The queen hit his chest and tumbled to the floor.
James Harumbaki longed for the moment when he would kill the Russian. He would probably have to kill the bald man first, but that, too, would provide satisfaction.
“Get up,” shouted Kolokov.
James Harumbaki rose on shaking legs. He knew he could call on his body to respond when required. He had been tortured and beaten in Africa by better men than this Russian.
The Russian grabbed his arm and pushed him toward the door. The bald man went to the corner, opened a suitcase resting on a table against the wall, and revealed a cache of automatic weapons. James Harumbaki recognized the weapon that was handed to Kolokov, an AKS-74U Shorty Assault Rifle with a PBS silent fire device and a BS-1 silent underbarrel grenade launcher. James had seen the weapon used in Sudan, Somalia, and Rwanda. Patrice, Biko, and Laurence would be destroyed instantly along with others in the cafe or on the street unless they acted first. He hoped they understood that they must act first.
Both Kolokov and the bald man put on leather coats that had been hanging on metal hooks screwed into the wall. James Harumbaki watched the Russians hang the assault weapons on slings inside the coats.
“Now we go, black man,” said Kolokov with a wild dancing grin. “We will have a talk with your friends and trade you for several handfuls of diamonds. And then we will destroy you and your friends and anyone, black or white, who gets in the way. And that will be the real checkmate.”
“Why do we not just arrest them all?” asked Zelach. “The man in the doorway over there watching the two Africans and the Africans, too.”
“We will,” said Iosef. “But I believe something will happen very soon.”
“What?” asked Zelach.
“The man in the doorway is waiting for someone,” said Iosef.
“Who?”
“The bald man from the park and the Metro.”
“When he comes, we arrest them all?” asked Zelach.
“We do. Meanwhile we stand here in our doorway, watching the two Africans through the window and the man in the doorway over there, who is also watching them.”
Iosef had explained all this on the way here. Zelach often required the repetition of data, not because he was stupid, but because it took time to sink in. But once Zelach put information into his memory, it remained there for eternity, ready for recall. He could relate accurately the details of an arrest made a decade earlier. He could relate it right down to the condition of the criminal’s shoes and the exact nature of his crime.
“Do you think, Iosef Rostnikov, that he sees us?”
“No.”
“Do you think there will be shooting again?”
“Possibly. Very likely.”
Akardy Zelach went silent. He was not afraid, but he thought about his mother. Zelach’s mother was, though few knew, a gypsy. She had settled in Moscow for her son’s sake, so that he could be a policeman and someday marry a Russian girl and have children.
That day might yet come if Zelach survived long enough. He had once been shot on a case protecting Sasha Tkach. Zelach had survived after a long recovery. He might not be so fortunate the next time.
Now he stood in a doorway with the son of Porfiry Petrovich, wondering if his mother would rejoin her gypsy relatives should her son be killed.
He wondered.
Chapter Sixteen
“Why was the ghost girl naked?”
Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov asked the question as he and Emil Karpo walked down the long corridor on the first floor of the General Semyon Timoshenko apartment and office complex of Devochka.
“There was no ghost girl,” said Karpo. “Whoever wrote that false report and put it in the files of Security Chief Fyodor Rostnikov made it up.”
“Why?”
“I do not know,” said Karpo.
Porfiry Petrovich’s artificial leg made a slight clickity-clack sound on the polished concrete floor.
They moved slowly, their footsteps echoing.
Once, before they reached the cafeteria where they were to meet with Old Boris, a door opened. A woman, a bag in her hand and her hair tied in some kind of papered ringlets, stepped out, saw the two detectives, let her eyes rest for an instant on the gaunt detective clad in funereal black, and quickly ducked back through the door.
“He, or she, typed the report, including that colorful detail, and then, when we figured out that the entry was false, placed the typewriter on Fedya’s bed. Why?”
“To make him appear guilty when we found it,” said Karpo.
“He found it and told us immediately,” said Rostnikov. “If making him look guilty was their goal, they accomplished quite the opposite.”
They were almost there. Porfiry Petrovich could smell the food. If he was not wrong, it was cabbage soup. The food in Devochka was, he had discovered, surprisingly good. He glanced up at Karpo at his side.
“You think I am making this all too complex?” Rostnikov asked.
“You have historically demonstrated an intuitive ability in such situations.”
“Thank you,” said Rostnikov. “And you?”
“I have no intuition. I rely on reason alone and distrust reason only slightly less than I trust intuition. One can believe that he is acting with perfect reason only to be deluded by his own fallibility.”
“And so I ask you to apply reason to the crucial question of why the ghost girl was naked.”
“Crucial?”
They were now immediately outside of the broad wooden door to the cafeteria.
Definitely cabbage, thought Rostnikov. He hoped they also had the small Georgian crackers that went so well with cooked cabbage.
“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “The answer to the question of the naked ghost girl will tell us who our killer is.”
He pushed through the door. Karpo followed.
Definitely cabbage.
There were six people talking, laughing, and smoking at a rear table in the cafeteria, which could hold perhaps three hundred people. It had originally been built to feed the workers and their families, but gradually the people of Devochka turned more and more to cooking and eating in the privacy of their own apartments. The irony, which did not escape Rostnikov, and which had been shared by Fyodor, was that the budget for the cafeteria had remained the same for almost fifty years. The cooking staff was obliged, lest they lose their funding, to spend their allotment on nearly gourmet-level food.
They moved immediately to the immaculately clean cafeteria line where they were the only ones waiting. The manager of the cafeteria himself gave both men an extra large serving of the cabbage dish.
“And so tonight we go into the mine,” said Rostnikov.
Karpo nodded. He looked at the food piled on his plate and thought it a waste that should not be tolerated.
He had learned, however, that since the fall of the Communist state and ideology to which he had devoted his life, waste and corruption were rampant. He no longer thought that crime could be eliminated in the march toward a near-perfect state. No, the best that could be achieved was to hold the corrupt and the criminal at bay, to work without stop to keep the wall between lawful and lawless from falling under the sheer pressure of individual greed, gluttony, sloth, and occasional madness.
They sat. They ate slowly. They were well ahead of the dinner hour though they had been told that, even when that hour came, the cafeteria would not be overwhelmed.
“What have you noted about my reaction to the mine that might be relevant to our investigation?” asked Rostnikov, taking a large forkful of cabbage and meat. “This is very good.”
“You have avoided going into the mine though you have had ample opportunity. And now, since we have but one day remaining till the deadline given by Director Yaklovev, you seem to have little choice but to descend if you feel it must be done.”
“And why have I avoided the mine?” asked Rostnikov.
Karpo hesitated.
“I do not know.”
“You are afraid.”
Rostnikov pointed his fork at his associate to punctuate the accuracy of his observation.
“Tunnels,” Rostnikov said. “I have nightmares about them. I do not ride the Metro unless it is absolutely essential.”
“I have observed.”
“And the contemplation of what we will soon be doing makes me more than a bit uncomfortable.”
The contemplation, thought Karpo, did not appear to affect the appetite of Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov.
Karpo was about to say, “I am sorry,” but Rostnikov anticipated and held up the versatile fork to stop him.
“I tell you this not because I feel the need to cleanse my soul or mind, but to prepare you for what must be done should I literally or figuratively stumble in the lower depths.”
Karpo knew better than to suggest that he go alone. Rostnikov would not forgo his responsibility.
With that, Boris entered the cafeteria, looked around, and squinted at the two detectives before he saw them and moved to join them.
It was evident to both detectives, and not for the first time, that their guide into the earth had very far from perfect vision.
Balta was ready, knife hidden, plan in place. There were no doubt other ways to accomplish his goal, but, he thought, each of us achieves satisfaction in his or her own way. Balta lived for the game. He had the cash he had taken from the woman on the train when he killed her with great efficiency and anatomical knowledge, which he hoped the police appreciated.
He knew the time Rochelle Tanquay was to be at the apartment of Jan Pendowski, the preening babnik, the lecher who had the diamonds. Balta would be there too.
Balta watched. Soon. Balta watched.
The knock at his door was gentle and right on time. Jan Pendowski opened the door. Rochelle Tanquay stood there in a perfectly fitted tan suit, a silk scarf around her neck, her short dark hair brushed down in bangs. She looked, he thought, as if she had just stepped out of an ad for absolutely anything she wanted to sell.
She stepped in, and Jan leaned forward to gently clasp her right arm and kiss her. She did not resist. Her response was welcoming but reserved.
Jan closed the door and kissed her again. This time the response was even more welcoming. Both arms were around her now and his mouth was inches from hers. He could smell the scent of gardenia perfume.
His eyes made clear what he wanted.
“Shall we seal our partnership in bed?”
“When I see that you actually have diamonds, and this has not been an elaborate scheme to seduce me.”
She said this with a smile.
“I am not devious,” he said. “I say what I mean, and when I lie it is simple and direct. Simple and direct lies are the most convincing.”
“I have never done anything illegal before,” Rochelle Tanquay said, stepping back nervously. “Oh, small adventures. Cocaine. Deception in a game of cards with a lover, an Egyptian who could afford the loss, but. .”
“The diamonds must be hidden carefully during your flight,” Jan said.
“I know where I can put them. I fly around the world from Paris. I can go to a customs agent who recognizes me when I arrive. I’ve never been questioned.”
“You know where to go in Paris?”
“Yes.”
“I will meet you there after you get the money,” he said.
“And Oxana?” Rochelle asked.
“Go ahead with your plan for her. Give her a magazine spread. She will be happy.”
“But how will you tell her that she will not be carrying the diamonds to Paris, that she will not be sharing the money? I think it very likely that she may suspect me.”
“I will take care of Oxana,” he said, moving so close that Rochelle could see tiny flecks of green in his blue eyes.
“And now?” Rochelle said, almost purring.
Jan nodded and moved across the room to a small table holding a phone and the mail. The dark wooden table had curlicued legs like those of a delicate mythical animal.
“Antique, dated 1641 and signed by the maker. French. You should appreciate that. Its authenticity has been verified by two dealers, who made substantial offers for it.”
He slid the table away from the wall and stepped behind it.
“It was a gift to me from a very repulsive Tiblisi smuggler who was passing through Kiev with a substantial cache of drugs from Turkey hidden here.”
Pendowski pulled a panel at the back of the table, which slid out to reveal a compartment in which rested a canvas bag tied with a leather thong.
“In exchange for the gift, I let him keep the drugs and be on his way after paying a slight toll in American dollars.”
Jan held up the canvas bag. The contents were substantial enough to create a significant bulge.
He closed the compartment, pushed the table back against the wall, and stepped toward Rochelle Tanquay, opening the bag and tilting it forward to show the diamonds.
Rochelle reached out to take the bag, which he closed and tied. Then he held the bag over his head.
“First we seal our partnership in bed,” he said, leaning so close that their lips were almost but not quite touching.
“Our partnership is dissolved.”
The blade went smoothly and deeply between two ribs and into his heart. Jan Pendowski’s eyes opened wide in surprise. For an instant he did not know what had happened. He thought he might be having a heart attack. Both his father and one of his grandfathers had died young from heart attacks. But Rochelle had said the partnership was dissolved.
He stood looking at her, feeling no great pain, only the realization that he was no longer aware of his right arm and hand.
The second thrust, just below the ribs, made it clear to him what was happening.
He saw Rochelle, knife in hand, lean forward to kiss him quickly and then step back to avoid being touched by his blood as she thrust the blade smoothly into his neck. He went to his knees, clutching his throat. Blood seeped through his fingers. Breathing was impossible.
He slumped face forward to the now blood-soaked carpet as Rochelle deftly took the pouch of diamonds from his hand. Jan Pendowski made three urgent gasps for breath and died.
And then someone knocked at the door.
“And so we are gathered,” said Iosef, looking at the strange quartet coming down the sidewalk.
The nervous man in a leather Mafia coat a bit too warm for the weather was smoking and clenching and unclenching his right fist. Behind him walked a very young man in a not-quite-so-fashionable coat, but a coat nonetheless. The substantial bald man they had seen on the Metro when they followed the two Africans was also wearing a leather coat, the uniform of the day for those with no imagination who wanted to hide weapons. Both Iosef and Zelach were well aware of what rested behind the leather.
The bald man had a tight grip on the left arm of a slight black man of no more than forty who wore no coat and displayed signs of having been beaten so badly that he belonged in a hospital. All four joined the man in the doorway who was watching the cafe.
Iosef watched the men in coats confer and talk to the man who had been hiding in the doorway.
“I think we are about to witness the gunfight at the OK Corral,” said Iosef.
Zelach had no idea of what he was talking about. All he could think of was that they were probably about to face four heavily armed gangsters on one side and possibly a pair of armed Africans, maybe more than a pair, on the other. The two policemen were badly in need of heavily armed support.
“If we bring in backup at this point,” said Iosef, “many people might be killed.”
“If we do not,” said Zelach, “maybe we will be killed.”
“You are not afraid,” said Iosef.
“No,” said Zelach. “I was thinking about my mother.”
Iosef turned his head away from the gathering in the doorway down the street and looked at Zelach.
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br /> “You are right,” Iosef said. “I should have called for support.”
“It is too late now,” said Zelach, looking at the cafe.
The door had opened and the Africans named Biko and Laurence had stepped out. They were not alone. Five more black men carrying pistols and revolvers of various ilk were with them.
“Who do we shoot?” whispered Zelach.
“No one. I think they are going to shoot each other,” answered Iosef.
The meeting was scheduled for tomorrow.
Yaklovev stood at the window in his office, looking down at the courtyard of Petrovka. He needed just a bit more to bargain with in the face of the potential loss of his control of the Office of Special Investigations. He was certain that with his connections he could find a reasonably prestigious and responsible position in the bureaucracy, possibly within the Kremlin itself. He was not concerned about what might happen to Rostnikov and the other detectives. But his current position and their investigative skills afforded him a perfect entree into the private lives, indiscretions, and crimes of politicians, business moguls, and even successful Mafia figures who wished for some degree of legitimacy.
No, he did not want to lose it now.
He went to his desk, pushed a button, and returned to the window. Below, a uniformed policeman had two German shepherds in tow and was heading for the gate beyond which stood a waiting police van.
The door opened, and Pankov came in.
“You rang for me?”
“You need not say that every time I call you,” said the Yak. “Just come.”
Yaklovev knew his statement would be ignored. The constantly frightened and nervous little man could not exist without frequent and ritualistic affirmation.
Pankov for his part was always startled upon entering the office to see the resemblance between Director Yaklovev and Lenin.
“I am going to get a call tonight from Chief Inspector Rostnikov. You are to be here and record it. Then you are to transcribe it so that I can, if necessary, edit it. Then you are to type it cleanly, make six copies, and have it in my hands by nine o’clock.”
“Shall I bring it to your apartment?”
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