“Not necessary,” Rochelle said with a wave of her hand. “I am familiar with your work.”
“You are a model?”
“Was,” said Rochelle ruefully. “Do you know that man over there?”
“Man?”
Oxana turned her head. There was a lean man of about forty who turned his head, pretending to admire the not-very-interesting plaster figures on the wall.
“Yes, I see. It’s not unusual for men to give me furtive glances,” said Rochelle, “but this one seems particularly interested in you. He has the look of a stalker. I should know.”
“You have had the experience?”
“More than once,” said Rochelle, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “Shall we order first or begin talking?”
A waiter would approach soon. Ukrainian waiters were gallingly slow and inattentive, but not to women who looked like these two.
Balta watched, smiled.
“We want you for a new line, Givenchy all-purpose evening wear. I think you would be perfect. The photographer who will be doing the shoot thinks you are perfect.”
A waiter approached, hovered, offered wine suggestions, told of specials he recommended. They ordered.
“I have negotiated a price with your agency. I am sure you do not want to talk money. Neither do I. I do want to talk schedule. Could you be ready to leave for Paris two days from today?”
“Yes,” said Oxana.
Rochelle noticed that the man at the nearby table was still watching them.
“I have some business to take care of here,” said Oxana. “The day after tomorrow would be perfect.”
Rochelle touched her chin with an elegant finger and said, “A man?”
“Yes. I just need the right moment to let him know that I will no longer be seeing him.”
Rochelle nodded and said, “Make it soon.”
“I will,” said Oxana. “Very soon.”
Both Rochelle and Oxana ate lightly, a salad of beets and carrots, and drank moderately, a French wine. Rochelle picked up the check. It was what Oxana expected. This was a business meeting, and Paris Match could certainly afford it.
When they rose, so did the man at the nearby table.
Balta had seen enough, heard enough. Patience. When the time came to kill Oxana Balakona, and it would surely come soon, he had a very nice surprise for her.
At ten thirty-five on the second night of the investigation, the person who had murdered the Canadian geologist Luc O’Neil, put a knife deeply into the side of Anatoliy Lebedev.
Lebedev was old, a brittle collection of scarred sinew and bones. He had not wanted to go into the mine at night. He did not want to go into the mine at all. He had spent enough time in that coughing, cold darkness of muffled echoes and distant cries.
He did not believe in the ghost girl. Never had believed, even as a very young man, when he was known as Tolya. No one had called him Tolya for many years. There was no one still alive who even remembered when he was Tolya.
The second thrust came, far less painful than the first. This one entered on the left side of his neck and pointed downward.
“I am sorry,” the killer whispered.
Lebedev could barely hear him. It was time. He wanted to sleep forever now. The intrigues of the living were pointless. They only thought they were doing something of importance to anyone. Lebedev had stopped telling stories of his youth, stopped declaring the triumphs and losses of his boyhood. No one cared.
The irony was that the person standing over him in the green glow of the lights in the mine was one of the few, the very few, who had shown any interest in Lebedev, except to court his vote on the Board.
“You understand?”
The face was inches from his. Lebedev wanted it gone. First you murder me and then you let my last image be that of someone who needs mouthwash? The smell of garlic, cheese, tobacco, and something else rancid and sweet would be his last memory.
There was no hereafter.
There was only the unpleasant smell of the slayer, the knife wielder, the assassin, the killer. Unpleasant.
He said something so low that the man who had killed him had to lean forward, ear inches from the mouth of the dying man.
As Lebedev died, the killer whispered, “Da svi’daniya. Good-bye, Tolya.”
Anatoliy Davidovich Lebedev smiled and died.
At ten thirty-five on the night of the second day of the investigation, Emil Karpo sat, book in hand, at a table in the cafeteria. He was situated, as he had wished, where he could see people come and go. He intended to sit here until one a.m.-he had been told the cafeteria never closed-and then go to his room to sleep till six o’clock. He needed no more sleep than this. Karpo’s nights were without dreams, always had been so except for the few weeks after the death of Mathilde Verson. Mathilde, smiling, full of life, then full of death.
A trio of men in clean green uniforms stepped into the cafeteria, talking and arguing. Their voices were almost at the level of rage as they debated the pros and cons of starting a colony of humans on Mars, a colony that they would never live long enough to witness.
One of the men, the shortest, was not speaking. He was shaking his head to indicate that both of his fellow workers were wrong. It was this short man who noticed Karpo looking up at him. The short man stopped in front of a table of clean, heavy white platters.
The other two men noticed that their colleague had stopped and they did so too although they tried to keep talking.
The policeman from Moscow made them instantly uneasy. It was not that they were guilty of anything. At least nothing very much. No, the policeman scared all three of them. He just sat there, back straight, unblinking, dressed in black from shoes to shirt. The three men left the cafeteria saying nothing to each other, having decided not to eat.
Five minutes later the manager of the cafeteria, a heavy, lumbering man came out of the kitchen and went to sit in front of Karpo.
Karpo looked at his visitor, who was clean shaven with perfectly clean, trimmed fingernails.
“May I ask you to leave, Chief Inspector?”
“I’m not a Chief Inspector,” said Karpo.
“Inspector, then. You are frightening away people on the night shift who want to get some coffee, a roll maybe, and sit talking for a few minutes. You understand?”
“Perfectly,” said Karpo.
“So. .”
“I am not ready to leave.”
The manager rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and went on. “All right. I get paid no more if I have one customer, you, or thirty.”
“That was always a weakness of Communism,” said Karpo. “A lack of incentives.”
The chief started a smile and then let it go.
“Then you will leave?”
“Eventually,” said Karpo.
“I cannot put this more delicately,” said the manager with a sigh. “You frighten away almost everyone.”
“I am aware that my face and bearing evoke no smiles.”
“That is putting it very delicately,” said the manager, leaning forward and whispering, “Can I tell you something in confidence?”
“Of course,” said Karpo. “However, I may not be prepared to listen in good faith.”
“I give up. You are a conundrum. Do you play chess?”
“No,” said Karpo.
“You want another coffee?”
“Yes.”
The manager, defeated, began to rise. Karpo spoke.
“The Canadian died at eleven at night. The killer was someone familiar with the mine. The killer may have come in here just before or just after the murder.”
“And?”
“It is my hope that when he sees me he will betray himself.”
“Or herself?”
“Yes,” said Karpo.
“I will get your coffee. Do not hurry off on my account before I come back.”
“I will be here,” said Karpo.
It was just about then, give or take ten
minutes, that the killer Karpo sought walked into the cafeteria, glanced at him, nodded, and moved to the coffee urn after first picking up a clean cup. Tolya Lebedev had been dead for less than fifteen minutes when the killer sat down in front of Karpo, coffee mug in one hand, small plate of cookies in the left.
“Do you mind?” the killer asked amiably.
“No,” said Karpo.
“Well,” said the killer, reaching for a cookie as the cafeteria manager returned with a mug of coffee. “Now, what shall we talk about?”
Contrary to the hope of Emil Karpo, the killer did not reveal himself.
Igor Yaklovev, the Yak, had a whiteboard with a black marker and a cloth to erase anything he might not wish to be seen. The board almost covered the top of the desk in his bedroom. The Yak had a small bottle of alcohol with which to rub down the board after erasing it. He had been assured by a forensics technician he had known in the KGB that nothing would remain that could be brought out by even the latest chemical or ultraviolet ray techniques.
The Yak used the board to get a graphic image of whatever he was working on. While he used pens, pencils, paper, and even the computer, he distrusted them, and with good reason. He had learned a great deal from the discarded writings of others. He still had Pankov go through the waste baskets and check e-mails and daily file entries.
After a few minor successes on notes written by his detectives and people in other offices who had not been careful, the Yak had ceased to check Rostnikov’s garbage. This had occurred shortly after Yaklovev had taken over the Office of Security Investigation. Pankov had brought him a trio of crumpled papers. The first contained an unflattering penciled likeness of Igor Yaklovev looking into a trash can. The second paper contained an erased note in English that the Yak carefully brought up. The note read, Do your job and you shall be rewarded. The third sheet was an ad torn from a newspaper. It read: EXPERIENCED SCAVENGERS WANTED.
Yaklovev sat at the desk in his bedroom. A few feet to his right there stood an antique upright radio. The radio had not worked since 1943. It had belonged to the Yak’s grandparents. His father had turned the radio into a shell that could be lifted. Inside the shell was a safe to which only Igor had the combination. Should anyone penetrate the safety devices in the apartment, find the safe, and open it, they would be facing neat piles of official-looking documents they could easily grab and run with.
The Yak knew this might indeed happen-the radio and the safe were but decoys. The truly important notes and valuables, audio and video tapes, and substantial amounts of cash-euros, dollars, and yen-were safely hidden in a concealed wall safe in an apartment one block away-a short walk to the Shabolovskaya Metro. The safe was rigged to explode if anyone who did not use the fail-safe code opened it.
Now, the Yak looked at what he had printed on the board:
Devochka-Diamond mine-Diamonds slowly stolen-Rostnikov, Karpo-Diamonds taken secretly to Moscow. Problem: Canadian geologist murdered in mine. Why? Because he found the thief? Probable.
Moscow-Diamonds are delivered from Devochka to Botswanan smugglers. Courier transports to Kiev for payment.-I. Rostnikov, Zelach. Problem: Two of the Botswanans are tortured, murdered. Why? By whom? Dispute among Botswanans? Someone else wants to profit?
Kiev-Courier exchanges diamonds for cash? Courier murdered on Kiev-Moscow train. Tkach, Timofeyeva-Problem: By whom?
The Yak sat back, adjusted his glasses, and examined what he had written. The black writing held clues to profit-profit political and financial. Igor Yaklovev was not a greedy man, but he was an ambitious one.
He had survived through the end of the Soviet Union to the present by gathering information on everyone up to and including Putin. His goal was not to be rich or famous but to exert quiet power at the highest levels, even if it were from the office he now headed.
As it was, his current position of power was being threatened by a general named Frankovich, who coveted the Yak’s small but increasingly influential base. The Yak was working on this. One had to work constantly to remain even and hope to gain just a bit at a time.
To accomplish his goals, Igor Yaklovev had to rely on Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov. The Yak did not understand Rostnikov. They were as unlike as two survivors could be and yet they were a perfect match. The taciturn Chief Inspector, who always seemed amused by some inner joke, had no ambition, but he understood fully that his present and future were very much dependent on the Yak. Yaklovev provided protection for his Chief Inspector and his detectives, and Rostnikov provided information success after success.
The Yak checked his pocket watch, a gift he had given himself to mark his fiftieth birthday which he had celebrated the previous evening by dining alone on shark tail soup, pickled herring, and beet salad.
The Yak had no doubt that Rostnikov would put together what he was now erasing from his board.
Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov needed no whiteboard or notepad. He sat in the room he had been assigned in the Devochka main building. It was sufficiently comfortable, if a bit too warm, even for the lightweight pajamas he wore. Sarah had purchased the pajamas for no reason other than that she thought he needed them and she liked them. The bottoms and tops were oak brown and covered with the names of six Russian writers-Dostoevsky, Gogol, Chekov, Tolstoy, Pushkin, and Turgenev.
He had worked out with Viktor Panin, the bald, smiling giant, in a well-equipped weight room. This had been Panin’s third workout of the day and he had sweated through his gray long-sleeved sweatshirt till it was completely blackened, and his pink face looked as if he had just stepped from a shower.
Though Panin glanced down with approval as he spotted for Rostnikov, Porfiry Petrovich was well aware that, as good as he might be in park district tournaments, he was no match for this Olympic-caliber young man.
“You don’t take off your leg when you work out,” Panin had said while they showered.
“Nothing in it rusts or shrinks, unlike the real one next to it,” said Rostnikov. “Besides, I would fall down.”
“You want to know my secret?” Panin had whispered while they showered.
“I’m interested in all secrets,” said Rostnikov, rinsing off soap. “It is my passion.”
“I hate working out. I hate the weights.”
“Then why do you do it?” asked Rostnikov.
Panin shrugged, turned off the water, and draped a large yellow towel over his shoulder.
“There is nothing else to do. I don’t read. I don’t watch much television. I have no close friends.”
He gave Rostnikov a big, toothy smile.
“Then. .?”
“It’s the one thing I do well. Besides, something happens when I’m lifting weights. I don’t know what it is, but I get lost. It’s even a little frightening.”
“Does it feel good?” Rostnikov said, balancing himself carefully as he dried.
“I don’t know how to say it,” said Panin, thinking deeply. “Not good. Not bad, but when I finish, I feel light, happy, like now.”
“Meditation,” said Rostnikov.
“Meditation?”
“It’s just a word for what you feel. I feel it too.”
“I knew it,” said Panin, loudly slapping his side with a huge open palm. “That’s why I told you.”
“What do you want from life, Viktor?”
“More weights.”
“I’m sure that can be achieved. Are you married?”
“My wife died three years ago.”
“Children?”
“Two. I would like you to meet them.”
“I would like to meet them.”
“My parents are accountants. They are in charge of all the bookkeeping at Devochka,” he said proudly.
They were both dry now and dressing.
“How did they come to be here?” asked Rostnikov.
“My father killed three people when he was a boy. They tried to take his lunch. He beat them to death with a chair. My father got very angry.”
“
It would seem so,” said Rostnikov.
“My father was sent here instead of to prison or execution. They needed an accountant.”
“And your mother?”
“He met her here. She was a bookkeeper. Her family has been here since the mine opened.”
“And you have no accounting skills?”
“Ask me the birthday of any famous Russian,” Panin said, popping his shaved head through the hole in his shirt.
“Maxim Gorky.”
“March 16, 1868,” Panin said.
“How do I know you are right?” asked Rostnikov, slowly working his way into his slacks.
The question puzzled Panin.
“Because I am. You can check.”
“I believe you.”
“Another one,” the giant said eagerly.
“Fyodor Dostoevsky.”
“October 30, 1821. You want to check?”
“No, I know that one. You are a savant, Viktor.”
They were both dressed then and shaking hands.
“Again tomorrow morning?” asked Panin.
“Tomorrow evening,” said Rostnikov.
Panin nodded solemnly.
That had been less than an hour ago, and now Rostnikov in his bookish pajamas waited for telephone reports from Iosef and Elena. He had the same questions Igor Yaklovev had written on his whiteboard.
He did not, however, get to think about them this night for there was a knock at the door. He uttered, “Come in” and the door opened for his brother who, if he noted Porfiry Petrovich’s pajamas, did not reveal it with his eyes.
“Anatoliy Lebedev has been murdered,” said Fyodor Rostnikov.
He was holding something in his right hand.
After his expected phone calls, Rostnikov had hoped to read the 87th Precinct novel he had brought with him, but it would have to wait until much later, if at any time.
“Where?”
“In the mines. His body, cut and sliced, was found by a night guard who heard a noise. The guard had trouble locating the sound, echoes in the mines.”
“When?”
“Not long, maybe half an hour ago. This was found next to the body.”
Fyodor held up a lamp, an old covered oil lamp with a wire handle.
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