“Why can’t you just take this book to Moscow?”
“I can,” said Rostnikov. “I may or may not be believed. I may or may not be allowed to live long enough to air my suspicions. My credibility as an investigator is secure, but my relationship to the KGB, which would have jurisdiction, is weak, and I am not sure which elements of the KGB might be involved. I am being frank with you.”
“I appreciate that,” said McQuinton, getting off the bed and starting to pace around the room. “But, hell. I’m on vacation with a sick wife. I’m not sure I can risk getting caught with this thing.”
“I appreciate your concern,” said Rostnikov. “If you would rather not, I fully understand.”
“Hold it. I didn’t say I wouldn’t. Okay.” The sigh was enormous, as if the American were about to take on the responsibilities of the world. He held out his hand for the book.
“You should know that the man who wrote this notebook is dead,” said Rostnikov.
“I’m in,” said McQuinton, shaking his head.
“Would you like to know who killed him?” Rostnikov asked.
“Yes, it might help cover my ass.”
“You killed him,” said Rostnikov.
McQuinton’s hand wavered inches away from the notebook that Rostnikov held out. Several possibilities went through Lester McQuinton’s mind. All were evident in a series of looks that quickly crossed his face. He considered a smile, an assertion that the idea was absurd. He considered violence, a grab for the book and an attempt to overpower and possibly kill Porfiry Petrovich. He may even have considered the possibility of simply running, for Rostnikov could certainly not follow, but where would he run, and besides …
Rostnikov had moved to the door, which he opened. Misha Ivanov was standing in the hall, his hands folded in front of him. He stepped into the room, and Rostnikov closed the door.
McQuinton shook his head and sat heavily on the bed.
“Andy really likes your wife,” McQuinton said, looking up at Rostnikov. “Hell, what difference does that make, right?”
“Sarah likes your wife also,” said Rostnikov. “She is not … ?”
“No,” said the American. “As far as she knows, we’re just here on a vacation. I saved the money, and here we are.”
“My English is terrible, Rostnikov,” Misha Ivanov said in Russian. “Ask him.”
“Are you an American?” Rostnikov asked, moving back to lean against the low wooden cabinet.
“I’m an American. I’m a cop. No lies. That’s about all you get from the unless we deal,” said McQuinton.
Rostnikov translated for Ivanov, who said, “Tell him we make no deals.”
“Gentlemen,” said McQuinton, “I’m an American tourist. I don’t know what you’ve got or think you’ve got on me, but accusing an American of killing Soviet citizens isn’t going to do relations between our countries very much good.”
“We both heard Yuri identify you as the man who hired him and Pato to kill Georgi Vasilievich,” said Rostnikov. “He and the man called Pato are quite willing to confess both to the murder itself and your responsibility.”
“Come on. No motive, no evidence,” said McQuinton, but he did not say it with confidence.
“Motive?” asked Rostnikov.
“Reason to want your Vasilievich killed. Did I pronounce the name right?”
“What is he saying?” asked Misha Ivanov impatiently.
“We have no motive, no evidence,” Porfiry Petrovich said.
“Tell him I’ll shoot him in the face if he doesn’t talk,” said Ivanov, opening his jacket and pulling out his gun.
Lester McQuinton looked at it but showed no sign of being frightened.
“No, I have a better idea,” Misha Ivanov said brightly. “Tell him I will shoot his wife and then I will shoot him.”
“Ivanov,” Rostnikov said softly, looking at the KGB man, but Rostnikov could see in the man’s gentle grin that he meant what he said.
“Tell him,” Ivanov insisted.
“He’s threatening Andy, isn’t he?” McQuinton said.
“Yes,” Rostnikov confirmed. “But I would not let him do that.”
“You might not be able to stop him,” McQuinton said with a sigh. “Good guys and bad guys. Hell. Let’s work a deal here. I tell you what I know, you let me get on the plane tonight and go home with my wife. If you think I’m holding back or lying, you arrest me, shoot my ass, or whatever you guys do.”
“You would trust us?” asked Rostnikov.
Lester McQuinton ran his thick right hand through his white hair. “I got a choice?”
“Rostnikov, I grow weary,” said Ivanov.
Rostnikov explained what McQuinton had said.
“Make the agreement, Porfiry Petrovich,” said Misha.
“We honor it,” Rostnikov said.
“And we decide if he should be arrested when he is finished,” Ivanov said.
Rostnikov nodded at McQuinton.
“I want this done one way or the other before Andy and your wife get back.”
“Then speak quickly,” said Rostnikov.
“I go to this bar back home,” said McQuinton. “Place on Fiftieth Street called On the Way Home.”
“I don’t …” Rostnikov began.
“Bars back home sometimes have these cute names. Idea is that you can call your wife and say you’re On the Way Home.”
“And that is humorous?”
“Some think so,” said McQuinton. “I could use a drink now. Just a beer. Beer in your country stinks.”
“I thought you wanted to get this told quickly,” said Rostnikov.
And McQuinton changed modes. He spoke quickly and clearly. He was suddenly a policeman, and he gave a policeman’s report.
“Guy in this bar got friendly with the other cops,” he said. “Asked questions, said he used to be a cop in Russia. Accent was right, but he didn’t look like a cop, not a cop like me or you two. I thought he was full of shit, but he bought drinks. Long story short. One night I told this guy, said his name was Oleg, that Andy was sick and I was broke and getting close to retirement, that I hadn’t saved anything and that the pension wouldn’t cover … You know. Cop grousing.”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov. He translated the essence to Misha and nodded for McQuinton to go on.
“Oleg says, ‘What if?’ You know. What if someone handed me fifty thousand dollars. Cash. Tax-free. Plus a free trip to Russia. What would I do for that? I still thought he was full of shit. I said I’d kill for it. Few nights later Oleg came back with the same thing. I said I didn’t find it funny anymore. He handed me a package. I figured it was a setup, Internal Affairs. I gave it back and told him to follow me into the John.”
“John?”
“Toilet. I checked him out for wires. None. I checked the John. Clear. I told him to open the envelope. He did. It was full of bills. I still wasn’t buying it, but I wanted to. I made him take out the bills, wipe ’em clean with his handkerchief, and lay ’em on the sink. When he reached ten thousand dollars, he had my interest. You know what’s crazy? I stopped smoking twenty years ago. It’d kill me if I started again, but I need a cigarette now. Crazy.”
Rostnikov translated. Misha nodded and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, which he handed to McQuinton, who took one, accepted a light from Ivanov, and inhaled deeply.
“Tastes like I never stopped,” McQuinton said, and then he coughed, a terrible cough. He looked at the cigarette as the coughing subsided and continued to smoke as he talked.
“Oleg told me I could take what he had with him and get the rest before we left the States. He would trust me. And he said it was possible I might get to keep the money and not do anything for it. But if anyone approached me and gave me the right word, I was to do what he told me. Oleg said I wouldn’t have to kill anyone myself, just call a number and some guys would come. And I’d give these guys the name of the guy to hit. Like I said before, sounded like bullshit, but the money was real, and
Andy ain’t well, and it wouldn’t be the first crap I pulled. Thirty years a cop is a long time.”
Once again, McQuinton paused and smoked while Rostnikov translated and Ivanov responded.
“The man who approached you?” Rostnikov prodded.
“Woman,” corrected McQuinton. “About forty, plain, dark suit. In the lobby when we got to the hotel here. Haven’t seen her since. She said she had been sent to see me by St. John the Baptist. That was it. She gave me a name and a phone number and said I should tell the guys I hired that the hit might have notes or a book. They were to bring the notes to me. Woman said the money would be in my room under-the bed. It was. You saw the two I hired. Fifth-rate. Amateurs, and bad ones at that. That’s the story.”
McQuinton finished his cigarette, crushed the butt in an ashtray on the table near the bed, and said, “Got to remember to clean that before Andy shows up.”
Misha Ivanov heard the rest of McQuinton’s tale from Rostnikov and rubbed the tip of his nose gently.
“It’s a ridiculous story,” Ivanov said, looking at the American. “Why would anyone go through the trouble of hiring an American to do this? Why not do it themselves? It makes no sense.”
“You think he is lying?” asked Rostnikov.
“No,” said Ivanov. “Conclusion?”
“He’s a scapegoat,” said Rostnikov. “If this were discovered, as it has been, someone wanted an American blamed. I think Lester McQuinton is fortunate that we got to him before he conveniently had an accident.”
“Or conveniently committed suicide,” said Ivanov.
There was no knock at the door. It came open, and Misha Ivanov turned toward it, gun in hand.
Andy McQuinton was in the middle of a laugh when she saw the gun. Behind her, Sarah Rostnikov, who had not seen the weapon, was still laughing, but when Andy went silent, she knew something was wrong.
Ivanov put the gun away and moved to close the door behind Sarah as she and Andy stepped in.
“Lester?” the frail woman asked, looking at her husband, who had definitely changed quite a bit in the few hours since she had gone out.
Lester sat up at the edge of the bed.
“Cop talk,” said Lester. “Man here’s a KGB officer. Showing me his weapon.”
“I am sorry,” said Misha Ivanov in English with a smile.
Sarah looked at Porfiry Petrovich and knew, not the details, but she knew that something was very wrong in this room. Andy McQuinton was carrying a small package. She put it on the bed and moved to her husband, who took her hand and gave her a false wink of confidence. The frail woman’s nose crinkled, and she looked at the dirty ashtray.
“Lester?” she repeated gently, afraid.
“Later, Andy,” he said softly.
“Let us go, Misha,” said Rostnikov. “The McQuintons have packing to do. There is a plane for Paris in two hours. Perhaps we can all drive them to the airport and sit with them till they leave.”
Ivanov looked at the Americans and shook his head a few times before heading for the door. Sarah moved to Andy’s side and put her hand on the little woman’s shoulder. Without looking back at her, Andy McQuinton touched Sarah’s hand. The strong man on the bed was now quite weak, and the weak woman who stood before him had found within her a great strength.
When they had gone into the hall and left the Americans to their packing, Ivanov turned to Rostnikov. Sarah took her husband’s hand.
“All right,” said Ivanov. “We get them on the plane and then …”
“I fly to Moscow and give this book to my division commander,” said Rostnikov.
“And he will believe you?”
“He will believe me,” said Rostnikov, looking at his wife, who was quite pale.
“And he will act?”
“I do not know,” said Rostnikov.
“Porfiry Petrovich, I think we have stepped into something deep and very dirty. I’ll arrange for a flight for you tonight. Get ready. I’ll wait here till the Americans are prepared to go.”
Sarah had not said a word, and she did not do so even when they were back in their room.
“Sarah,” he said. “I won’t even pack. I’ll change clothes at home in Moscow and be back here tomorrow, the next day at the latest.”
Sarah Rostnikov was sitting on the chair in the corner.
“Are you all right?” he asked, moving to her side. “Do you have a headache? You want your medication?”
“It follows you wherever you go, Porfiry Petrovich,” she said, looking at him.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“It is not an accident, is it?”
He was not sure what she meant, but he answered what he understood.
“I do not think so.”
“I like the American woman,” said Sarah.
“So do I,” said Rostnikov.
ELEVEN
THEY DROVE IN SILENCE. Karpo explained nothing, and Tkach asked nothing. Neither man was uncomfortable with the situation, though Emil Karpo noted the lack of curiosity in his colleague, the wound on his forehead, and the semidrugged look in his eyes. And these made Emil Karpo wonder why Rostnikov had told him to pick up Sasha Tkach before he went in search of Jerold and Yakov.
He had called Rostnikov about twenty minutes before he went to Tkach’s house. Rostnikov had told him three things. The first was quite clear, that Zelach had been injured and that Tkach felt responsible. The second was quite cryptic, that Rostnikov had run into Karpo’s Uncle Vetz, the uncle they had last seen where they caught the car thief. Third, Rostnikov said that Sarah had not been feeling well and was taking naps every morning at nine. Karpo had expressed concern and hung up understanding that Inspector Rostnikov had reason to believe their conversation was listened to and that Karpo was to be at a specific place at nine the next morning, the place where he and Rostnikov had caught a car thief named Vetz.
None of this he told to Sasha Tkach. It was only when they had driven more than thirty miles and were turning into the road that led to the house that Karpo spoke. He began the history of Yakov and Jerold and the death of Carla. Tkach nodded to show that he understood, but he looked straight ahead. Karpo pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the ignition.
“Tkach,” he said, “it is essential that you understand and are attentive. The people we seek are quite dangerous.”
Sasha looked out the window and then turned to face Karpo.
“I will not fail you, Emil Karpo,” he said.
Karpo opened the car door and got out. So did Tkach, who checked his gun as soon as he closed the car door. They moved off the road and walked forward along the line of trees. Around a curve, about fifty yards from their car, they saw the house, a modest house before which sat a black automobile with a dented left fender scratched with the white paint of the car it had hit after Jerold had fled with Yakov from the Kalinin Prospekt in front of the café.
The policemen moved into the cover of the trees and made their way to the side of the house so they would not be seen approaching. There was an open space of dirt and stone about fifteen yards from the trees to the house. One window faced the two men as they crossed quickly to the wall.
“Front door,” Karpo said, so softly that Sasha was not sure he heard him.
Before Karpo could say another word, Tkach moved around the building to the front and strode past the parked black car to the door of the house. Karpo, who had drawn no weapon, stepped out after him as Tkach reached over to knock.
“Tkach,” said Karpo, walking to join the younger man. “I did not mean for you to walk up to the door and knock.”
“I’m sorry,” Tkach said.
“I do not believe your suicide would have a productive result.”
Tkach did not answer. He knocked at the door. Karpo moved to the side of the door and motioned Tkach out of the way. Karpo reached over and knocked. Someone stirred inside, and the door began to open. Tkach held his gun outstretched at eye level, about where the head of an averag
e-sized man might appear.
The door was opened all the way now, and the scrawny doctor who had treated Jerold stood there calmly, paying no attention to the young man holding the gun.
“What do you want?” she said, adjusting her glasses and looking at Karpo without emotion.
“We are the police,” said Karpo.
“I can see that,” she said.
Tkach moved a step closer so that he could not miss.
“This automobile,” said Karpo. “Is the driver here?”
“The car is mine,” said the woman.
“They aren’t here,” said Tkach.
“We are coming in,” said Karpo, and the woman backed away to let them enter.
“Why did they come here?” Tkach asked the woman impatiently. “Where are they?”
The woman moved ahead of them silently. Karpo moved into the house and said to the woman, “You have a phone?”
She nodded toward a closed door to the right of the front entrance. Karpo entered, and Sasha Tkach urged the woman into the room after him by pointing with the gun.
They were in the treatment room. It looked clean, ready. Karpo moved to the wastebasket in the corner and looked into it.
“She treated one of them for a wound,” Karpo said. “Bandages, recent blood.”
Karpo saw the phone on an old metal cabinet painted with white enamel and picked it up while Tkach carefully moved to the wastebasket and looked down at its bloody contents.
The woman folded her arms and waited while Karpo made his call, which began with Karpo giving someone the name of the town and the street number of the house in which they stood. It ended with Karpo saying, “Spasee’ba,” and turning.
“Her name is Katerina Agulgan,” he said. “She is a doctor. She owns an automobile, but it is not the one parked in front. Hers is a green Zil. A search for it is now being undertaken with concentration within Moscow.”
“She can tell us where it is,” said Sasha, moving forward to hold the gun to the right temple of the woman, who did not flinch or turn her eyes to him. Instead, she looked at Karpo, who met her gaze.
“She will not tell you, Sasha,” he said.
“Then I shoot her,” said Sasha, his voice breaking.
Rostnikov’s Vacation Page 16