“This is Jan Pendowski,” said Oxana. “Jan, this is Rochelle Tanquay.”
“Oxana told me about you,” Jan said, taking Rochelle’s hand and holding onto it a bit longer than might have been considered polite.
“You are a policeman,” Rochelle said, matter-of-factly removing her hand from Jan’s grasp and reaching into her purse for a cigarette.
“I am a policeman,” he said almost with apology.
He quickly removed a lighter from his pocket and extended it to Rochelle, who used it. She had offered a cigarette to Oxana, who took it and waited for Jan to flick the lighter for her. He almost forgot. His eyes were on Rochelle.
Balta watched with amusement and saw a tinge of jealousy color Oxana’s face.
“What kind of policeman are you?” Rochelle asked.
“I catch smugglers.”
“Like people who bring fruit and cheap watches in their pockets?” Rochelle asked impishly.
“Like people who are inventive about bringing drugs into the Ukraine and even transporting gold and precious jewels across our country.”
“Yes,” Oxana said, trying to shift the conversation to another subject. “Jan, tell her about the perfect baby.”
“The perfect baby?” asked Rochelle.
“A young couple is changing planes to head for Istanbul,” said Jan with a grin. “They tell me the baby is asleep but they would be willing to move him gently if it is necessary to search his blankets.
“I say that there is no point in disturbing such a perfect baby. The couple thanks me. I examine the things they had brought in a basket for the baby. It is clear that none of the items, baby food, diapers, changes of clothing have been tampered with or are being used to hide anything.”
“That’s when. . ” Oxana prompted.
“That’s when I knew,” said Jan. “I took the baby from the young woman’s arms, placed it on the table, and cut into its stomach with my pocket knife. An older woman watching from behind in the examination line screamed in horror.”
At this memory, Jan Pendowski laughed.
“Artificial baby,” said Oxana.
“Too perfect,” said Jan. “So perfect that everything in the child’s basket was untouched, new, absolutely clean in spite of the fact that the couple had been traveling most of the day. When I cut the baby open, out came the contents like a Mexican piñata exposing candy. The doll was filled with diamonds.”
“Clever,” said Rochelle, meeting the provocation of his eyes.
“I am not deceived by appearances,” he said. “I have seen too much.”
“I am certain you have many equally interesting stories,” said Rochelle.
“Many,” he said, unsure now of whether she was twitting him.
“Perhaps you can tell them to me when I have more time in Kiev,” she said.
“Who knows?” said Jan as a waiter appeared with coffee for him and refills for Rochelle and Oxana. “I may be getting to Paris in the not distant future.”
“Be sure to look me up,” said Rochelle.
“I will,” said Jan.
Oxana watched the exchange with amusement and perhaps only the slightest hint of jealousy. Rochelle Tanquay was French. Rochelle was engaged in sexual teasing. Jan would gladly have jumped into bed or the back of his car with Rochelle, but without further encouragement, he would promptly forget her. Besides, if all went well, Oxana would have the diamonds and Jan would be dead before the end of the next day. All it took was resolve. Oxana had never killed anyone. She had come close on two occasions, both times as a result of being challenged by other models for work which was rightfully hers. Oxana was confident that with the proper incentive, and almost two million euros, she would have sufficient incentive to murder Jan, who was now outrageously suggesting seduction to another woman. He was a pig, a clever, handsome, and dangerous pig, but a pig nonetheless.
She admitted to herself that she was fascinated by both Jan’s performance and Rochelle’s. She enjoyed playing voyeur and even allowed herself the fantasy of rushing to Jan’s apartment, undressing him, and making him spring to life if he had not already done so under the table. And yes, she also fantasized about seducing Rochelle before they left Kiev, though it was more likely that the clearly worldly Parisian knew more about making love to a woman than did Oxana.
“What is amusing?” asked Jan.
“Thinking about Paris,” said Oxana.
Rochelle smiled.
“Paris will be good to you,” she said.
Rochelle’s eyes met Jan’s. There was no denying the provocation. Jan considered how he would juggle being with Oxana and killing her and seducing the beautiful woman from Paris. It would be difficult, but he decided it would be worth the reward. And if Rochelle did turn him down, he would have one more night with Oxana.
With the diamonds now hidden in his apartment and two beautiful women from which to choose, life looked very good for Jan Pendowski. All that was left for him to do was rid himself of the two Russian police officers, one of whom, the woman, he had given fleeting consideration as a possible object of his attentions. He still might, though it could be a particularly dangerous effort.
Jan Pendowski sat back and glanced at a lean man in a jacket and open-necked shirt who had just risen from the next table. The man seemed vaguely familiar.
Balta had seen and heard enough.
Now he had a plan.
St. James’s phone rang, the green one, the one reserved for Ellen Sten and the people in the field in Moscow, Devochka, and Kiev for the duration of the operation. The moment the situation was resolved to his satisfaction, the phone number would be changed.
“I am in Kiev,” Ellen Sten said when he picked up the phone.
“Does Balta know you’re there?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I think he is planning to find the diamonds and try to sell them for himself,” she said.
“Evidence?”
“You know his history. Do I need evidence other than his manifestly dangerous and psychotic behavior in the past? I plan to retrieve the diamonds when he has them and remove him from temptation.”
There was but the slightest hint of reprimand in her voice. St. James had chosen Balta for this assignment in spite of her warning not to do so. Balta was a ticking bomb good for a quick assassination and nothing more. She had but hinted at her reservations. It did not do to contradict St. James.
“Even with the money he got from the courier he murdered, he still wants more,” said St. James. “He confirms my expectations about the human animal. I would have thought, however, that an assassin would have higher values than the majority of those on this planet.”
“Shall I eliminate him when I have the diamonds back?”
“You have enough support to confront him?”
“Yes,” she said. “Three men we have used before.”
“Good men?”
“Very bad men,” she said.
“Good,” said St. James. “Keep me informed.”
“I will.”
He hung up, and so did she.
There were several reasons he liked Ellen Sten. She was efficient, did not try to steal from him, and did what she was told, presenting only limited and infrequent advice. There was but one reason he did not like Ellen Sten. Her sense of humor. This was particularly annoying to St. James, who had discovered even as a child that he completely lacked a sense of humor.
As long as Ellen Sten continued to eliminate or deal with his more sticky problems, he could listen to her attempts at wit.
This was Elena’s first assignment following her almost two weeks in bed and another month of recovery while her arm returned to normal. She had been stabbed on a subway station platform when she and Iosef had attempted to arrest a crazy woman with a knife. The woman had plunged the blade deeply into Elena’s shoulder. Following emergency treatment in the hospital, Elena had gone back to the apartment she shared with her aunt Anna.
The agreement had been certain and clearly stated. Elena and Iosef were to be married as soon as she was healed and back to normal.
It had been clearly stated, but it had not taken place. She had now been back at work for almost two weeks and neither she nor Iosef had again spoken of marriage. The decision to be silent had been mutually agreed upon. They had both hesitated and were still hesitating.
Elena checked her watch. Sasha was to meet her in the lobby of the hotel where they would compare notes and then meet the policeman Jan Pendowski. Then they were to go in search of Oxana Balakona.
Except that there was no need for the search. Elena knew exactly where the model was staying in Kiev.
The lobby was not crowded. Elena had no trouble finding Sasha seated in a blue cushioned chair with gilded arms and back. He looked up at her, and she could see that he had had little if any sleep. His hair was unruly. He needed a shave. For an instant she thought that Sasha’s mother, Lydia of the loud voice, had been right. Her son might be better off in another line of work. He seldom looked happy. The best she had seen in months was a soulful self-pitying smile of resignation. His problems had taken on Jobian proportions. There were brief moments, even hours, of hope, as there had been the day before when they were coming to Kiev. Sasha had hoped that Maya would fall into his arms weeping with joy and agree to give him yet another chance and return to Moscow with the children. Such was not to be. He had told Elena very little of this, but it had been enough.
“So what is this news about a cafe you mentioned on the phone?” asked Sasha.
Elena was sitting at the end of a sofa that matched his chair.
“I grew tired of the good Sergeant Pendowski telling us nothing. I found a modeling agency and tracked down Oxana Balakona and went to her apartment building. It was not difficult.”
She paused, waiting for a reaction. None came.
“Are you not going to ask why I did not talk to Oxana Balakona when I found her?”
Sasha shrugged and ran a hand through his hair.
“Why did you not talk to her when you found her?” he asked.
“Before I could go up to her apartment, I saw Pendowski in his car outside,” she said. “He was watching the building.”
“And you decided to watch him.”
“You are paying attention.”
“Nothing could interest me more.”
“I shall try to hold your interest,” she said. “I assumed he was there for the same reason I was, to question Oxana Balakona. Before I could get to his car, he got out and went into the building.”
Sasha was giving serious thought to either strangling or shouting at his partner. He was working out the script for when he saw his children and had another opportunity to talk to Maya.
“. . went into the building,” Sasha prompted.
He opened his eyes wide to demonstrate that he was wide awake and fully attentive. The result, however, was exactly the opposite.
“I waited and watched,” Elena continued. “He came out ten minutes later. I assumed he had confronted and spoken to her. Instead of getting into his car, Pendowski began walking. I followed him.”
“Why?” asked Sasha, knowing that he was supposed to ask.
“His actions were odd,” she said. But not as odd as yours, she thought.
“He walked for ten minutes to a cafe where Oxana Balakona and another woman were drinking coffee. He joined them and received a greeting of great familiarity.”
Sasha looked up, touched his tongue with the small finger of his right hand, and then examined the finger.
“Ten minutes inside the building?” he asked.
“Ten minutes,” she concurred.
“And she was not home.”
“She was not.”
“He entered her apartment and searched for. .”
“The diamonds perhaps?” she said.
“Nothing suspicious about that-besides the fact that he did not inform us as he agreed to do if he discovered anything or found her.”
Elena allowed herself not quite a smile but an inner satisfaction. She had engaged his interest.
“And then,” Sasha said, “Pendowski goes to the exact cafe where Oxana is having coffee with another woman. He knew where she was, knew she wasn’t home when he entered the apartment. What kind of embrace did they share?”
“Familiar,” said Elena.
“They are in some kind of alliance,” said Sasha.
“Precisely.”
“The other woman. Who is she?” he asked. “What did she look like?”
“A model I think. Very elegant.”
“Pretty?” asked Sasha.
Elena went into the canvas bag that served as purse, holster, and location for a collection of things edible and things forgotten. She came up with her digital camera, a gift from Iosef last year, on the anniversary of their engagement. She pushed a button three times and handed the camera to Sasha.
Sasha looked down at the image of Pendowski and the two women at the table.
“Pretty,” said Elena.
“Very. I’ve seen her somewhere before.”
He stared at the woman in the small rectangle.
“Can you make her larger?” he asked.
Elena took the camera back, made the adjustment, and gave it to Sasha.
“Yes,” he said looking down. “I’ve seen her before.”
“She’s probably a model. You saw her in an ad or on television.”
“No,” he said. “I saw her in person.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe we can learn a bit more,” she said. “Pendowski awaits.”
“I’ll remember,” Sasha said.
“Good,” she said.
“Can you make a copy of the woman’s photograph?”
“I’ll have it printed in the morning.”
Sasha seemed to have a burst of energy. He rose and shook his head to scatter the cloud that clung to him. For now, self-pity would have to wait. He could not and did not wish to ignore the call to play the game.
“Let us go,” he said.
Elena rose to join him.
“To a few hours of professional evasion from our Ukrainian policeman. He is very clever, I think.”
“I think so also,” said Sasha. “I would not want it any other way.”
Jan Pendowski allowed himself a grin, but it was a cautious grin. He was no fool, though he knew from experience that he could be fooled. He had never met a man, woman, or bird in the park that could not be fooled. So he was careful.
He would have preferred to meet Rochelle Tanquay in his apartment, but she had called and made it clear that, though he could name the place, she would come only if it were reasonably public.
Jan had made a suggestion and she had agreed on both a time and place. The conversation had been brief.
He had slipped her the note, in French, under the table at the cafe with Oxana sitting directly across from him. He had written it right in front of Oxana in his notebook and said, “Something I must remember to do.”
He had been reasonably certain from the way the French woman’s eyes had met his that she would not reveal the message to Oxana. Jan’s goal was dual purpose. Seduction of course, but also possible business which might have to come first.
Now she approached with a smile, wearing a quite casual black dress with a fashionable white cashmere sweater tied around her neck. He had time as she moved to his table to consider what it would be like to watch her remove those clothes.
The dark bar was not crowded at this early afternoon hour. The sun was going down and the dim light from beyond the small amber windows cast long, soft shadows that were beginning to merge with the darkness. In a few moments, the man behind the bar, who was one of Jan’s best informants, would turn on a few lights, though not enough to alter the mood. There were a few people in the bar: a furtive couple, the man in middle age, the woman quite young; a lone man who Jan looked at twice
because the detective felt that he had seen him somewhere before; and an overly made-up woman in her sixties with two full shopping bags. The couple and the lone man who seemed familiar were drinking afternoon wine. The shopping woman was drinking a tall glass of sterner stuff.
Jan half rose as Rochelle reached the table and placed her small handbag on the empty chair next to her. She sat facing Jan rather than next to him.
“A drink?” he asked in French.
“Wine.”
The remainder of the conversation was in French.
A red-nailed finger touched the small earring in her right ear. The last of the sunlight caught a jewel and sent a brief flash of yellow-white. Jan Pendowski was a romantic.
Jan nodded to the man behind the bar, who had been admiring the policeman’s companion.
“Small talk?” he asked.
“A little,” she said. “It delays the scripted seduction you have planned.”
“Good,” he said. “Do you like Kiev?”
“Not particularly,” she said as the bartender brought two wine glasses and a small bottle of his finest, which he poured with panache.
Jan was amused. He said nothing until the man had gone.
“He wanted to get a closer look at you,” said Jan. “He does not usually provide such service. But I am sure you are accustomed to such attentions.”
“Have I had men stare at me with less than brotherly intentions? Yes, and may it never stop.”
They touched glasses.
“Ukrainian wine,” he said.
“Not bad. Not French, but not bad at all.”
“Are we finished with the small talk?” he asked sitting back.
“You are an intriguing man, if not a sophisticated one.”
“My charm lies in my Polish stock. Earthy.”
“And confident,” she said, taking a second sip of wine. “I am not going to bed with you.”
“Then we can come together on the floor.”
“Your persistence is admirable. I will amend my statement. I am not going to bed with you tonight.”
“Tomorrow morning?”
She laughed. He liked it. Her red lips opened and her white teeth spread. And she laughed.
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