Karpo turned away and looked at the people at the other tables. There were not many, and they were all looking back at him. Near the door, the Busted Revolution were packing their drum and guitars and still arguing.
“You will all leave now,” said Karpo. “Police business.”
At the nearest table were two very young women, possibly still in their teens, and a dark, thin man with graying temples. He looked at Blin for an idea of how to respond. He got no answer. The dark man with graying temples stood up to face Karpo. Their eyes met, and Karpo repeated, “You will all leave now.”
The dark, thin man laughed, showing rather bad teeth. He muttered something he was careful to conceal from Karpo and escorted the girls to the door. The remaining few patrons had no teenagers to impress. They left. The lead singer of the Busted Revolution smiled at Karpo and departed with his band.
There were now only the four of them in the Billy Joel, Karpo, Yuri Blin, Buster, and Buddy.
“There are no witnesses,” Blin said, looking at Buster and Buddy. “And the word of a policeman is not, I am sorry to say, as important as it was once in such situations, especially when the policeman is dealing with a person with connections. Are you understanding what I am saying?”
In answer, Emil Karpo reached under his jacket and came out with his pistol. The massive Buster let out a rush of air. Buddy ignored the weapon, folded his arms, and leaned back to see how the policeman would get himself out of the corner he was backing himself into. Karpo placed the weapon on the table, where only he could reach it, and said, “Yakov Krivonos and the man called Jerold.”
He got no answer. He expected none at this point.
“Put your left hand on the table, Yuri Tripanskoski.”
The smile left Yuri’s face when he heard his name, a name he had not heard uttered in more than four years. For an instant, he felt vulnerable, but he rallied quickly, not completely, but quickly.
“What?” he said, looking at Buster and Buddy.
“I do not break the law, Comrade,” Karpo said, leaning forward to speak in a near whisper. “I would not ask you to do what I would not do myself in pursuit of crime in the Soviet Union, but I would not hesitate to insist that any citizen do as much as I would do.”
Yuri didn’t know where this was going, and he didn’t like it.
“Yuri?” Buster asked, looking for direction.
“If someone attempts to interfere with an officer investigating an economic or political crime or murder,” said Karpo, “I am empowered to stop that interference with whatever force is necessary.”
“It’s nothing, Buster,” Yuri said with a confidence he did not feel and a knowing look at Buddy, who continued to watch.
“Left hand on the table,” Karpo said.
Yuri Blin put his fat left hand on the table and felt the first touches of sweat on his brow. He could neither wipe it away nor admit it.
Karpo’s movements were matter-of-fact, efficient without being hurried. With his right hand, he grasped the small finger of his own left hand. His eyes never left those of Yuri Blin, who watched warily, ready to call Buster into play if Karpo pulled a knife from his pocket. But Karpo kept his right hand around his small finger, and Blin wondered if he were about to see some bizarre magic trick.
Karpo bent the little finger back, bent it back until it would bend no more, and then he bent it just a bit more, and a nauseating crack snapped throughout the Billy Joel. Buster went pale and felt as if he were going to pass out. Buddy’s arms dropped to his sides, and Yuri Blin felt very sick as he tried to pull his eyes away from the finger that dangled loosely and off to the side. There was silence as Yuri began to hyperventilate.
“You’re crazy,” said Blin, looking up at Karpo, whose eyes were fixed back upon him. Karpo’s face, eyes, showed no pain.
“Where can I find Yakov Krivonos and the man called Jerold?” Karpo said evenly.
Yuri Blin was trembling now. It was a scene he had never wanted to play. He did not want to be Dan Seymour, begging, whimpering, but he could not stop. He said nothing, not because he was determined but because he was too terrified to respond. His eyes went back to the little finger that lolled about.
What if he touches me with that hand? Yuri thought. What if the finger falls off? And, thought Yuri, he shows no pain.
Karpo reached for Yuri Blin’s hand with his right hand. Yuri tried to pull back, but Karpo moved too quickly, grasping his wrist, and held him fast.
“Stop him,” Yuri said, his mouth prickly dry.
“I will shoot them if they do,” said Karpo.
Neither Buster nor Buddy moved as Karpo’s fingers crawled to Yuri Blin’s little finger and grasped it firmly.
There was nothing to do about it now. Yuri had no control over the little sobs. His chest heaved. His eyes danced. He felt Karpo’s fingers tighten on his little finger. Yuri started to pull his hand away, but Karpo had already begun to bend the finger back, and Yuri’s movement caused a sudden shock of pain.
It would soon be worse. He knew it. This mad vampire before him would soon break his finger. Then what pain would come?
“You know the apartment building on Kalinin Avenue, the big one behind the Metelista Café?” Blin blurted out, and held his breath, waiting for the awful sound of the crack, the shock of pain.
“Yes,” said Karpo.
“They have a place in the apartment building. I don’t know where. I don’t know what name. I … I heard them talking,” said Blin. “And I saw this Jerold there, in the outdoor café, under one of the umbrellas.”
“You saw him?” Karpo repeated.
“Twice,” said Blin, eager now to help, feeling his finger was within a hum of agony. “It’s on my way in each morning. Buddy, you’ve seen him.”
“I don’t remember,” said Buddy.
“Buster?” Yuri asked, almost begging.
“Yes, maybe,” Buster said.
Karpo released Yuri Blin’s finger. The fat man sank back in his chair, his suit moist with sweat, his eyes turning to Buddy, who looked disappointed.
He wanted to see it happen, thought Yuri Blin. He wanted to see this lunatic break me. He wanted to look into Buddy’s eyes, to convey an unmistakable threat, but he couldn’t, for he knew that Buddy and Buster had witnessed Yuri Blin breaking. He knew that his relationship with the two would never be the same, and for the first time in his life Yuri Blin seriously considered murder, not the murder of the vampire policeman who had just put his gun away and backed toward the door, but the murder of the men he had created and named Buster and Buddy, the men who had witnessed the total humiliation that Yuri Blin had fled his family to avoid.
“Do not call or try to warn Krivonos,” said Karpo, his right hand on the door handle. “Or I will return.”
Yuri Blin said nothing. He had no intention of telling Krivonos or the American that he had betrayed them because he was afraid of a broken little finger. Yuri had no doubt that Krivonos or the American would do far worse than break a finger if they knew what he had told this insane policeman.
When Karpo went through the front door of the Billy Joel into the street, he resisted the pain throbbing through his finger, up his arm, and into his elbow, where it felt as if someone were jabbing him with sharp, thick needles of electricity. He walked slowly to the nearest corner, assured himself that he was not followed, and made the turn.
There were people on the street, but they did not stare at the pale man who grasped the little finger of his left hand, that is, no one stared but a small girl being pulled along by a woman so worn by work and worry that she could have been the child’s mother or grandmother. The child stared as she moved past the man and watched him move his finger and grit his teeth. She was disappointed to see that the man had no fangs.
When the girl was past him, she heard a cracking sound and tried to turn to look at the strange man, but the woman pulled her away.
The instant Emil Karpo replaced the finger in its socket, relief c
ame, not total relief but enough so that it would not take all of his concentration to function for what he had to do. There would be a level of pain, but it would be manageable.
Every other time the finger had been dislocated had been an accident. It had begun when Karpo had fallen on his hands during the pursuit of a schoolteacher named Vikovsvitska outside the Turkish baths next door to the Hotel Métropole. That had been six years ago. He had brought Vikovsvitska in and had the finger attended to by one of the staff physicians on call to the Procurator General’s Office. Karpo had watched the procedure carefully and with great interest. Since then the finger had twice been dislocated. Once during sex with Mathilde Verson in her aunt’s apartment and once when he and Rostnikov had to subdue a madwoman who was convinced that Leonid Brezhnev was the husband who had abandoned her after the war. In both of these instances, Karpo had, as he had just done, relocated the finger himself.
In ten minutes, Karpo was on Kalinin Prospekt.
Karpo went through the underground pedestrian tunnel in front of the Arbat Restaurant, walked past the House of Books, strode by the Oktober movie house, the very theater to which he had followed Carla the night before.
He reached the apartment building five minutes later and began the process of trying to locate the one apartment among more than a thousand in the building in which Jerold and Yakov Krivonos might be staying.
It was possible, Karpo knew, that neither Krivonos nor Jerold had obtained the apartment. It was possible that it belonged to someone they knew or someone they paid to use it. It was not only possible, it was likely, but Karpo went through the motions of checking with the building director, a short man with a sagging belly who wore a workman’s cap as he sat at a little desk in his office. The man was of no help and complained about the dwindling lack of respect for the party and the growing number of complaints and threats.
“You are a party member?” the man asked, though he knew the answer because he had seen Karpo’s party membership card when he opened his wallet. “It’s almost a joke to be a party member,” the man complained. “Pretty soon Gorbachev will be quitting the party and all of us who have been loyal will be lined up and shot.”
Karpo left while the man was still talking and walked back outside and onto Kalinin Prospekt, where he considered what he might do next. He could attempt to enlist aid from Colonel Snitkonoy, to persuade him to assign the necessary twenty to thirty men to go through the apartment building in search of Yakov and Jerold, but that would mean letting the Wolfhound know that he was pursuing the case. He would surely be told directly to leave Moscow. Besides, there was no guarantee they would find the two, who might already have left.
He checked his watch. He had all this afternoon and night and till midnight the next day. He could spend an hour or two watching the entrance before he began a random round of knocking on doors in the apartment building in the hope of finding someone who could lead him to the right apartment.
Karpo’s finger throbbed, but not enough to challenge him or to be ignored. He moved through the people on the broad sidewalk and stood with folded arms under a lamppost. He did not buy a newspaper, nor did he watch the people who moved past him. He ignored the unusually high temperature and the humidity and waited, not an hour or two, but four hours, watching people enter and exit the apartment building. It was at the end of the fourth hour that he saw Jerold emerge and turn to his left.
Jerold did not go far. He found an outdoor table at the Metelista Café, one of the dozen tables covered with multicolored umbrellas to keep out the sun. There was a table close to the street, but Jerold chose one in the back and sat so that he could see the street.
Karpo approached carefully, waited till Jerold had ordered, and moved past one of the low, round yellow pots of summer flowers in front of the café. Karpo wanted to get close. He did not plan to shoot the man. On the contrary, he needed him to locate Krivonos, but if he had to shoot him, Karpo wanted to do it at close range so that he would not miss and no one in the afternoon crowd would be hurt.
Karpo moved carefully along the row of tables near the street, remaining in the shade of each, ignoring the diners at each table. It took him two minutes to get to the cover of the table nearest the man called Jerold.
Karpo considered the possibility that Krivonos might be joining him, but it seemed unlikely that they would come out separately, that they would exercise such caution while displaying such lack of it. Krivonos would need better cover. With his right hand resting in front of him ready to reach into his holster for his gun, Karpo took the five steps across the rectangular pattern in the concrete and sat across from Jerold, who sipped a cup of coffee as he read a copy of Pravda he had pulled from his pocket.
“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you tea and a Greek sweet,” Jerold said in slightly accented Russian as he put down his cup and folded his newspaper. “I wasn’t sure whether you or it would arrive first. I watched you from the window for more than two hours.”
“I am here to arrest you for your part in aiding the suspect Yakov Krivonos to leave the scene of a murder,” said Karpo. “You are also charged with deadly assault against an officer of the Soviet Socialist Republics, unlawful entrance into the apartment of a Soviet citizen, and assault against that citizen. I need not, according to law, inform you of these charges at this time, but I wish you to know that the crimes of which you will be charged are quite serious and Soviet laws are applicable to all regardless of citizenship.”
“In short,” said Jerold, rubbing the bristles of his beard with the long finger of his left hand, “you want something from me and you hope to get it by warning me of the consequences of what I have done?”
“Precisely,” said Karpo.
“Ah, your tea and sweets,” said Jerold. “The service here has improved since economic reform. Now there is capitalist incentive to make money, right, Comrade?”
The question was directed at the young waiter, who placed before Karpo a small cup of tea and a plate on which sat a flaky pastry dripping with what may have been honey.
The waiter smiled and said, “Yes, sir.”
“Profits are up with ownership if one owns a profit-making business,” said Jerold. “But with profit and ownership come a lack of control. Extortion is the new way of life. Prices rise. The Soviet Union, in the throes of economic reform, can find itself as corrupt as Nigeria. You don’t mind my talking economics, do you, Inspector?”
“Krivonos,” said Karpo, his right hand on his lap, ready to reach for his weapon.
The waiter moved away.
“Well,” Jerold went on, “before capitalistic ownership was introduced by your new leaders, people had a fixed income. It may have been low, but it was guaranteed regardless of hard times, regardless of good times. Granted, there was little incentive to work hard, to please customers and clients, and so we have learned to expect little from each other. But what happens to the shopowner, the farmer who is a sudden capitalist? Where does he sell his goods? Before, the government took care of him. Now he is at the mercy of the market, and often, as in the case of the farmer, there is no one to sell to but the government. You see the problem?”
“I see many problems,” Karpo said, lifting the tea to his lips with his left hand, careful not to let his little finger exert pressure, his eyes never leaving the face of Jerold.
“Well, now the government, the consumer, can offer what they wish to the new capitalist,” Jerold said. “A lifetime of security is gone. Freedom and capitalism bring with them insecurity, and our people have all lived their lives under the secure, though often frugal, protective arms of Mother Russia.”
“Our people,” said Karpo. “You are a Soviet citizen?”
“I am …” and Jerold looked up seriously. “I am an enigma.”
“Blin called you,” said Karpo.
“No,” said Jerold. “His young assistant, Buddy. Buddy’s name is really Serge. He no longer wishes to be called Buddy. Buddy is a new Soviet capitalist
. He sells his services to the highest bidder. He hopes to find economic security through his disloyalty.”
“Krivonos,” Karpo said, finishing his tea and putting the cup down gently as a pair of children, a boy and a girl, ran by screaming with what was probably delight.
“And if I don’t tell you, you’ll break my little finger?” Jerold said, holding up his left hand.
Karpo let his eyes move for just an instant to the raised hand and upraised finger, and he knew that he had made a mistake. Jerold’s left hand rested on the table. His right hand was under the table.
“I have a gun in my lap,” said Jerold easily. “A 9 mm Webley, very noisy. And I’m sure you now have a weapon in your hand. Do we shoot each other? Do I take a chance and shoot and hope to kill you before you respond? Do you do the same? Of course we can sit till a policeman happens by and you can call to him. I’ll then have to shoot you and, if I’m still alive, kill the policeman. In any of the above situations, you will be no closer to Krivonos. Tell me, Inspector, even if it did mean you would get him, would it be worth your life?”
“It is my duty,” said Karpo. “If it costs me my life, then I will die in the course of my duty. If I value my life more highly than I value the meaning by which I live, then my life has no meaning.”
“Fascinating,” said Jerold. “But what if your death serves no purpose? If by living you have the possibility of another opportunity, or opportunities, to serve the state, possibly even to find and apprehend Krivonos?”
“Man is capable of rationalizing any action, even inaction,” said Karpo.
“You know your Karl Marx,” said Jerold.
“I believe my Karl Marx,” said Karpo.
“Emil Karpo,” said Jerold earnestly, “put your gun away, get up from this table, go home, pack your bag, and go on vacation.”
Before Karpo could answer, Jerold sighed and went on. “But of course you can’t get up and walk away or you’ll be betraying your life. I admire your dedication, but in this strange new world you are a dodo bird. You will not survive unless you embrace pragmatism, and since you will not, you will not survive.”
Rostnikov’s Vacation Page 12