Red Chameleon by Stuart M. Kaminsky

him on the wall and began to point to buildings as he spoke.
    â€œFor the next three weeks an armed officer will be placed atop the Ukraine Hotel, the Council for Mutual Economic Assistance Building, the Mir Hotel on Kalinin Prospekt, the Moskva Hotel on Sverdlov Square, the Izvestia building on Gorky Street, all the buildings from which it is believed the Weeper had fired. This, on the assumption that he will return to one of them as he has apparently returned to the Ukraine Hotel. Further questions?”
    â€œDid Sergeant Petrov have a family?” Rostnikov asked, looking up from his doodles.
    â€œI don’t know,” said the Wolfhound, rubbing his palms together. “How is that relevant?”
    Instead of answering, Rostnikov merely shrugged. The Gray Wolfhound was not someone he had to appease.
    â€œWe will catch our sniper within the week, two weeks at the latest,” Snitkonoy said, right palm to his chest. “This I personally promise.”
    â€œWe are reassured,” said Rostnikov, putting the finishing touches to the cube he was shading in. Snitkonoy had made such promises before. On one or two occasions, he had actually succeeded in keeping the promise, though the success had little to do with the colonel.
    â€œWe’ve talked enough,” Snitkonoy said, glancing at Rostnikov, whom he clearly could not fathom. “Comrades, it’s time to work.”
    The pink man rose and then looked around in embarrassment when no one else moved. He sat down quickly as everyone else in the room except for Karpo and Rostnikov got up. The others had expected Snitkonoy to try to hold on to his audience, but possibly the disturbing presence of the Washtub had dissuaded him. The Wolfhound was the first out of the room. His gait had been martial, determined, as if he were on the way to do personal battle with the Weeper. In fact, as everyone but the pink man knew, the Wolfhound would head back to his office to wait until he was needed to perform another ceremonial public act.
    When the room had cleared, the pink man stood and addressed Rostnikov and Karpo.
    â€œWe have not been introduced, comrades. I am Sergei Yefros of the Soviet Afro-Asian Solidarity Committee.”
    And what, thought Rostnikov, are you doing at this meeting!
    â€œI don’t know why I was told to come to this meeting,” the pink-faced little man said apologetically in answer to the unstated but obvious question. “I think there may have been some mistake.”
    â€œImpossible,” said Rostnikov sternly. “We don’t make mistakes. Colonel Snitkonoy makes no mistakes.”
    â€œNo,” the man said, shuffling sideways toward the door and pointing to his own chest with his open palm. “I meant I made a mistake. I … made … I made a mistake. Do you see?”
    â€œThat,” Rostnikov conceded, “is possible.” And the man plunged through the door, leaving Rostnikov and Karpo alone in the room. For a full minute the two men sat in silence, Rostnikov with his lips pursed, looking for the answer to a murder in the crude candlestick he had drawn; Karpo trying to think of nothing—and almost succeeding.
    â€œTwo questions, Comrade Karpo,” Rostnikov said with a sigh. “First, why would someone murder an old man and take only a brass candlestick.”
    Karpo did not for an instant consider that Rostnikov’s question might be a joke. Karpo had no sense of what a joke might be. He knew that other people engaged in non sequiturs, incongruities, insults, physical misdemeanors, at which they laughed or smiled. He had never understood the process or function of comedy. And so he answered where others might have been wary.
    â€œIt is unlikely that the murder was committed for the candlestick,” Karpo said, looking straight ahead, “but that you know.”
    Rostnikov nodded and kept drawing.
    â€œWas the candlestick new, old, very old?”
    â€œVery