Elena was concerned whenever she was teamed with the Vampire. He didn’t talk very much, even less than when she had first met him, before Mathilde’s death. He remained focused and knew what he was doing. She knew she could learn a great deal from him and she did, but if he was going to risk his life unnecessarily, she did not want to be with him. She didn’t want Iosef with him either, but Iosef seemed to welcome the partnership. They made a strange pair, the straight, gaunt man in black with his black hair brushed straight back from a receding hairline and the brawny, handsome, and usually smiling ex-soldier, playwright, and actor who preferred light colors and worried little about his bushy auburn hair that held just a touch of the red of his mother’s.
Whatever love was, and Elena was not at all sure, she believed she loved Iosef Rostnikov. They had made love. It had been good. He had proposed frequently. She had told him of her experiences, down to the last affair with the married Cuban police officer who probably only wanted information from her. She had been far from promiscuous in her life. The graduate student engineer in the United States. The Canadian policeman she met in Boston. Iosef responded with careful references to his experience in Afghanistan, experience he had tried to deal with as a playwright and actor, and had failed.
They had been lying in his bed, naked, on their backs, looking up at the ceiling, a small light casting steady shadows.
“I was a murderer. I murdered the innocent during the war,” he had said. “I confess, too, that I did not like the Afghans. They are surly, nomadic people who kill each other over whether Allah wants them to cut their toenails or something. It was their land, but they killed my fellow soldiers, my friends. Some of our men hated me since I was considered Jewish. I fought with them. But I killed our enemies, the Afghans-even women and children. And I will live with that and dream about it and continue to wake up nights sweating and weeping.”
“But you seem so cheerful,” Elena said.
“That is the irony,” said Iosef. “I get that from my father. I find life interesting, a moment-to-moment adventure. My guilt I save for my dreams.”
“And you can do that?” she said.
“Much of the time,” Iosef answered. “Not always. So you see, your confession, though I respect it, is pale compared to mine. You require no forgiveness. I deserve none.”
“So, do you agree, Elena?” Lydia Tkach said.
“Agree?” Elena asked, half asleep and drawn from her memory of the night with Iosef.
“That Sasha deserves an office job,” Lydia shouted. “He has a mother, a wife, and two small children, and he is always depressed.”
In fact, Elena did agree, but it did not pay to give Lydia ammunition if she were again to approach Rostnikov, whom she blamed for the dangers her son had been subjected to.
“I am going to see Rostnikov again,” Lydia said with determination, folding her hands on the table resolutely when Elena simply shrugged and took a bite of her sandwich. “Porfiry Petrovich has been promoted. Now he can do this.”
“Does Sasha want a desk job?” Anna said.
Lydia paused for a moment and then answered, “Of course. It is his responsibility. With all the crime now, why would anyone want to be a police officer?”
“Lydia,” Anna reminded her guest, “Elena is a police officer.”
“I know that,” said Lydia impatiently. “She is alone. No responsibilities. She is not depressed.”
Anna nodded once to acknowledge the statement without agreeing or disagreeing.
When Elena was finished eating and cleaning her plate and utensils, Anna said she was growing tired. The hint did not work on Lydia, who was looking off into a corner of the room considering another assault on the injustice of human existence in general and specific humans in particular.
“My mother was raped and killed,” Lydia said, still looking at the wall, her voice so uncharacteristically low that Elena almost missed the words. “I was a little girl. During the famine. Five soldiers, drunken soldiers, came to our house in the village. They were our soldiers. They raped and killed her. I was too young and scrawny to bother with. I remember one rapist was a man in a brown uniform who got down from his horse and pushed us both into the house. My father was gone, in the same army as the men who attacked my mother. My father was dead when it happened, but we didn’t find that out for a long time, my baby brother and I. I have no idea how old the killers were. I don’t even remember their faces. Afterward, I took care of my brother. A cousin of my father barely kept us from starving.”
Lydia stopped as if coming out of a dream and looked around at Anna and Elena.
“I don’t know why I told you that,” she said.
Both Anna and Elena knew.
“I’ve never told anyone before,” Lydia went on, talking almost to herself. “Not even my brother. Never my son.”
“A game of chess?” Anna asked as Baku jumped back in her lap. “Some Mozart and some very competitive chess.”
“Yes,” said Lydia.
“I’m going to get a few hours’ sleep,” said Elena.
Anna was not a music lover. She had devoted her life to her work and had seen no plays, no movies, no ballet, no opera. Such things bored her. Even the idea of them bored her, but lately she seemed to have developed at least a high level of tolerance for Elena’s collection of CDs, particularly Mozart, Bach, and Vivaldi.
So the games began. Elena knew that her aunt would enjoy the competition. Unfortunately Lydia took a long time between moves. She couldn’t play under the pressure of a timer or a clock.
Elena had gone into her aunt’s bedroom, taken off her clothes, and fallen into the bed, jarred into near consciousness from time to time by Lydia’s shouts of triumph and defeat.
And now the weary Elena sat behind her desk looking up at Iosef standing in her doorway like Alain Delon, the French actor with the deadly smile. Sasha rose, having decided there was nothing more to say, only work to do. His head felt no better.
“I’ll start making the calls to the stations,” he said.
“Be tactful,” Elena said. “We are asking for a second disruption.”
“I will be tactful,” said Sasha. “I will also evoke the specter of the displeasure of the Yak should they balk. Who knows? Perhaps we can turn a profit, sell the photographs back cheaply to each policeman when we no longer need them, split the profit three ways, and have lunch at the Metropole.”
“I don’t think so,” said Elena.
“Why does that not surprise me?” Sasha said, moving past Iosef, who patted Sasha on the shoulder.
Elena wanted to tell Sasha Tkach to call his mother, but it was really not her place to do so. She watched him return to his cubbyhole.
Elena and Iosef could hear when Sasha began his calls. Iosef sat down in the chair across the desk from Elena and said quietly, “If you do not marry me, I will go as mad as the father Karamazov.”
“I do not plan to stop being a deputy inspector,” Elena said.
“Ah,” said Iosef, leaning over. “A thin, white band of glowing hope. A condition. The door is open. I say, ‘Fine, marry me and keep working.’”
“I don’t know,” she said, brushing back her hair and looking at the desk for an answer.
“That’s better than no.”
“It’s not yes.”
They could hear Sasha in the adjoining cubicle evoking the respected name of Director Yakovlev with some officer in one of the districts. Sasha sounded decidedly weary and impatient, and he had not yet really begun.
“Come to my apartment for dinner tonight.” Iosef said. “I can’t afford to take you out more than once every few weeks on my salary.”
“We could share the bill,” Elena said, “and eat cheaply. I know some places.”
“You can’t afford it on your salary,” said Iosef with a grin.
“You come to my aunt’s apartment for dinner tomorrow tonight,” she said. “I have to work tonight.”
“Anna Timofeyeva’s apartm
ent. I’ve known her since I was a small boy,” Iosef said with a sigh. “I remember an enormous almost bare office. Behind the desk sat a massive, stern woman who greeted me as if I were an adult being examined carefully for evidence of a crime. She frightened me.”
“And now?”
“I am not so easily frightened. What time?”
“Eight,” said Elena. “I warn you. Neither my aunt nor I are good cooks. I’m a bit better, but I make no promises … about anything.”
Iosef nodded in understanding.
“One more thing,” Elena said. “Sasha’s mother lives in our building. She tends to drop in without invitation at rather regular intervals.”
“Lydia Tkach,” Iosef said, topping his last sigh with a deeper one, the exaggerated sigh of an actor who wants you to know he is exaggerating. “Sounds as if it will be a night to remember.”
TEN
Leonid Sharvotz felt the blow to his head and another almost immediately to his kidney. He turned and slumped in confusion and pain against the wall of Georgi Radzo’s small room. Leonid’s face had hit the wall.
Leonid was sure his nose was bleeding. This was confirmed when he looked up from where he was kneeling to see the streak of blood down the dirty white wall.
He curled up, expecting more blows. A powerful hand grabbed Leonid’s shoulder and pulled him up. The hand turned him around, and a very light-headed Leonid Sharvotz looked into the face of Georgi Radzo. Georgi’s was an angry, determined, slightly stupid face with a taped broken nose.
The only positive thing about what was happening was that the smell and taste of blood blocked the almost putrid odor of sweat, unemptied trash, and bedding that hadn’t been changed in months.
“Shto ehdtah znahchyeet? Yah nyee pahnyeemahyoo. What does this mean? I don’t understand,” Leonid moaned, trying to stop the bleeding with the back of his hand.
“Lean your head back. I’ll hold it. Pinch your nose here and breathe through your mouth,” said Georgi. “Your nose isn’t broken. You want to see a really broken nose, I’ll take my tape off and show you one.”
Georgi’s voice was strange, as if he were far away on a bad telephone connection. Part of the reason was the padding in both of Georgi’s nostrils, an attempt, coupled with the tape, to give the big man’s nose some semblance of shape when it healed. Another part of the reason was that Leonid’s ears were now being covered by Georgi, who was massaging Leonid’s neck gently with his thumbs.
“Pinch the nose,” Georgi reminded him.
Leonid pinched his nose and felt blood on his fingers.
“It’s stopping,” said Georgi. “It was nothing.”
Leonid lifted his head. The bleeding had stopped. He tasted the blood that had dripped into his mouth and felt nauseous.
“Why?” Leonid repeated. “Why did you hit me?”
Georgi had turned Leonid so they were facing each other again.
“I am not as smart as you or Yevgeny,” the big man said, “but I am not a fool. If anyone is a fool, it is you.”
“What …?”
“Yevgeny didn’t have to kill Igor,” Georgi said. “There was no reason. Igor wouldn’t have betrayed us. He was weak, but he wouldn’t have done it because he’s afraid of me and Yevgeny. I am right, Leonid Sharvotz.”
“Why would he murder Igor?” asked Leonid, wanting to sit down, needing to sit.
He staggered to a straight-backed wooden chair, feeling the pain in his kidney with each step. Georgi didn’t try to stop him but went on talking.
“He plans to kill me. He plans to kill you. He may even plan to kill Igor’s family. He has the letter. He will destroy it and be the only one who knows where the wolf is hidden. Or maybe he’ll use us to help him get it and then murder us.”
“No,” said Leonid, tilting his head back over the top of the chair to keep the blood from coming again. “I’ve known Yevgeny since we were children.”
“Yevgeny wants it for himself. Yevgeny likes to kill. Yevgeny may be a bit crazy, and he is smarter than you and me.”
“I don’t believe it,” Leonid said, pinching his nose again. “I’ve known Yevgeny since we were children.”
“You said that,” said Georgi, who had not moved. “So think back on the violent things he did in the past.”
Leonid could remember only one thing specifically, but he had the definite feeling that if he spent more time thinking about it, he would find that Georgi was right. Leonid was suddenly both in pain and afraid.
“Once he pushed a girl down the stairs,” Leonid said. “In school. The girl was about nine. Yevgeny had called her a name, made fun of her freckles. She had answered his insult in front of a gathering of about fifteen students in the hall by saying everyone knew he had a Jew nose. She turned. He followed her and pushed her down the stairs. I remember he was smiling when she fell. The girl broke her leg and a finger. Yevgeny said she had fallen and I said she had fallen. I don’t remember her name.”
“You remember Yevgeny’s smile,” said Georgi.
With his head still back, Leonid confirmed this with a nod.
“I propose we kill Yevgeny before he kills us,” said Georgi.
Leonid sat up suddenly, still pinching his nose. He looked at Georgi and knew that the big man meant it.
“I’ll do it,” said Georgi. “You don’t have to see or hear or be there.”
“No,” said Leonid.
“You know I’m right,” said Georgi.
And Leonid did.
“But how do I know you won’t kill me, too?” asked Leonid.
“Because you are alive,” said Georgi with what might have been a smile. “I could have thrown you out the window. No one knows you are visiting me. You could have come out of any window.”
“Yevgeny would know,” said Leonid.
“And be pleased that he had one less partner to deal with,” said Georgi.
“He would know it was you,” said Leonid.
“Probably,” Georgi agreed. “In which case I would have to find him quickly and kill him before he discovered what had happened to you. But I don’t want to kill you. There will be more than enough money to make us both very rich. You have never acted as if you looked down on me. I like you and I need a partner with some brains to get us out of the country, to get the wolf out of Russia, to find someone to buy it.”
“You suddenly seem smart enough,” said Leonid, looking down at the blood on his shirt. He only had four decent shirts and this was one of them.
Georgi shook his head no.
“I’ve thought this through no further than I’ve told you. My mother said I was shrewd when I did poorly in school. She said my shrewdness would see me through life. I’ve exhausted whatever reserve of shrewdness I have for this project. I don’t know how to go beyond killing Yevgeny before he kills us.”
“You had to beat me to tell me this?” asked Leonid.
“I think so,” said Georgi. “I had to get your attention. I am sorry. I could think of no other way. All I know is my own strength. I am often wrong, but I am not wrong about Yevgeny.”
“I think you are not wrong,” Leonid agreed, glancing away.
“I feel you are usually telling the truth when we talk,” said Georgi. “I never have the feeling Yevgeny is telling the truth. You understand?”
Leonid understood. It had been his own feeling for many years, but he had not listened to it. Leonid may have been reasonably smart, but he was a follower, content to be told, first by his father and then by Yevgeny, exactly what to do. He suddenly felt a fear of his boyhood friend, a fear far greater than any in his life, a fear that was miles above his fear of Georgi.
“When will you do it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Soon. I was going to wait, but it should probably be today, before he sees you. He’ll know something is wrong. You do not lie well, Leonid. The blood from your nose we can take care of. I think the bleeding has stopped, and we can clean you up and throw away the shirt. I can give yo
u one of mine. It will be too large. Throw it away when you get back to your apartment. Soon we will be wearing silk shirts and ties in Paris or Prague or maybe even London or New York.”
The thought of wearing one of Georgi’s shirts brought Leonid’s nausea back.
“But,” Georgi went on, “I’m not sure you will be able to walk straight. He will ask you what happened. As I said, you are a poor liar. That’s another reason I think I can trust you. But Yevgeny will know you are lying, and I think you are not strong enough to stand up to him. No, I’ll have to do it today with my hands or a knife. Tell me how to do it, Leonid.”
Leonid sat still, finding himself thinking seriously about the best place to have Georgi murder his closest friend. Leonid found that there was a certain satisfaction in planning. He had never really done it before. He thought for a long time and came up with a plan that he shared with Georgi. Along with this new satisfaction came the realization that he would have to kill Georgi, not necessarily because he feared that Georgi would not follow through with the partnership but because Georgi was not smart. Georgi got drunk. It was one thing to get drunk among his working friends and blame the Jews for Russia’s problems, but he might get too drunk one night when he was rich and say something that would put them both in danger of being prosecuted, losing their wealth, and possibly even facing a firing squad. And what was to stop Georgi from killing Leonid once they were out of Russia? Leonid had never murdered anyone. Yevgeny had murdered the Jews. But somehow, sometime, he would have to kill Georgi.
Lieutenant Valentin Spaskov of Trotsky Station had many options for dealing with his problem. All of them were bad. Some were worse than others.
He had a direct order from the ministry for himself and the major to be present in one hour to have their photographs taken for the case being investigated by the Office of Special Investigation. It seemed they were not satisfied with their last visit in which almost every police officer in the district was assembled in a demeaning lineup. The police had enough to do without such nonsense. Now they wanted to come back and take photographs of everyone who was not present at that assemblage. The major was far from happy about this order from the Yak. The Yak had connections and friends, and he was smart. They would all have to comply.
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