Zelach on his way to the television.

  “Comrade,” Zelach said reaching over to grab the old man by the neck. “Go out in the hall.”

  “He gave me a television,” Viktor insisted. “I’m a Soviet citizen, have been since before any of you were born.”

  “Get him out,” Tkach cried and Zelach turned the old man and marched him out the door into the hall.

  “There’s enough here to make you rich,” Volovkatin said to Tkach, looking at the door beyond which they could hear Viktor shouting about his rights. “I’m waiting for a friend with a truck, a truck will be downstairs in a few minutes, maybe even now. I could fill it up, leave things for you, anything. Or we can drop them right at your home, yours and the other policeman’s. You never saw me.”

  “I see you,” Tkach said. “I see you very clearly. Zelach,” he called, and Zelach came running in. “There’s a truck downstairs or will be in a minute or two. Arrest the driver and call for a car to take us all to Petrovka.”

  Volovkatin gave up and Tkach felt a strange mixture of triumph and failure. This didn’t feel as good as he had expected. It didn’t quite compensate for what had happened this afternoon, but it would have to do.

  Ten minutes later, the two policemen and two suspects were on their way to Petrovka. One minute after they had left, a drunken old man who had regained a bit of his sobriety opened the unlocked door of Volovkatin’s apartment, turned on the light, looked around at the treasures before him and began to weep with joy.

  “Hardly the most antiseptic conditions possible,” Samsonov said stepping back from the bed on which old Mirasnikov lay with his eyes closed. Samsonov had put his instruments and bandages back in the black bag he had been working from. “He will probably live.”

  Liana Mirasnikov heard, gripped her bulky dress with withered white knuckles and let out a wail of relief or anguish. Sergei Mirasnikov opened one eye and looked at her with distaste.

  Samsonov’s blue sweater was spotted with blotches of blood. There were also spots of blood on his cheek and hands. Ludmilla Samsonov, whose hair hung down on one side and whose hands and gray dress were flecked with blood, stood next to her husband smiling, and touched his cheek.

  “The bullet went through,” Samsonov said, taking his wife’s hand. “Quite a bit of blood and he may have trouble using his right arm though the muscles are generally intact. For an old man, he is in remarkable condition. A Moscovite his age would be dead.”

  Rostnikov had trouble keeping his eyes on the doctor rather than the doctor’s wife, but he forced himself to do so.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Rostni
kov said.

  “Someone will have to stay with him all night and call me if his breathing changes,” Samsonov said looking back at his patient.

  “I’ll stay,” said Ludmilla.

  “I think it a better idea that Inspector Karpo and I take turns remaining with Mirasnikov,” Rostnikov said confidentially over a sudden renewal of wailing by the old woman. “The person who shot him might want to make another attempt.”

  “Why would anyone want to kill Mirasnikov?” asked Ludmilla moving close to her husband with a shudder.

  “The object of the attack was not Mirasnikov,” Rostnikov explained. “I was the one shot at. The old one came out to help me.”

  “Does that mean you know something about Karla’s murder?” Ludmilla Samsonov said hopefully. With the excuse to look at her, Rostnikov turned his head and smiled.

  “Probably more about Commissar Rutkin’s murder,” he said gently. “The problem is that I’m not sure what I know.”

  “I don’t …” she began, looking with puzzlement at Rostnikov, Karpo and her husband.

  “And what are you going to do, Inspector?” Samsonov demanded rather than asked.

  “I have several ideas. For now, and forgive me for moving into your province, I think Mirasnikov should get some rest.”

  “Yes,” agreed Samsonov, “and if you will forgive me for moving into your province, I remind you that my daughter’s killer is somewhere in this town in bed sleeping when he should be dead.”

  “I’ll not forget your daughter’s death,” Rostnikov said, his voice a promise.

  “Ah, but I almost forgot,” said Samsonov reaching into his black bag. “I found some of those muscle relaxants I mentioned to you for your leg. They are not the American ones but the Hungarian. Almost as good.” He handed the bottle to Rostnikov who thanked him and put the bottle into his pocket. The simple mention of his leg awakened a tingling prelude to pain.

  Samsonov helped his wife on with her coat and then put on his own. The doctor guided her across the room ignoring the thanks of the old woman. Ludmilla, however, paused to hold the woman by both shoulders and whisper something reassuring to her.

  When the Samsonovs had left, Rostnikov beckoned to Karpo while he moved to the bedside of the old man. Liana’s wrinkled face, a dry wisp of white hair sticking out wildly from under her babushka, looked up as Rostnikov approached.

  “Sergei,” Rostnikov said softly, sitting on the bed near the old man. “You’re awake. I can see your eyelids fluttering.”

  “I’ve been shot,” Mirasnikov said. “I deserve rest, a week off.”

  “You deserve rest and my thanks,” agreed Rostnikov. “You saved my life.”

  Mirasnikov smiled.

  “But my friend,” Rostnikov said, “you have a secret. I’ve seen it in your eyes and you’ve seen in mine that I know about it.”

  “Nyet,” squealed the old woman.

  “No, she says,” Mirasnikov whispered. “We’re beyond no.”

  “But he’ll kill you,” she cried.

  “What do you think this is, woman?” Sergei Mirasnikov pointed with a finger of his left hand at his shoulder. “I could be dead by morning. I’m weary of being afraid.”

  “Afraid of what, Sergei?” Rostnikov asked gently. “Did you see who killed Illya Rutkin?”

  Mirasnikov nodded in affirmation.

  “Who?”

  “Kurmu.”

  “The Evenk shaman?” asked Rostnikov.

  The old woman let out a terribly shriek and hurried from the room into the assembly hall.

  “You saw him stab Commissar Rutkin?”

  “No, he called to the da-van, the great ruler, and a snow demon arose and killed the man from Moscow,” Mirasnikov whispered, looking around with wide eyes to be sure that no one else was present.

  “You saw this?” Rostnikov repeated.

  “I saw this,” Mirasnikov confirmed and closed his eyes.

  “Sleep,” said Rostnikov rising from the bed and moving toward Karpo. The pills Samsonov gave him were jiggling in his pocket.

  “You heard?” Rostnikov asked quietly.

  “Yes,” said Karpo looking at the sleeping man.

  “And …?”

  “He is delirious,” said Karpo.

  “Perhaps, but he believed what he said even before he was shot. I’ve been watching him, as I said. He was frightened. He did have a secret.”

  “I don’t believe in Siberian gods or snow demons, Porfiry Petrovich,” Karpo said evenly.

  “Nonetheless,” said Rostnikov. “I think we have some questions for Kurmu the Shaman. Maybe he will have some ancient medicine for Mirasnikov. He is feverish already.”

  “Shall I call the doctor back?” Karpo asked.

  “No, I’ll sit with him. If his temperature goes much higher, I’ll have the old woman watch him while I go for Samsonov.”

  “And what shall I do?” Karpo asked.

  “Bring me your report on the comparison of information. I assume you’ve prepared it.”

  “I’ve prepared it,” said Karpo.

  “Good. Then after you’ve given me the report, I want you to go to the house of Dimitri Galich. It will be dawn soon. He speaks Evenk and knows the taiga. Tell him I want to speak to Kurmu. Go with him to find the shaman. Accept no answer from Galich but yes and no answer from Kurmu but yes. You understand.”

  “I understand,” Karpo said. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, tell the old woman to make tea, a great deal of tea and to bring it to me. And tell her gently, Emil Karpo.”

  “I will do my best, Comrade Inspector,” Karpo said, his unblinking eyes betraying nothing.

  “I know you will, Emil. You have my trust.”

  The sense that Karpo had something more to say struck Rostnikov again and, normally, this would be the time to pursue it, but this was not a normal time, a normal place, a normal situation and Rostnikov wanted, needed to be alone.

  TEN

  NEITHER KARPO NOR GALICH HAD spoken for more than half an hour.

  The burly former priest had answered his door in a dark robe looking bleary-eyed and confused, his white hair sprouting out wildly. He had ushered Karpo in quickly. Karpo had explained that Mirasnikov had been shot and that he had claimed the shaman Kurmu had sent a snow demon to kill Commissar Rutkin.

  “And Rostnikov wants to arrest Kurmu for this?” Galich had said with a pained smile.

  “Inspector Rostnikov wishes to talk to him,” Karpo explained. “Can you find him?”

  Galich had run his thick hand through his hair and said, “I can get to a place where Kurmu will know we want to talk to him. If he doesn’t want to talk to us, we can forget it.”

  “Then let us go,” said Karpo. “I can get Famfanoff’s vehicle.”

  “No vehicle,” said Galich, moving back into the house. “There’s no room in the taiga for a vehicle to get through the trees. Wait. I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

  Then he looked at Karpo.

  “And I’ll give you something warmer to wear,” he said. “We have a half-hour walk both ways. Dressed like that you’ll be dead before we get there.”

  Karpo had not argued and when Galich returned with his arms filled with clothing, sweaters, an ugly wool hat that proved too large for Karpo’s head, and a pair of snowshoes, the policeman accepted it all and Galich’s directions on how to put them on.

  When they were fully dressed, Galich said, “All right. Follow behind me. Keep your face covered. There should be some morning haze to aid the moon in about fifteen minutes. And no talking until we find Kurmu … if we find Kurmu. And, one more thing: I speak enough Tunga to get basic ideas across, but if it gets too complicated we may have trouble.”

  “I will keep the conversation simple,” said Karpo. “Let us go.”

  And they began the walk by moving behind Galich’s house, across the open white space of about one hundred yards and into the forest. Karpo followed in the prints of Galich’s snowshoes, surprised
at the older man’s steady stride and his ability to find relatively solid pathways through the snow-covered ground and the trees which seemed to be an endless repetition of cedars, larch, birch, pine and spruce.

  Karpo’s migraine had begun the moment they left Galich’s house. He had expected it because he had smelled flowers, roses, quite clearly even before he left the People’s Hall of Justice and Solidarity. The headaches were almost always announced by an aura, a feeling and a smell from his past. When they reached the first line of trees in the forest, the pain had begun on the left side of his head, just above the ear. It remained with him, spread like an old enemy, in some ways a welcome, challenging old enemy.

  The cold heightened the pain, almost made him blink at the broad back of Galich in front of him. Pain, he reminded himself, was a test. To withstand pain, distraction, emotion and do one’s job was the major satisfaction of life. Emil Karpo, plodding through the snow of a Siberian forest in the moonlight, reminded himself that he was not an individual, didn’t want to be. To be effective for the State, he had to see through the demands of his own body, the pleas of others.

  Meaning, in his life, was determined by his value to the State. There were criminals. Each crime drained the State, made it vulnerable. The task of Emil Karpo was to identify and locate criminals, take them, with the help of the system, out of society. It was his life, and the pain of a headache was simply a test of his determination. Thoughts, feelings wanted to enter. The vague, amused smile of Mathilde came to him. He concentrated on a shifting shadow in the coat of Dimitri Galich and the smile became the fluttering of fur. The voice of Major Zhenya whispered in the humming wind through the trees, reminding him that he would have to report on Porfiry Petrovich when he got back to Moscow. Emil Karpo let the chill pain of his headache take over and pierce the voice.

  They walked. Once some animal rustled to their right. Once a wolf howled so far off that Karpo was not sure he really heard it. The only other sound was the wind, the swishing of their snowshoes and the shift of their bodies moving through the snow. The forest was dark but a faint change had come as they walked, not exactly dawn but a lighter grayness. A bright Moscow dawn would have torn at Emil Karpo’s head. He would have accepted it but he knew that bright light would have made it difficult for him to function.