Mayhem in the Consulate

‘A gulp of the magic mix,

And all is put to Fix!’

It was a glorious and chilly winter morning in the late 1960s. The doorbell to my apartment on Free School Street rang aloud during the quiet afternoon hours. “Pushpa! See to the door, will you?”- I shouted out to my domestic help, a bit annoyed that the visitor had had to ring the doorbell more than once already and because I could not be made to leave my dose of scoops that the daily newspaper had to offer. Judging by the short intervals allowed between the rings, I could surmise that I was to receive a guest of high import. A portly and well attired gentleman who appeared to be in his mid-30s was ushered in. He walked with a distinct limp. An injury sustained probably during the Second World War since the recent era, though possessing disquiet, did not necessitate physical violence- so I thought. His hair, a rich mix of mahogany and blonde, had been brushed back neatly while a faint fragrance of Shulton Old Spice hung about him.

A trimmed moustache upon his handsome countenance completed his debonair appearance. A button on his coat however threatened to slide open, such was the hurried fashion in which it must have been done in the first place. He held a handkerchief to mope his perspiring brow. “Very humid, eh, Calcutta is!”- He laughed nervously. I raised my brows slightly. Winter had settled in quite properly in Calcutta, average temperatures running at around 11⁰C. Surely it wasn’t so stifling as to draw perspiration? My curiosity perked up as I whiffed the scent of a new case. “Please settle yourself down.”- I gestured towards the couch in the drawing room. “Miss Markel…I am afraid I will have to cut to the chase. I must apologize for my lack of manners.” –

My visitor spoke with a heavy Russian accent, extending his card to me. “Very well Mr. Petrovsky. I dare say I am fond of hastiness. Pushpa! Bring him a glass of water please.” As Pushpa disappeared into the kitchen, I continued further. “I take it that your business here must have been disrupted abruptly, thereby bringing you to my humble abode despite your busy schedule. Pray let me know of the precise details.” “Well…That is…I will then get to the point.” – The Russian observed with a disconcerted and surprised look. “You must be aware of an important diplomatic meet that is to transpire between the governments of India and the Soviet Union on the 30th of this month. Boris Ivanov, a distinguished statesman is scheduled to delegate this high-profile deliberation. I come to you, in dire straits, as the prime Aide to Mr. Ivanov.

We had landed in India 3 days ago, Mr. Ivanov being in an almost perfect health then, a minor cold being his only ailment. The night of the day we arrived, he began complaining of a mild fever and blurriness of vision. The following day he started experiencing hallucinations and his condition has shown not much improvement till now. Fits of raving madness grip him without any warning. We even had a physician of good name summoned from St. Petersburg. He could only suspect stress and a sudden change in the climate as the causes for his condition.” “But you suspect foul play here. Does Mr. Ivanov not have a family physician? Why this random physician?” “You see, Mr. Ivanov, though an able man in his fields is known for his magnanimous nature. Dr. Ivanovich, who has been in the service of the Ivanov family for nearly 20 years has lost his mother recently. Mr. Ivanov had insisted upon the doctor taking some time off. Despite our protests, he wouldn’t let us contact him even when his condition deteriorated.” “So, I see. Has someone else accompanied you here?”

“A nanny of German origin and Master Igor, Mr. Ivanov’s only child.” “The child has none to take care of him back home then?” “Mrs. Ivanov passed away shortly after the young master’s birth. Mr. Ivanov is thus too fond of him to let him out of his sight for long.” “And why a nanny of such an origin?” “Ah…you have an interesting question there. Emma Markov fled to St. Petersburg immediately after the Second World War. While the Red Army marched in victory through the German territory, a Russian soldier who took a liking to her saved her from the wrath of his comrades and got married to her. Mr. Markov however passed away only a few days after the wedding in a Nazi bombing incident. Mrs. Markov, no longer finding her home country as a safe haven fled to the Soviet Union. The wretched woman’s origin often came into the way of her landing jobs. There was one household though that condescended into allowing her the position of a maid. The owners happened to be acquaintances of Mr. Ivanov who at that time was struggling to raise the very young Master Igor. Mrs. Markov’s utter devotion to her job was well appreciated, thereby leading to her appointment as the nanny at the Ivanov household.” “Hmm… And how long has she been at this job?”

“She will be completing 5 years the next month.” “And has she given any cause for complaint so long?” “None that I am aware of.” “30th of this month…which leaves us with precisely 5 days including today. A lot of work is to be done. No time to lose I suppose!” I reached the Consulate General of the Soviet Union. A Mini COOPER carried me to my destination, Mr. Petrovsky and the driver being my companions for the ride, neither of who was of the chatty kind. I was ushered straight away into the lodging bed-chamber of the diplomat. A wasted figure lay on the ornate bed, his head raised on pillows and the pallor of his countenance pronounced in the soft January light filtering in through the windows. He must have been between 40 and 45 years old and judging by the firm set of his mouth, a man of resolve. His forehead bore lines and his golden hair had turned white near the temples. “Is this the famed Miss Markel, Fedor?”- Mr. Ivanov enquired of his Aide in a weak voice, as I approached the assembled party.

The man was his self then but could lose it any moment. Mr. Petrovsky gave a curt nod. I glanced around the room. It was a well -furnished one – a wooden settee, a coffee table with intricate workmanship and with a gramophone atop it placed in the corner farthest from the door, a dresser, a study desk-chair set, a pendulum clock hanging directly above the desk, a huge painting of a thick dark forest covering up the centre of the wall opposite the bed and a Persian rug sprawled across the floor completed the look. An enormous motionless fan hung from the whitewashed ceiling while a fireplace with a handsome mantelpiece of wood and marble stood out in a portion of the room. A saucer containing two capsules and a glass of water lay on the bed-side stool. I turned my attention towards the painting again. Skilled hands must have worked upon it for it had an incredibly realistic aspect to it. The finely detailed portrayal of the dark green foliage, of hidden menaces within the forests, of leering, venomous snakes curled up around the branches seemed to have a distinct graveness to it, an almost ominous foreboding. “Are you affected too, Miss Markel?” – Came Mr. Ivanov’s groggy voice- barely more than a whisper.

I turned around to look at him, his face as white as a sheet and bearing a visible effort to avoid glancing at the life like landscape. “I dare not look at that painting anymore, for whenever I do, I lose my grip on reality. The woods jeer at me while vicious snakes swarm all around me. It is a terrible nightmare-Nay! Even worse for such a horrendous vision could come to me even when I am awake.” – Shuddered the diplomat. He too had a Russian accent, but not as pronounced as his Aide, who now wore an expression of immense strain and anxiety and implored him to calm down. I walked towards the bedside stool and began examining the medicines and the glass of water. The crystal-clear water appeared and smelled harmless. Taking care to collect a sample of it in an airtight plastic bag that I had fortunately carried in my briefcase, I began scrutiny of the capsules with the magnifying glass that I always have upon me. Detectives are expected to have one handy no matter the time or place. The white capsule was an antibiotic that is used to treat mild fevers and throat infections. The other one, a pale yellow in shade, was an antidepressant. “May I have a look at his prescription?” – I requested of Mr. Petrovsky. “Here it is.” – He fished it out of his briefcase and handed it to me.

I ran my eyes across it. A Dr. Turgenev had scribbled out names of medicines for fever inducing allergy and stress. “Very well. I have memorized the details. Is the young Master with Mrs. Markov?”- I asked Mr. Ivanov, returning the prescription. “Yes. As always. The dear lady has been such a help ever since Mila passed away.” – Sighed Mr. Ivanov. “Well then, I would like to have a chat with Mrs. Markov I think.” – I said, addressing no one in particular. “Of-course. This way please.” – Mr. Petrovsky offered. The lodgings offered at the Consulate were indeed impressive- a fully equipped kitchen with the most modern appliances, 2 bedchambers each with an attached bathroom complete with the finest bath wares and a sitting room furnished with Colonial style furniture. The office and staff residence had been built in the East and West Wings of the main building respectively. I was escorted into the bedroom next to the diplomat’s where Mrs. Markov stood, attentively watching his son playing all by himself. She was a woman of remarkable stature- tall, slim with blonde air drawn back into a tight bun.

She had sharp features, her expression austere. She wore a well fitted, long, black dress with white collars and stared at me with questioning eyes. “Ah Mrs. Markov…This is Miss Markel, the private detective.” – Mr. Petrovsky introduced me to the Ivanov family nanny. “The medicines have not been any help. A detective now comes to do the job. What a pity!” – Mrs. Markov spoke with a dispassionate voice. She had a clear voice with a peculiar high-pitched quality to it. The little boy looked at me a while before turning his attention back to his toy train. He had a lively face but appeared rather haggard – as if suffering from malnutrition. All the while, he kept on humming a queer little song with rhyming words. ‘A gulp of the magic mix, And all is put to Fix…’ This room was handsomely furnished too as a preliminary survey of it told me, though not as big as the other bedroom. Several toys, children’s books were present, arranged in an orderly fashion upon wall-shelves, surely the work of the well-organized Mrs. Markov.

A glint from underneath the bed caught my eyes suddenly. Bending down and peering into the gloom, I could perceive a shaving razor. It was a cheap variant of the Gillette brand with a brand-new blade fitted in. Mrs. Markov turned pale at sighting what I had found, all her composure lost as she gaped at it in utter shock for a moment before turning a wrathful face towards the boy and chiding him coldly for stealing dangerous instruments from his father’s room and playing with them. “Funny little one that one is, fiddling with belongings of adults. Do not be so harsh on him, eh Mrs. Markov?” -Chuckled Mr. Petrovsky. “Is that so? But I always thought that curiosity killed the cat?”- Returned Mrs. Markov, her voice still laced with ire. “Miss Markel, May I return it to its rightful place?”- Demanded Mrs. Markov in a courteous yet authoritarian voice. I conceded willingly. Interesting, very interesting indeed - I told myself. I took leave of the Ivanov family and their suite for the day but not before getting myself a list of the emergency contact numbers that Mr. Ivanov had enlisted out to the administrative staff of the Consulate.

I had however the premonition that I was not to be left alone for long. I had just returned from a visit to a good friend who was a director at the Calcutta Medical College and who had assured me that there was the water sample I had taken was as clear as it appeared. He had however warned that for a patient with allergic reaction to cephalosporins, a combination of medicines that dealt with stress and something as common as fever could be harmful. The phone began ringing late in the evening that day. Mr. Petrovsky, with a frantic urgency in his voice was on the other end. I sprang to grab my overcoat and my briefcase. The diplomat was an appalling sight to behold as I reached the Consulate General. His eyes dilated, hair disheveled, mouth foaming- it was incredulous that the man had been in his senses earlier that day. A uniformed woman stood cowering in the bed chamber and beside her stood a foreigner in his waistcoat, a stethoscope hanging around his shoulders. The physician from St. Petersburg, undoubtedly. He had a strange expression upon his countenance- of vexation and agitation while his eyes flitted nervously to-and-fro. Crockery and cutlery lay shattered on the ground with soup spilled around. “Snakes, venomous, so venomous….”- Whispered the ailing man hoarsely. I got upon my knees, magnifying glass in hand and began scanning the mess on the floor. A hair strand floated around in the liquid. “I swear I checked before bringing it in. I swear!” – Moaned the woman.

The physician eyed the floor uneasily, like a man who knew something. “Silence! What impropriety of duty when it is known that Mr. Ivanov needs utmost care now? I will raise a complaint I assure you! “- Snarled Mr. Petrovsky. Mrs. Markov stood in the corner, her gaze glassy as she held on to Master Igor. The child only stared at his father, his eyes tear stained and full of fear. “Miss Markel, this is Dr. Pyotr Petrovitch – an eminent physician from St. Petersburg and in-charge of Mr. Ivanov.” – Mr. Petrovsky introduced me to the physician. His palms were cold and clammy as I shook them. “You will have understood by now that your constant presence here will be necessary. There could be spies and conspirators everywhere.” – Mr. Petrovsky spoke, casting a suspicious look at the kitchen staff, who stood with a lowered head. “I have requested to the Consulate staff to make arrangements for your lodgings in the staff quarters. I do hope you will forgive the inconvenience.” – he continued, his voice apologetic.

My quarters, though not as elaborately furnished as those of the diplomat’s chambers, were comfortable to say the least. A brightly glowing fireplace, a wooden desk, a bed and a sofa lent a cheery glow to the surroundings. A telephone set stood atop the desk. The room had only one window which was compensated by a good view of the Consulate complex afforded by it. I sat down to make a quick call to Pushpa to let her know of my circumstances. I could only make such calls as would not divulge any secret information for fear that the telephone provided was being tapped. The little time-piece perched upon the desk told me that it was nearly half past 8 now. Dinner was soon brought in which I flushed down the lavatory instead of consuming. Contemplating on whether having a quick interview with the kitchen staff and then the dubious Dr. Petrovitch, I had stood up and walked to the window when a movement in the grounds aroused me from my reverie.

A woman with a black toque upon her head and long, fitting black dress moved with brisk steps. Mrs. Markov. I made up my bed- arranging pillows in a vertical fashion and covering them up with a sheet. I needed to move, carefully and without losing a moment. My lodgings, being on the first floor, I had to run down just one flight of stairs. I hid behind a bush impulsively as Mr. Petrovsky emerged, moving towards the diplomat’s chambers, his expression as grave as ever. I had to follow my target with as much stealth as I could muster. Thanks to my years of cat-mouse chases- no matter on which side I was- had given me that sort of expertise. Notwithstanding the cold weather, the crowd on the streets had not thinned down yet, thus aiding my pursuit well. The curious woman headed straight towards the Hotel Aston international located nearby. I could not spot her anywhere in the lobby upon entering. I approached the reception. “Do you have a room for a night please?” – I asked. The concierge looked me up, his face betraying evident suspicion. I couldn’t blame him for I had a scarf wrapped around my face in the likeness of a mummy and sunglasses covering my eyes. I could in no way disclose myself to Mrs. Markov. “Give me a moment please.” – Replied the concierge cautiously as he began searching through his register.

“Erm…a friend of mine is on a visit to Calcutta. She had informed in the last letter that she might take up a room here. Would you mind checking her up for me? ” “With pleasure. The name please?” “Emma Markov.” “Emma...Emma…I am afraid not. There is no entry by that name. Ah…But we do have accommodation available.” “Very well.” As the check-in register was forwarded to me, my eyes began searching for a date. Yes…there it was. The 22nd of January, the date when the diplomat should also have landed here– Jacob MacNorman – Room No. 201. “Would you have a room on the 2nd floor please? You see…I am superstitious about numbers, particularly during the nocturnal hours.” – I made my unusual request. Even more befuddled than before and considering his guest as positively deranged, the troubled concierge looked across his register once more. “Yes Madam, we do have rooms available on the 2nd floor.” –

He replied at last. “Oh wonderful…Your hotel is most extraordinarily delightful indeed!” – I gushed out. As I signed my initials upon the register, his eyes narrowed further at the elusiveness of the letters. Room no. 202 was unlocked for me. Fortune seemed to be favouring me as it happened to be right next to my room of interest. Ordering myself dinner and a cup of tea, I waited in silence, taking care to remain near the common wall of the two rooms. The absolute hush was broken by the sound of trolley wheels. My orders were placed on the centre table and the waiter wheeled away. The door to Room 201 remained closed with its mysterious occupant inside. A lingering scent of a familiar fragrance caught me by surprise- that of Shulton Old Spice. The Russian Aide shared a similar taste with this stranger. ‘How very odd a coincidence…’ – I couldn’t help wondering. My wait began again. Finally, when it was nearly 11, I could hear a voice rasping out from the next room. Putting my ears on the wall, I listened intently and congratulated myself that the rooms were not entirely sound-proof. “How is the chap? Still in a stupor? Good, the worse he is, the better. Take care that the doctor keeps his mouth shut till it’s time to bid him goodbye. We have to get through with things fast. It’s a promise to the Homeland. Besides, I am quite done taking care of the little Russian brat.” –

The occupant inside was unequivocally Jacob MacNorman- an American as understood by his accent. The threads of my case were unravelling rather quickly. I had no time to waste. Judging by my watch, it must have been between half past 8 and 9 in the evening in St. Petersburg. I began going through the list of Mr. Ivanov’s emergency contacts and exhaled with satisfaction at the sight of the number for the Immigration head office of the Soviet Union. Venturing downstairs, I tapped at the reception once more where the concierge who had attended to me before showed clear signs of discomfort at the appearance of my still concealed visage. “May I be allowed to have a phone call please? You see, there is too much disturbance in my accommodations which are otherwise superb. My neighbour doesn’t seem to be of the cooperative sort.” – I whispered furtively. The hapless fellow, torn between the wish to be rid of me and a sense of duty, considered for a while and then decided to let me into a vacant room on the first floor for using the telephone there. I dialed the number. After a few rings, a voice answered on the other end. “Emma Markov did you say?” – The person from the Immigration department of USSR spoke in a heavily accented and slow English. “Ehh…Yes there is a name here. Immigrated to the Soviet Union from Germany in August 1945 and brought no family along with her.” – She continued. “Oh alright…I would also like the whereabouts of Mr. Markov, a soldier who served as part of the Red Army please.” “Let me connect you to the Ministry of Defence.”

“The Ministry of Defence of the Soviet Union. How may I assist you?”- A gruff voice asked me. “May I be helped with information about Mr. Markov who served in Germany during the War?” “Markov…Yes there is a name here. Anton Markov. He was reported as missing in action while on Polish territory and his body was never recovered.” The requisite number of clues and too little time were what I had now. Dashing out to the reception and requesting a check out, where the baffled concierge yet again obliged to another of my impulsive requests, I started in the direction of the Consulate. I had to put my agility to use in climbing up the outer walls of the complex, the front gates being closed already. As I approached my quarters, I became aware of something unsettling. The door to my room was unlocked, yet no light shone from within. My eyes gleamed with excitement as action beckoned me

I waited with bated breath for my assailant to appear. A man clad in a dressing-gown and pajamas soon appeared, limping cautiously. As I clicked a picture with my Model 20 Swinger, he turned around with a nonplussed expression. “Did I surprise you Mr. Petrovsky?” – I asked, aiming my automatic at him. He gave a chase. “What a troublesome fellow!”- I muttered and shot in the air, its ring echoing through the still night air. Alerted officials at the Consulate soon came into sight and helped apprehend the Aide. Having secured him up eventually, the search of whose pajama-pockets revealed a small bottle of chloroform and a handkerchief, I rushed in to check upon the doctor. The door was locked from the outside. Breaking in through the door proved futile. The damage had already been done as Dr. Petrovitch lay upon his back, his wrists without any pulse and his body cold to the touch. There were slight bruise marks on the right hand- signs of a struggle. Dr. Dutta, my inconceivably helpful and good-hearted friend who had been kind enough to advise me on the quality of the water sample earlier came to my rescue yet again, though the poor fellow had been in a deep slumber. Intoxication by chloroform followed by snuffing off of breath were declared as the cause of the Russian physician’s death. I decided to quiz the kitchen staff. Upon reaching the servant quarters, I discovered that there had been a development there as well.

One of the kitchen staff had complained of dizziness and nausea immediately after dinner and soon lost consciousness and continued to remain in such a state even as I entered the quarters. My medical friend, his examination on the body of Dr. Petrovitch having been completed, had followed me here being interested in my method of investigation. He examined her and announced food poisoning as having afflicted her. I asked the cook to show me what she had consumed and was shown a tray containing all those items that had been served to me for dinner. “How is it that only she is the victim?” – I questioned the cook, a swarthy pot-bellied man who had a comically good-natured face. “We cannot understand Mem Sahib. We have all had the same items for our dinner.” – The frightened cook stammered. “When did you have it?” “After sending out all the guests their meals. She was to have it with us. But one of the guests- the Russian doctor- complained of an upset stomach and did not have his meal. So, she had it all. And then this is what happened.” “Was there something special about the meals served to the guests?” “Nothing as regards preparation. Only that the German Mem Sahib used to taste them before being sent out. She was always afraid for the lives of the other guests. Used to say it didn’t matter if she were harmed.” “Who carried the meals to the guests?” “Generally, the staff here. But tonight, the German lady was insistent that she would do it. She was in a bad mood and seemed to be suspecting us all the more after the incident with the Bare Sahib from Russia.”

“Thank you. That will do.” “Dr. Dutta, our illustrious Mrs. Markov needs to be summoned now.” – I retorted to my friend. It was quite a hubbub when Jacob MacNorman was brought in. The Consulate staff gasped upon looking at a man who they had thought of as a woman till a few hours ago, the young Master Ivanov who had woken up due to the commotion outside stared wide eyed while Mr. Petrovsky, his excellent accomplice looked at him with an otherwise impassive expression- his eyes being his only part that betrayed the turmoil within. The American who had had no warning of the occurrences back at the Consulate now seethed with rage. “Dirty Russian scoundrels and their roguish Indian accomplices.”- He screamed. “Ladies and gentlemen! Let me introduce Jacob MacNorman alias Emma Markov who put up a commendable act as a German woman for quite a few years but is really a spy from the US. He had befriended this Russian gentleman who now sits before you all tied up and had been waiting for the right moment to cause an incident that had the potential of propelling into a juggernaut of international intrigue.” “International intrigue? How so?” –

My friend asked, quite taken aback. “This case has been a very simple one truly, thanks to the cooperation of the wonderfully shrewd Mr. Jacob MacNorman and Mr. Fedor Petrovsky. Unfortunately for them, they were too much in a hurry to pull off the masterpiece they had planned. It had all begun when Jacob MacNorman entered the Soviet Union under the assumed identity of Emma Markov, a German national during the second World War. Emma Markov was supposed to have been the widow of Anton Markov, a Russian soldier reported as missing in action while in German-occupied Poland during the War. He could do it all through a friend he had gained in another Russian soldier while in Germany- Fedor Petrovsky. The onset of the Cold War changed the relation between Americans and the Soviet Union Nationals. However, the camaraderie between MacNorman and Petrovsky was so great that the Russian was ready to sell off his own country.” I paused, relishing the effect I was having on my audience who listened with rapt attention.

“Go on! Go on please!” – Begged the young Master Ivanov with impatience. I obeyed. “MacNorman began approaching families having important connections with the Soviet Government, all the time being assisted actively by his Russian friend, who had himself been in a vital diplomatic position for years. His approach was calculated, ranging from the less to the more in terms of association with the Government. The right moment came when he was able to secure himself as an employee of Mr. Boris Ivanov, one of the chief diplomats of the Soviet Government. But there too, the duo’s moves were not abrupt. They carefully analyzed the diplomat’s lifestyle and behaviour. Then all of a sudden, fortune began aiding them generously.

The family physician’s mother passed away and he was asked to take some time off to cope with this personal tragedy by Mr. Ivanov. Simultaneously, diplomatic deliberations called him to India. Petrovsky, being in possession of his boss’s medical records, was well aware of his acute allergy towards antibiotics of the cephalosporin type. He threatened Dr. Petrovitch into prescribing the diplomat medications pertaining to stress and fever together, thus inducing Mr. Ivanov into suffering from hallucinations. In order that secretive conversations between Petrovsky and MacNorman could be carried on with ease, MacNorman used to retire to his rooms at the Aston every night and contact Petrovsky from there.” “All very well, but why was Dr. Petrovitch murdered then? He had been doing as was told.” – Mr. Singh, the Calcutta police chief who had helped apprehend the American asked. “Simply to defame a nation. It was the German nanny who had secretively put in the hair strand in Mr. Ivanov’s meal while tasting it. It was also the German nanny who had carried the drugged dinner for the guests tonight.

A nanny of German origin who had been serving a Russian family for so long betrays them at last. The world would be very much disposed to believe that she was taking revenge for what transpired between the two nations during the War. That she was a spy from Germany. The already volatile world peace would be threatened further. Security for the USSR would be jeopardized further, a cause of great satisfaction for the Americans. But the Doctor suspecting something, did not have his dinner. The plan was foiled to some extent. The duo understood that the doctor needed to be done away with for he could interfere soon enough. The Aide broke into his room late in the night and murdered him. As regards young Master Ivanov” – I winked at the little boy. “He escaped food poisoning too because he did not touch his meal tonight, as he had been doing ever since he came here. And where did it all go, Master Igor?” – I inquired, smiling bemusedly. “Down the toilet.

I never liked the taste of anything. It was all so spicy. And Nanny scared me with her song. I don’t want to gulp any magic mix ever!” – He uttered indignantly. “Hah! There you go. The magic mix of anti-depressants and antibiotics, enough to make a sane man go crazy and bring nations into bickering with each other.” – Mr.Singh exclaimed. “Another important clue for me was the razor I found in Master Igor’s room. I perceived, from the cheapness of its build, that it could certainly not belong to Mr. Ivanov and not even his Aide, who puts a lot of effort into his toilet. Further, Mrs. Markov’s reaction upon its discovery seemed very singular. Also, the fragrance of Old Shulton solidified my surmise that there was much more going on between an American spy and a Russian Aide.” – I stared with an eyebrow cocked up, once at Mr. Petrovsky and then at Mr. MacNorman. “You are all fools. Russians are a despicable lot.” – Fedor Petrovsky muttered angrily. Everyone turned to look at him. “I saw it all during the War. How different were we from those beastly Germans as we plundered and raped and raged through their cities? We were supposed to be more civilized in our dealings, more disciplined in our executions. We had been ordered not to harm civilians. And yet we assaulted brutally. Where was our honour then? Socialism my foot! Our men mingled their blood with that of those dirty German vermins. I lost faith in the so-called glory of the Soviet Union. When I was undergoing such emotional turbulence, I was rescued by Jacob who taught me about what it actually means to be a true great nation. I vowed that under no circumstances could I let go of such a friend. But you, you ruined it all!” –

He spat at me with disgust. “But my dear Mr. Petrovsky. We were also supposed to leave behind the ghosts of the past in peace. It is the duty of a citizen from a truly great and progressive nation. I am afraid you have failed that part terribly, much more than your friend Mr. MacNorman who was not being a traitor at least. You simply played second fiddle to his vicious plans. “– I spoke out reproachfully. “But I fail to understand, why in the first place did he approach you at all?” – Dr. Dutta asked me thoughtfully. “Is it usual that the one who brings you the case turns out to be the perpetrator himself? It is unprecedented for me at least!” – I answered shrugging my shoulders.