Black Knight in Red Square Read Free Page B

the pale look of the obsessed and earned him the more frequent nickname of the Vampire among his colleagues. The name seemed particularly appropriate when a peculiar look crept into Karpo’s eyes and at those moments even those who had worked with him for years avoided him. Only Rostnikov knew that the look was caused by severe migraine headaches, which Karpo refused to admit to. Rostnikov knew quite a lot about his junior colleague. Survival in the Soviet Union often depended on how many secrets you knew and could call upon. Rostnikov watched Karpo with interest, glancing at his left arm, which was stiff and still. Karpo had been shot several months earlier and then had injured the arm again while chasing a petty criminal. He had almost lost the arm that time, but a surgeon who had just had a good meal and a few hours’ sleep had worked harder than usual to save the limb. So the two men shared something—one with a bad leg, the other a bad arm—though they never spoke of their common bond.
    â€œYes,” said Rostnikov.
    â€œYou’re to come to Comrade Timofeyeva’s office. It is urgent. There’s a car downstairs waiting.”
    Rostnikov looked at the Bulgarians and back over his shoulder at the toilet.
    â€œKarpo, what do you know of plumbing?”
    â€œI’m a police investigator,” Karpo replied.
    â€œThat does not preclude your knowing something,” Rostnikov said.
    â€œYou are joking again, Comrade Inspector,” Karpo said expressionlessly.
    â€œWhy is it you can recognize a joke, Emil Karpo, but you cannot engage in one?” Rostnikov said, walking past him toward the door.
    â€œIt is not functional to engage in jokes,” Karpo said. “There is too much to do. Lenin had no sense of humor either.”
    â€œI know.” Rostnikov sighed, and then said to the Bulgarians. “Do not touch the toilet. Use the one at the end of the corridor. Above all do not tell anyone of this.” He put his fingers to his lips. “I’ll be back tonight to fix it.”
    â€œBut—” the woman began. The thin man tugged at her sleeve to quiet her.
    â€œSecurity,” said Rostnikov, allowing Karpo to precede him through the door.
    â€œWe understand,” said the Bulgarian, rushing to close the door behind the two policemen.
    As they walked down the corridor, Rostnikov said, “Are you curious about that?”
    â€œNo,” said Karpo, and the conversation ended.
    Twenty minutes later, after getting his jacket and saying good-bye to Sarah, Rostnikov arrived with Karpo at the entrance to Petrovka in a yellow police Volga with a blue horizontal stripe.
    Petrovka consists of two ten-story L-shaped buildings on Petrovka Street. It is modern, utilitarian, and very busy. It is prominent—everyone knows where it is—and so are the thousands of gray-clad policemen who patrol the city. The ratio of police to civilians is higher in Moscow than in any other major city of the world.
    In spite of this, crime, while it does not flourish, exists. Files of doznaniye or inquiries, cover the desks of the procurators working under the procurator general of the Soviet Union. The police work with the procurators in the twenty districts of Moscow and are responsible for all but political crimes, which fall within the sphere of the KGB (Komityet Gosudarstvennoy Besapanost) or State Security Agency. It is a constant puzzle to both procurators and police what qualifies as a political crime. Economic crimes are generally political because they threaten the economy of the state and thus are subversive. In fact, any crime can be considered political, even the bludgeoning of a husband by a jealous wife. Officially, the procurator general’s office is empowered by the constitution of the U.S.S.R., Article 164, to exercise “supreme power of supervision over the strict and uniform observance of laws by all ministries, state committees and departments,