Red Chameleon ir-3 Read online

  Rostnikov was more familiar with the huge yellow-gray building at 22 Lubyanka Street than he really wanted to be. He walked up the small rise toward the building, past the thirty-six-foot statue of “Iron” Felix Dzerzhinksy, who organized the Cheka for Lenin. The Cheka, after many transformations, was now the KGB.

  The building, like the others that flanked it and were part of the KGB complex, was unmarked. Before the Revolution, the building had belonged to the All-Russian Insurance Company. Captured German soldiers and political prisoners built a nine-story annex after World War II. The old section circles a courtyard. On one side of the courtyard is Lubyanka Prison where thousands have been led to execution cells.

  Rostnikov walked slowly up the steps of the main building at 2 Dzerzhinsky Square. He passed a pair of men coming out, both of whom had the somber look of agents. They did not look at him.

  And then Rostnikov was through the door and standing in the complex known as the Center. Another KGB building existed on the Outer Ring Road where foreign operations were handled. Rostnikov had passed it, at least the place where he knew it existed. It could not be viewed from the road. Meanwhile, the Center continued as the heart of the KGB operation.

  Rostnikov moved through the outer lobby, absorbing the building again. The walls and hallways were, he knew, all a uniform light green, and the parquet floors, except those of the generals, a few colonels, and the division leaders, were uncarpeted. Throughout the complex, lighting came from large, round ceiling globes covered with shades.

  “Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov,” he told the uniformed young man at the desk. Behind this uniformed man stood another young man, in uniform, carrying a small automatic weapon and standing at full attention.

  “Chief Inspector Rostnikov,” Rostnikov added.

  “Wait there,” the young officer said, pointing to a series of nearby wooden chairs. Rostnikov sat. He sat for about fifteen minutes, watching people come in and out, noting that everyone seemed to whisper as if they were in a cathedral or Lenin’s tomb.

  Then an older officer in uniform appeared before Rostnikov, ramrod straight, and said, “Come.”

  And Rostnikov came. As had happened the other times he had been there, his guide moved at march pace, easily outdistancing the policeman, who simply tried to keep his guide in sight until the man realized the distance and slowed down. But in this case Rostnikov knew where they were headed, knew the door they stopped in front of, recognized the gravelly voice that answered the guide’s knock. There was no name on the door, no marking.

  “Come,” said the voice, and Rostnikov entered alone and closed the door behind him-dark brown carpet, not very thick; framed posters on the wall from the past, urging productivity and solidarity; chairs with arms and dark nylon padded seats and an old polished desk behind which, as on other occasions, sat Colonel Drozhkin.

  Drozhkin looked even smaller this time than the last. His hair was just as white, his suit and tie just as black. The last time they had spoken, Drozhkin had indicated that he was, at the age of seventy-two, about to retire, but that clearly had not yet come to pass.

  “Do you know why you are here?” Drozhkin said.

  Rostnikov assumed that the question was somewhat rhetorical and shrugged, and then he observed from Drozhkin’s face that the colonel did not know why the chief inspector was there.

  “Do you know who wants to meet you?” Drozhkin said.

  “No,” said Rostnikov.

  “General Shakhtyor, the miner,” said Drozhkin, rising to glare angrily at Rostnikov. “Do you know who that is?”

  “The name is familiar,” said Rostnikov, watching the clearly frightened face of the old man before him.

  “General Shakhtyor prefers it that way, prefers to be only vaguely known,” said Drozhkin, coming out from behind his desk and approaching Rostnikov. Rostnikov was not a tall man, but Drozhkin stood several inches below him, and their eyes did not meet as the colonel stepped in front of him.

  “The general is responsible for the Fifth Directorate,” said Drozhkin. “Do you know what that is? You are a great policeman. Come, do you know what that is?”

  “The Fifth Chief Directorate was created by the Politburo in 1969,” said Rostnikov.

  “For what purpose?” prodded Drozhkin like a schoolteacher grilling a slow student who has not done his homework.

  “To deal with political problems,” he said.

  “To deal with-to remove-political dissent and to institute necessary control of the Soviet people who are politically suspect. Including intellectuals, Jews, religious sects, foreigners visiting the Soviet Union. You know this, Rostnikov.”

  “I’ve heard it, comrade colonel.”

  “When you attempted to blackmail the KGB into letting you emigrate to the United States, I had to deal with the issue through the Fifth Directorate. And now General Shakhtyor wants to see you. I would not trade the twenty years’ difference in our ages to be in your position, Rostnikov.”

  “I am relieved,” said Rostnikov. “I understand the Fifth Directorate is also interested in thought control and might actually have developed a way of exchanging old bodies for new, as they change old thoughts for new.”

  “You are a fool, Rostnikov, a fool,” Drozhkin hissed, his pale face reddening.

  And you, thought Rostnikov, are very frightened.

  “Come on,” said Drozhkin, grabbing the solid policeman’s arm. Rostnikov let himself be turned and followed Drozhkin out of the room and down the green corridor, up a flight of stairs and deeper into the building. Drozhkin walked slowly, and Rostnikov had no difficulty keeping up with him. They said nothing to each other as they passed closed office doors. At the end of a corridor, Drozhkin stopped before a wooden door that was darker than others they had passed. He did not knock but stepped in, with Rostnikov behind him.

  They were standing in a small office, which was carpeted. It seemed as if they had stepped into another world. It looked like the doctor’s reception room he had once seen in an American magazine. There was a small painting of a seascape on the wall and a new desk behind which sat a rather pretty woman in glasses wearing a brown uniform. There were three waiting chairs, covered with black leather, across from the secretary. The woman stopped her work and looked up at the clock on the wall, indicating that they were perhaps a minute or two late.

  “The general is expecting us,” said Drozhkin, reaching up to touch his tie.

  “The chief inspector is to go right in,” she said.

  Drozhkin walked past her desk, heading for the door behind her.

  “The chief inspector is to go in alone,” she said. Drozhkin stopped, hand still out, reaching toward the door.

  Rostnikov glanced over at the seascape, and Drozhkin withdrew his hand and turned. From the corner of his eye Rostnikov could see the old man’s mouth tighten. Drozhkin, however, had fifty years of experience in both intimidation and humiliation, terror and compromise. He moved smoothly past Rostnikov and out the door.

  “Knock” the secretary said, unsmiling. Rostnikov moved forward, recognizing that the brown carpet under his feet was appreciably thicker than that in Colonel Drozhkin’s office.

  He knocked and a deep voice answered, “Come in.”

  The office was at least twice the size of Drozhkin’s, though the furniture was quite similar. There was a combination safe in the corner and a large window covered with a heavy screen. The window was open, and Rostnikov could see the courtyard beyond it. All this he took in without thought. His thoughts were concentrated on the man before him. The general had his back to Rostnikov and was doing something to a glass box atop the safe. The glass box, Rostnikov could see, was covered by a metal screen.

  “Chameleons,” the man said. “Do you want to take a look?”

  The man’s head was turned from him. It was bald and tight over his skull. He was slightly taller than Rostnikov and wearing a freshly pressed uniform of brown. Rostnikov moved to the man’s side and looked into the aquarium.
At first he could see nothing but a small cup of water and some rocks and twigs. And then one brown thickness on a twig twitched, and Rostnikov could see the chameleon blink its eyes. In a corner under the dish he then spotted the second chameleon, a bright green.

  “They should be agents,” the general said, still looking down at the creatures, which were no more than five inches long. “They blend into the background, can remain immobile for hours watching a moth or cricket before they move on it, and they are very durable. I’ve seen a moth die of fear after hours of being watched by a chameleon. Then, ironically, the chameleon refuses to eat it. They eat only living creatures.”

  And then, reluctantly, General Shakhtyor turned to his guest. They were about two feet apart when their eyes met. Rostnikov tried his best not to let his recognition show, but the old bald man, who looked like a bird of prey, probed his eyes, saw the recognition, nodded to himself, and stepped away.

  “You want to sit?” he said, moving to a leather chair in front of the desk. There was a small table near the chair and another duplicate chair opposite the first. Rostnikov sat.

  “Tea?” asked the general, his ancient eyes never leaving Rostnikov’s face. The tea sat on the small table in a very decadent-looking porcelain samovar. There were two matching cups.

  “Yes, thank you,” said Rostnikov, sitting.

  The general poured two cups with a steady hand and passed one to Rostnikov, who enjoyed the sudden heat on his palm.

  “If your leg begins to hurt,” said the general, “feel free to rise and move.”

  “Thank you,” said Rostnikov.

  “They like crickets and moths best,” said Shakhtyor. “The chameleons. It is easy enough to get them in the summer, now, but in the winter they have to be obtained from our laboratory. Who knows why our laboratory breeds insects?”

  He drank, the brown eyes in his tight face always on Rostnikov. Their shrewdness tested Rostnikov, but he controlled himself.

  “I have two stories for you, chief inspector,” he said. “When I am through, you are to choose one.”

  “Comrade-” Rostnikov began.

  The general held up a bony hand and stopped him. “Indulge me,” he said. “I’m a very old man.”

  Rostnikov sat back, holding his tea in two hands.

  “A man named Shmuel Prensky left the village of Yekteraslav almost sixty years ago,” said the general, watching Rostnikov’s eyes. “He was a promising young Jew, but by 1932 it was becoming quite evident that there would be no place for Jews in the Soviet system, at least no place of real power. Trotsky’s death had settled that. Shmuel Prensky died. I knew him. I was at his side when it happened. It was during an attempt to quell an agricultural uprising not far from Tbilisi. So, he died.”

  The old man looked at Rostnikov, who nodded to show that he was listening and understood.

  “Then,” the general went on, “many years later, some friends of Prensky’s youth, who were old men, began to settle ancient scores. A lout named Mikhail Posniky, seeking revenge, came from America and killed one of the other old friends, Abraham Savitskaya. I don’t know the circumstances.”

  “He was reading Izvestia in the bathtub when he was shot,” said Rostnikov.

  The old man narrowed his eyes to determine if Rostnikov was risking levity, but he could not detect it with certainty. So he went on.

  “And during the subsequent investigation,” he said, “the name of the now-dead Shmuel Prensky came up. Then there was good luck followed by bad. You found this killer, this Mikhail Posniky. That was good. Unfortunately, the killer was run down by a hit-and-run driver. Case closed. A fine job done by the police. But you did not close the investigation. You went to a retired assistant procurator and got her to delve into the old files on this Prensky.”

  “It was another case, another old man,” Rostnikov said, finishing his tea. “A man named Lev Ostrovsky who worked in the Moscow Art Theatre, a man who mentioned the name Shmuel Prensky before he died. It was that murder I was investigating.”

  “I admire your dedication to justice,” said the old general, putting his hand to his shaved head. “Even after you were told to forget, to stay out of the files.”

  Rostnikov shrugged.

  “How much do you understand here, chief inspector?”

  “Too much,” Rostnikov sighed.

  “Too much,” the general agreed. “Now for the other story.”

  “I’m not sure I have to hear it,” said Rostnikov softly.

  “It’s too late,” said Shakhtyor, leaning back. “This is a fairy-tale alternative. What if Shmuel Prensky did not die, huh? What if another young revolutionary died and this Shmuel Prensky simply took his place? It could happen. It happened all the time. Shmuel Prensky, the Jew from Yekteraslav, becomes a Gentile orphan and demonstrates his value to the state with years of devotion.”

  “Like a chameleon,” said Rostnikov.

  “Somewhat,” agreed the general, “but the analogy is limited. The environment of the chameleon is minimal and simple. Human life is not so simple. I’ll go on with my story. Prensky, who is now living a new life, moves up in the military, eventually goes into intelligence work, and rises high in the KGB. It could happen.”

  “It could happen,” agreed Rostnikov, shifting his leg.

  “More tea?” asked the general, and Rostnikov agreed. “But the new life did not exist without shreds of the old. Two old friends from Yekteraslav, old friends who had once taken a photograph together, know about the new life, but the former Shmuel Prensky is not without loyalty to his past life. He finds work for them, a job for the one called Abraham, who has come back from the United States, come back to escape the vengeance of the other old friend he betrayed. And then there is the actor, the fool. They serve a purpose, have a function, to keep the barrier between the past and present covered. You see where we are going, Rostnikov?”

  Rostnikov nodded that he understood, and something like a grin appeared on the ancient beak before him.

  “Shmuel Prensky could have had the old friends killed, but they were old friends, and they cost little,” the general went on. “They served as extra ears. But when this Mikhail Posniky came back, this gangster from America, things changed. Prensky’s name began to draw attention. You began to draw attention to it. So what could Prensky do? Had Mikhail Posniky gotten on his plane and left, all would have been fine, but he did not. You were too efficient.”

  “Thank you,” said Rostnikov dryly.

  “And so Shmuel Prensky had the gangster from America killed. And knowing that the chief inspector would go back to the actor, he managed just in time to have someone beat him to the theater and dispose of the old man. And so …”

  “Only Shmuel Prensky remains,” finished Rostnikov. “The fourth man in the photograph.”

  “If you prefer the second tale,” agreed the general. “Which do you prefer?”

  “The first,” said Rostnikov, putting down his cup. He had drunk enough tea. His stomach felt uneasy. In the corner the chameleons scurried over rocks, rustling the cage.

  “Then Shmuel Prensky is dead,” said the general with a smile.

  “Dead,” agreed Rostnikov.

  “Would you like to continue living?” the general said matter-of-factly, pressing his hands together.

  “I would prefer it to the alternative,” Rostnikov said, controlling his voice and quite aware that the old man was watching the inspector’s hands to see if there might be a betraying tremor.

  “Good,” said the old man. “If you were to die, there are so many people who have heard of the name of Shmuel Prensky-the assistant procurator; Anna Timofeyeva, the former assistant procurator; your two or three assistants; perhaps your wife. You could all have accidents, but that might draw attention to this situation, might make others who have ears in the KGB suspicious, might get them asking questions. No, if you live and let the matter drop, see to it that the matter drops, questions about Shmuel Prensky end. Of course you can be, wil
l continue to be, watched, listened to, checked. A mind can always change. Six or seven accidents can always be arranged. It would be simple to do so. You understand?”

  “Fully,” said Rostnikov.

  “One more thing,” said the old man, rising. “Colonel Drozhkin does not know about this Shmuel Prensky fairy tale. Very few people have heard the story. Colonel Drozhkin also believes that you have dangerous information secreted outside of the country, information that would provide evidence that the KGB arranged for the murder of a dissident several years ago.”

  “Yes,” said Rostnikov, also rising.

  “That evidence is worthless,” said the general, moving back to the chameleons on his safe. “If it were released now, we would simply deny it or suggest that it was the plan of Yuri Andropov when he was responsible here. In a world where people are obsessed with oil and bombs, your information would be lost. I do not, however, plan to share this observation with Colonel Drozhkin. He might well decide to remove you and possibly your charming Jewish wife and your son, the soldier.”

  “I understand,” Rostnikov said, keeping himself from clenching his fists.

  “Good,” said the general. “You are a good policeman. I’ve examined your file. Go back to being a policeman. You might yet have a long life.”

  It might have been a dismissal, but Rostnikov stood while the old bird tapped at the wire mesh atop the cage to get the attention of the chameleons.

  “You have a question, chief inspector?” he said without turning.

  “In your fairy tale, general, Shmuel Prensky betrays his own people, becomes the claw that grips the Jews?”

  The general stopped tapping and turning to look at Rostnikov. Rostnikov had gone too far. He knew it, knew he should have simply left, but it had come almost unbidden. It had come as a small sign of his own remaining dignity.

  “Shmuel Prensky in the tale survives,” the general said. “He survives and prospers. He knows that distinctions such as Jew, Christian, capitalist, Greek, are meaningless, that they stand in the way of progress, that they are artificial barriers created by petty humans to preserve minimal distinctions that evade and avoid progress. Shmuel Prensky in the tale knows that people are and must be equal, that differences based on myths must be eliminated. Shmuel Prensky in the tale lives for progress.”