Black Knight in Red Square Read Online Free

enterprises, institutions and organizations, executive-administrative bodies of local Soviets of People’s Deputies, collective farms, cooperatives and other public organizations, officials and citizens.”
    Which was why Procurator Anna Timofeyeva, a thick box of a woman, about fifty, spent at least fourteen hours a day, seven days a week in her office in Petrovka, trying to shorten the pile of cases on her desk. She looked quite formidable in her striped shirt and dark blue procurator’s uniform. She drank gallons of cold tea, did her best to ignore her weak and frequently complaining heart, and went on with her massive task.
    Procurator Timofeyeva was in her second ten-year term of office. Before that she had been an assistant to one of the commissars of Leningrad in charge of shipping and manufacturing quotas. She had no background in law, no training for her position, but she was dedicated, reasonably intelligent, and, above all, a zealot. She was an excellent procurator.
    She was behind her desk as always when Rostnikov entered her office after knocking and being told gruffly to enter. Then the ritual began. Rostnikov sat in the chair opposite her, glanced up at the picture of Lenin above her head, and waited. As always she offered him a glass of her room-temperature tea.
    â€œMurder,” she said.
    Rostnikov sipped his tea and waited.
    â€œPoison,” added Procurator Timofeyeva.
    Rostnikov looked down at his glass, hesitated and again sipped at the tea. He liked sugar in his tea, or at least lemon. This had neither and very little taste, but it kept his hands busy. Procurator Timofeyeva’s one vice was her taste for the dramatic in assigning cases.
    â€œAn American,” she went on. “During the night, at the Metropole.”
    â€œAn American,” Rostnikov repeated, shifting his left leg. Keeping it in one position for more than a few minutes always resulted in stiffening and at least minor pain.
    â€œAnd two Soviet citizens. And a Japanese.”
    â€œFour,” said Rostnikov.
    â€œLet us hope our powers of addition are not taxed beyond this number,” she said, sipping her own tea.
    â€œAnd the inquiry, I take it, is now mine?” said Rostnikov.
    â€œIt is yours, and it is, once again, delicate. The American was a journalist here for the Moscow Film Festival. The Soviets were businessmen. The Japanese was also here for the festival, but it is the American who causes concern. It seems he was well known in his country.”
    â€œAn accident?” tried Rostnikov.
    â€œAccording to the preliminary medical report from the hotel, this poison could hardly have been an accident. So, you must work quickly. There are several thousand visitors in Moscow for the festival from more than a hundred countries. There must be no rumors of a poisoner, no panic to spoil the festival. It is an important cultural event, a world event. The Olympics as you know were successfully sabotaged by the Americans and their puppets. Moscow cannot be the scene of another such embarrassment.”
    Comrade Timofeyeva’s knuckles were white as she clutched her glass.
    â€œForgive me, Comrade Procurator, but are not such fears a bit premature? This is but—”
    â€œSources have informed me that there may be those who wish to embarrass the Soviet Union during the festival and that this may be part of their scheme,” she said, looking over her shoulder at the portrait of Lenin as if to seek approval.
    â€œIn which case, would this not be properly handled by—” Rostnikov began, but she interrupted him again.
    â€œThe KGB wishes us to investigate this as a common crime and not a political one. I’m afraid, Comrade Rostnikov, you have gained a reputation for discretion in such matters.”
    The meaning of this, Rostnikov well knew, was that if he failed, his enemies could throw him to the dogs. He was expendable, and this precarious state was becoming part of