The waiter winced in pain and began to sink, but Karpo pulled him up. A pair of late lunching customers saw the disturbance and, pretending they hadn’t noticed, hurried to pay their bill and leave.
“Mathilde,” he repeated. “I am not going to arrest her or you.”
“You’d better not,” said Anatoli, reaching up to massage his aching shoulder. “It would do you no good for your superiors to know about you and her.”
He got no further. Karpo’s hand was around his neck, and Anatoli found himself looking into the emotionless face.
“That would embarrass me,” Karpo whispered, “but it would not cost me my job. It would, however, lead to your detention and sentencing as a panderer, and you are well aware of the penalty for that.” He released him roughly. “Where do I find Mathilde?”
Anatoli’s clip-on tie had come loose on one side and dangled as he touched his throat and let out a rasping sob.
“Home,” Anatoli whispered, and cleared his throat. “She called in sick to the telephone office.”
Karpo turned and headed for the door.
“She’s not alone,” Anatoli said.
Karpo continued on through the door and out into the street. In ten minutes, he was on Herzen Street, heading for a long row of almost identical ten-story apartment buildings. He entered the fourth building at a little before two in the afternoon and began the climb to the seventh floor. His left arm still throbbed occasionally, but the doctor had assured him that the throbbing would eventually go away. Karpo wasn’t so sure. He also wasn’t entirely sure he wanted it to go away. What he wanted was full use of the hand and arm. A little pain, like the great pain of his headaches, was a challenge to him. It was a test of his endurance, his dedication. The world was full of obstacles, pain, human frailty. The challenge for the state and the individual was to overcome the frailty. Karpo had done admirably with a few minor exceptions. He considered Mathilde, whom he had known for almost seven years, a major frailty.
Karpo did not hesitate at the door. His four knocks were sharp and loud, and the familiar voice called, “Who is it?”
“Karpo,” he replied. Behind the door he could hear frantic scrambling and a man’s voice, but it took no more than ten seconds for the door to open. Mathilde stood before him, the front of her green dress closed except for one button at the waist. Her dark brown hair fell loose to her shoulders. She was not pretty in the conventional way, but she was handsome and strong. Certainly, she was confident and sturdy. Even now one hand was on her hip as she faced Karpo in the doorway.
“You’re a week and five hours early,” she said.
“I have some questions to ask you,” Karpo replied. “Send him home.” His eyes had not left her face. For a moment she looked angry, but then she must have remembered that anger had no effect on the man who stood before her. Secretly she felt sorry for Karpo, but she would never tell him so, because she knew that the slightest display of her feelings would send the gaunt, serious man away, never to return. She stepped back, allowing him to enter, and closed the door to the one-room apartment behind him.
“Mikol,” she said, without turning around. “Come out.”
The door to the bathroom opened slowly, cautiously, and a thin young man came out. He was barely more than a boy, in fact, dressed in work pants and a white shirt. He was trying to put his tie on as he emerged, and his long, straight brown hair fell over his eyes. At first he looked at Karpo with a touch of defiance but on seeing the specter before him, the defiance vanished.
“I’m afraid you must leave now, Mikol,” Mathilde said gently. “This man is an old friend. He is in the government, like your father. You understand?”
Mikol finished with his tie, unsure whether he should shake hands, say something to Mathilde, or just make for the door. He did the last, hesitating at the door as if to say something to Mathilde.
“I will talk to you on Monday,” she said.
Mikol nodded, glanced at the unsmiling Karpo, and left, closing the door behind him.
“His father is an assistant to the transportation commissar,” she said. “I’ve known the father almost as long as I’ve known you. Would you like some tea?”
“Yes,” he said, ignoring the unmade bed in the corner near the window. “I’ve come for your help.”
She walked into the kitchen alcove and began to fill the teapot. Over the sound of water splashing into the aluminum pot, she said, “Personal or business?”
“I have no personal interests,” he said seriously.
Mathilde turned, pot in hand, eyebrow raised, and cocked her head.
“I have personal needs, perhaps,” he amended.
“You are a flatterer,” she said with a grin. She put the pot on the burner and turned to Karpo, her arms folded in front of her.
“Do you miss many days at your job?” he asked.
“Mikol’s father arranged for me to have the day off,” she explained.
Karpo nodded knowingly. He was not at all naive. Corruption was rampant in the Soviet Union. One man, even a small dedicated group of men and women, could not hope to stamp it out completely. But one had to keep trying, keep behaving as if it were possible. That was what gave meaning to one’s life.
“I must find a prostitute,” Karpo said as Mathilde sat down at the table.
“Well, you have come to the right place,” she said, waving him to the seat beside her.
“I did not mean you,” he explained. “I must find a prostitute who works near the Metropole Hotel, one whom a man might pick up late at night without attracting notice, one a taxi driver or clerk might have quick access to.”
Mathilde looked puzzled. “What-”
“It is part of an investigation,” he explained, and she knew she would get no more from him. She shrugged, discovered the open button on her blouse, buttoned it.
“Could be quite a few taxis.” She sighed. “There are maybe a dozen who work out of cabs in that area, but if it was late, it would probably be a railroad prostitute, one of the cheap ones who work the stations. More likely, the one you’re looking for went to the Metropole restaurant with her pimp or her husband. Probably works the place.”
“A name,” Karpo said, staring at her with unblinking eyes.
Mathilde smiled. “You don’t even close your eyes when you’re…” She hesitated. She had been about to say “making love,” but the act for Karpo had nothing to do with love.
“The name,” Karpo repeated.
Behind them, the kettle began to boil, and Mathilde rose to make the tea.
“What night?” she said, her back turned.
“Wednesday,” he replied. “Yesterday.”
“Her name is Natasha,” Mathilde said. “She goes one night a week, Wednesdays, to the Metropole. She doesn’t dare go there any oftener than that for fear someone might get suspicious and turn her in. Normally in the afternoons she works one of the railway stations in Komsomolskaya Square. Try the Leningradsky station. She’s about thirty-five, on the thin side, short blond hair, fairly good teeth, no beauty, but when she gets dressed for a night at the Metropole, she can pass, especially with a foreigner who is drunk. Is that what you wanted?”
She returned with the tea and placed a cup before him.
“Yes,” he said, his eyes meeting hers.
They drank quietly, saying nothing for almost two minutes.
“You’ve never been here in the daytime,” she said finally.
“Until today,” he agreed, finishing his tea.
“Since you are here…” she began.
Somewhere deep within him, Karpo had the same thought. It was as if she read his mind, exposed his need and turned it into a vulnerability.
“I think not,” he said rising. “I prefer our regular arrangement.”
“As you wish,” Mathilde said with a slight nod.
As it must be, Karpo thought to himself, and he departed without another word.
The Leningradsky station was alive with peopl
e when Karpo arrived. He showed his identification to the policeman at the entrance who was posted there to keep out all those without tickets.
The hard wooden benches were crowded with peasants in ragged clothes. Some of them may well have been there for days, unable to find someplace in the city to sleep. All hotels were essentially beyond their means. Even if they were not, the chances of a peasant being given a room were nonexistent. If the peasant knew no one in the city or could find no one who would allow him and his wife and possibly a child or two to sleep on the floor for a few rubles, his only choice was to live in the railway station till his train came. The better dressed travelers sat a little straighter, sought others like themselves, or buried their faces in books to keep from being identified with the lowest levels of Soviet society.
Karpo moved to the dark little snack bar in the corner and watched the woman behind the bar. She had a clear case of asthma, made no better by the smokey station. She was ladling out chicken soup for a man in a rumpled business suit. When she finished, she shouted over her shoulder at one old woman who was washing the dishes.
Karpo caught the attention of the asthmatic woman.
“Natasha,” he said softly. Just then another customer, reasonably well dressed but in need of a shave, ambled forward but when he saw Karpo’s vampirelike face he decided to wait.
The woman had not been looking at Karpo. As she turned and saw him, her sour expression turned docile.
“My name is not Natasha, Comrade,” she wheezed.
“There is a woman who works the station-blond, thin,” he explained. “Her name is Natasha.”
“I know of no such person,” the woman said, looking around in the hope that a customer would save her from this man.
Karpo leaned forward, his eyes fixing on the woman’s. He could smell her sweat. There was no room behind the bar for her to back away. Behind her the dishwasher asked if something was wrong. The woman said nothing and gasped at the face before her. Then her voice came out in a small whisper.
“She’s here. The far corner, over by the second gate, behind the…”
But Karpo had turned and was gone. He pushed through the crowds, moving slowly, his eyes scanning the room. He spotted a prostitute almost immediately, but she was hefty and had dark hair. He went on, and in a few more minutes spotted the thin blonde. She was asking a gentleman for a light for her cigarette. At this distance, she looked rather elegant, but as Karpo pushed toward her, the look of elegance faded. Her face was hard, her hair brittle and artificially colored, her teeth uneven and a little yellow. Looking at her, Karpo thought that her nights at the Metropole were probably numbered. Soon she would be spending more time at the railroad stations, and soon after that she would only be working nights.
Karpo pretended to ignore the talking couple as he strode past them to a newspaper stand in the corner. In spite of the bustle of sounds around him, he caught a bit of the conversation.
“In about an hour,” said the man. He had a boyish face and graying temples, and he looked like a professor.
“Plenty of time,” said Natasha. “There’s a place…”
And Karpo was out of earshot. He turned and saw the professor hesitate, heard Natasha coax, though he couldn’t make out her words. The professor shook his head slowly, and Natasha grabbed his arm, smiling. Karpo felt confident of his quarry now. He stepped forward behind the couple, dodging a young man with a huge suitcase held closed by rope, and touched Natasha’s shoulder. She turned suddenly, surprised.
“I’d like to talk to you,” he said.
The professor didn’t bother to excuse himself. He simply disappeared in the crowd.
One lost, one gained, she seemed to be thinking as her smile returned. Karpo didn’t like the false smile, but he understood it.
“We can’t talk very well here,” she said, looking around.
With that she lifted her left arm so he could see the number 20 clearly written on her flesh. Karpo knew that street prostitutes put their prices on the soles of their shoes, on their arms, or on the palms of their hands. Her price was high for a railway station prostitute, but that was only the initial asking price.
“I’m a policeman,” Karpo said softly.
Natasha’s pale face went ghostly white.
“I’ve done nothing,” she gasped. “I’ve broken no laws.”
It was true, for there were no laws against prostitution. Since it doesn’t exist, the argument goes, there need be no laws against it. However, as both Natasha and Karpo well knew, there were many sexual crimes in the nation’s criminal code, including infecting with venereal disease, illegal abortion, sexual relations with a minor, and depraved actions. Natasha could be charged with several of the crimes, and the penalties could include a number of years in a penal colony.
“If you answer quickly and honestly,” he said now, holding her arm, “I will turn in a minute or two and walk away. If you do not, I arrest you.”
Natasha didn’t respond.
“Last night at the Metropole. You were there?”
Natasha was about to tell a lie, but Karpo’s face was inches from her own, and what she wanted most was to escape from this man.
“Yes,” she said.
“There was an American. His name was Aubrey. He was looking for a woman. He found you.”
Karpo was not at all sure that Aubrey had been with Natasha. If it turned out that he had not, Karpo would pressure her for another name, follow another lead.
“Yes,” she said.
“Where did you go with him?”
“In a taxi,” she said. “My husband is a taxi driver.”
“What did the American say to you?” Karpo went on. A couple passing by looked at Karpo and the transfixed and frightened Natasha, considered intervening, and changed their minds.
“Nothing,” she said. “He just got in. We…he couldn’t do it so I helped him. He said nothing.”
“Nothing?” asked Karpo. “A drunk who had minutes before been babbling?”
Natasha’s eyes darted back and forth. Then, suddenly remembering, she cried, “Oh! He did say something. It was nonsense. Something about having them now, having the biggest story, having the liars. My English is not good, but something like that. He kept saying he had them now, and he would show them. But he didn’t seem happy about it. More, you know, angry. Spiteful.”
“Names?” Karpo went on.
“He mentioned no names,” she said. “I swear. No names. He did say something strange, though. Something about a frog bitch. It is drunk talk. Dogs are bitches in English, I think. Frogs are not spoken of that way. He was drunk.”
Karpo let her go, and she almost fell. Natasha’s automatic reaction was to offer herself to the policeman for nothing, but Karpo was gone before she had a chance to speak the words.
The normal waiting time at the stone pyramid of the Lenin Mausoleum is half an hour, unless it is a holiday, in which case the wait is four times that. The line stretches several hundred yards across Red Square outside the Kremlin, but the people waiting are patient and respectful. Guides from Intourist usher foreigners and soldiers to the head of the line.
The one with dark eyes was a foreigner but chose not to seek help from Intourist, instead preferring to stand at the end of the line, facing resolutely forward. There was plenty of time, the day was pleasant, and the line was moving. There were a number of foreign visitors in line speaking languages the dark-eyed one understood but pretended not to. A young man directly ahead in the line was playing chess with a companion, a young girl, on a small board he held in his palm. An old man in front of the couple kept frowning at them as if they were committing an act of blasphemy in the sacred line. He looked over at the dark-eyed one for support but got none.
A guard stepped forward to tell a Japanese man to put his camera away. He told another man to remove his hands from his pockets. The crowd moved slowly, single file, down the steps and into the crypt. The temperature dropped with each step. No pausing,
no talking. Hats off as the line passed the rigid soldiers standing a yard apart.
And then the dark-eyed one stood before the crystal sarcophagus containing the body of Vladimir Ilich Lenin. In the pinkish light, the seemingly perfectly preserved face was peaceful and calm. The dark-eyed one leaned toward the sarcophagus as the line shuffled forward and then stumbled.
The young man who had been playing chess with his girlfriend picked the stumbling visitor up. A guard moved forward to help, but the dark-eyed visitor waved him away with a nod of thanks and moved on into the daylight. There was no pausing on the tree-lined walk at the base of the Kremlin Wall. The crowd moved past the Mausoleum of Joseph Stalin; past those of Sverdlov; Dzerzhinsky; Irene Armand, the Frenchwoman who was Lenin’s close friend; Soviet cosmonaut Vladimir Komarov; John Reed; Lenin’s wife, Nadezhda Krupskaya; and Maxim Gorky. It was 2:00 P.M. The dark-eyed one held back a smile. It had been quite easy. The compact bomb, encased in soft plastic, now clung to the underlip of the tomb no more than two feet from Lenin’s head. Provided the public transportation ran smoothly, the other two bombs would be in place by 5:00 P.M.
FIVE
When Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov entered his apartment shortly after eight that night, his thoughts were a random bombardment of fragments. He knew he would have to put them in order, and he could think of only one thing that would help him. He greeted Sarah who, he could tell, had something on her mind. He could tell from the hand she placed on his right cheek when she kissed his left cheek. He could tell by the bustle and light talk as she prepared dinner. She told him about the letter from their son Iosef, which described a weekend in Kiev with two friends. Iosef would say nothing in a letter about his three months in Afghanistan. That would have to wait till he came to Moscow on leave.
Rostnikov grunted appreciatively as he changed into his sweatshirt and pants, leaving the bedroom door open so he could hear Sarah continue her chatter. Sarah was not a chatterer. The bomb, Rostnikov knew, would eventually fall. He glanced into the kitchen to see what she was cooking. It was his favorite dish, chicken tabaka, a Georgian specialty, which Sarah prepared to perfection when she could buy chicken.
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