“Look here,” he sputtered. “I’m the one whose apartment has been robbed.”
“What is missing?” asked Sasha.
“Missing? Missing? I don’t know yet, but—”
“The girl is missing,” said Elena. “One man is dead. Another man is looking for her, perhaps to kill her.”
“You are wrong,” said the Englishman, and then repeated his words in both English and French. “We have broken no Russian laws.”
“How old are you?” asked Elena.
“That is of no—”
“You are forty-nine,” answered Sasha. “You are married and have a wife and three children.”
“And two grandchildren,” added Elena.
“All of your children are older than Amira Durahaman,” continued Sasha. “She is seventeen.”
“All of this is no concern of yours,” said Chesney. “I think you should leave now.”
“I am in a remarkably good mood,” said Sasha, taking a step toward the man and feeling a sharp stab across his chest. “But if anything happens to that girl, I will be in a very bad mood.”
“You can’t frighten me. I’m British.”
“God,” said Elena with a sigh. “Someone is trying to kill her, Chesney, if she is not already dead. Her father is looking for her. If he finds you before he finds her, you may look worse, far worse, than my partner.”
Sasha’s smile looked more like a distorted grimace. “This is useless,” he said. “I’m afraid you will have to come with us. You can call your embassy from Petrovka Street. You are involved in the murder of a Soviet citizen and the possible kidnapping of the daughter of an important foreign national. It can be very embarrassing for your country. They may well want to wash their hands of you. It happens frequently.”
“You are lying,” Chesney said.
“Get your coat,” answered Elena.
Chesney looked from Sasha’s face to Elena’s. While Elena’s was far easier to look at, it was no more friendly. Sasha was on his immediate left, touching his elbow. Elena was on his right, her breasts against his shoulder.
“This is ridiculous. I happen to know that Amira is in no danger and that her father is not looking for me. I met with two Syrian gentlemen this morning and did my best to cooperate in locating Amira. I also promised to stay away from her.”
“Why?” asked Sasha.
“Why?” repeated Chesney.
“Did they threaten you? Did they tell you what they had done to Zalinsky?” asked Elena.
“No,” Chesney insisted.
“Then why should you cooperate?” Sasha asked.
“There were considerations,” Chesney admitted.
“Considerations?” said Elena.
“I was compensated for my assistance and given the assurance that no word of my relationship to Amira would reach my family in England or those for whom I work.”
“Where is she? What did you tell them?” asked Elena.
“She is working at a café in Zagorsk,” he said softly. “I am sure they have found her by now.”
“Anything else, comrade?” asked Elena.
“You do not intend to take me in, do you?” pleaded Chesney. “I’ve really suffered quite enough, as you can see.”
“And, apparently, you have been compensated for it. You have enjoyed the company of a very young girl,” said Sasha.
“You don’t know Amira,” said Chesney flatly.
“You had one more thing to tell us,” Elena reminded him.
“The Syrian said a man had been following me. They said they would take care of him. I saw them put him into a black car.”
“And what did he look like?” asked Sasha.
“Big. Leather jacket. Rather homely.”
Elena and Sasha exchanged a hurried glance. “We will file a report,” said Sasha. “We suggest you ask your company to grant you a transfer to another country. Claim possible impending illness.”
“You are threatening me?”
“It would seem so,” Sasha agreed.
“I will take it under advisement,” said Chesney.
FOURTEEN
THE WALK DOWN THE STREET was not an easy one for Porfiry Petrovich, but he made the time go quickly by asking Emil Karpo a series of questions. “How is your headache?”
“I shall endure,” said Karpo, who had been found by Gonsk in the church where the funeral service for Sister Nina was being held. And now, after conferring in the meeting hall, they were heading back toward the four towers of the church. The sound of chanting drifted toward them. “Does the pain impair your power to reason?”
“I do not think so, but I do not know.”
“Let’s test it. Where is Peotor Merhum?”
“He has run away or is hiding,” said Karpo, “because he was guilty.”
“Are there other reasons he might be missing?”
“Many,” agreed Karpo. “He could be dead, a suicide. He could be murdered because he himself is not the murderer but has discovered who the killer is. He might even be drunk and asleep somewhere, but we have the evidence of the nun’s journal.”
“Are you developing a sense of humor, Emil Karpo?”
“I am not trying to be humorous
“The nun’s journal,” Rostnikov went on. “It is a strange piece of work, a very curious document. Did you notice that?”
They were walking slowly, ignoring the glances of the clusters of people who watched the odd duo.
“In what way curious?”
“How does the journal refer to the son of Father Merhum?”
“As ‘the son,’” said Karpo.
“Yes, never by name. Why never by name? Why not Peotor?”
“I do not know.”
“The entry on May second, 1959, refers to the coming of a son,” Rostnikov continued. “If the son is Peotor, that would make him thirty-three years old. But Peotor Merhum is thirty. We have his records. I have your notes. He refers to the coming of his son three years before Peotor is born.”
“Then there is another son,” said Karpo.
“Another son,” agreed Rostnikov.
“And he bears a scar on his chest from a trip to the monastery at Pochaev.”
They had reached the edge of town. The house where Sister Nina was murdered and Father Merhum had crawled to die was through the woods to their right. The church stood in front of them. A huge crow flew out of the woods and over their heads. Rostnikov paused to watch it. Emil Karpo paid no attention.
“I will bet the Ed McBain novel in my coat that Peotor Merhum has no scar on his chest,” said Rostnikov.
“I would have no use for your Ed McBain novel, Comrade Inspector. I do not read English nor do I enjoy fiction.”
“Then,” said Rostnikov, “let us not bet. Is there a man in the village who bears such a scar on his chest?”
“We can check the birth records for that day and the months before,” Karpo suggested. “But …”
“Ah, you have an idea?”
“The poem, the poem from the Bible. Perhaps the son was not born on May second, 1959. Perhaps he came to Arkush around that date. He was not born to Father Merhum on that date, but appeared in Arkush on that date.”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “And now we seek someone with a scar on his chest who came to this town around that date thirty-two years ago.”
“Back to the records?” asked Karpo.
“Back to the records, Emil.”
Two men and a woman were coming down the steps of the church. One man was carrying a camera of some kind on his shoulder. The other man had a metal box strapped over his shoulder and a microphone in his hand. The woman, eyes eager and determined, bounded toward them with notes in hand.
“The television,” said Rostnikov. “Before the reforms we did not suffer the benefits of openness. Go, Emil Karpo. I will weave them a tale and send them seeking shadows.”
Emil Karpo hurried away and the trio approached Rostnikov.
“You are Inspector
Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov,” said the woman.
Rostnikov had turned and was heading back toward the center of Arkush. “I am aware of that,” he said. “But I assume you must ask such questions for your viewers.”
The woman, who had on far too much makeup, seemed perplexed but determined. “Do you have any ideas about who killed Father Merhum and Sister Nina?”
“Yes,” he said.
“And?” she prodded.
“I can see no good to be served by my sharing such information with you,” said Rostnikov. “The curiosity of your viewers would not be well served by my speculations.”
“The old days have passed, Inspector,” the woman said, sensing that she might have nothing to salvage, so she might as well provoke. “Russian citizens have a right to know what you are thinking.”
“I am thinking about the house in which I lived as a child,” said Rostnikov. “I’ve been trying to remember where each item of furniture was and what it looked like. It is like a nagging refrain from a song.”
The woman put up her hand and muttered something under her breath. “Turn it off, Kolya,” she then said.
Rostnikov limped slowly away.
Through the small window in the tower of the church Peotor Merhum looked down at the policeman who was limping away from the television woman.
Peotor had been hiding for eight hours now, and he had decided to come down from the tower. He did not intend to give himself up, because he wasn’t absolutely certain the two policemen were looking for him. However, given what he had been told, there was little doubt that he was the prime suspect in the murder of Sister Nina and his father. So he would simply climb down and go about his business. If they wanted him, they could come find him.
Peotor ate his last unwashed radish. As a boy, he had hidden in this tower hundreds of times among the musty books and furniture parts in storage until they might be rediscovered and thrown away.
Peotor needed a toilet. He needed a shave. He could think of nowhere to run. Panic had overtaken him. But the panic had eased and he had come to the conclusion that he had to bluff it out. Through the thin, dirty window he could hear the voices on the street. It was growing cold, but they were out there, carrion birds waiting to feed on the corpses, to pluck out the eye of a story or the tooth of a rumor.
Peotor was not sure what time it was. He had no watch. But he felt certain it was nearly noon. His legs were cramped but not badly. He tried to think, to make up a story, but his mind just kept going back to the mutilated body of the nun. He had stood over what was left of her in the room that had been his father’s. He had stood over her and looked at the blood on his hands and then he had run.
When his legs felt strong enough, he moved to the trapdoor in the floor of the tower and opened it. Below him was a face. He staggered back.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
The man climbed up and closed the trapdoor behind him. “Looking for you,” he said.
“I’m coming down.”
“Why did you run?” The man wiped the window with his sleeve and looked down.
“Why did I run? They think I killed him. When they find out about what he did, they’ll be sure,” said Peotor.
“How will they find out?” the man asked.
“How? Who knows? Sonia maybe. I don’t even know if Alex knows,” said Peotor, rubbing his bristly chin. “I hated him, but you know I wouldn’t kill him. I should have, but it isn’t in me. I rant and complain. You know that. Everyone knows that. But it isn’t in me to kill.”
“No,” agreed the man, turning to him. “It is not.”
“Maybe they’ll catch whoever killed them. Then I will—”
“No,” said the man. “They cannot catch him. If they catch him, they will know our secrets. Do you want them to know?”
“No, but what makes you think the murderer would know that he—no one would believe that a priest, an old priest, would try to seduce his own daughter-in-law.”
“Many would believe,” said the man. “I believe. People have believed far worse stories about priests for more than seventy years. I have believed such stories.”
Peotor shook his head. “Still, the murderer almost certainly could not know about you.”
“He knows.”
Peotor looked at him, and when their eyes met, he knew what he did not want to know. “You killed them,” he said.
“You knew I killed them.”
“I didn’t.”
“You knew. And if the policeman with the bad leg asked you, you would tell him.”
“No,” said Peotor.
“Yes, you would. You know it. I know it. You would tell him.”
The list of those who would have to die was growing longer, but there was no choice. If he stopped killing now, Sister Nina would have died for nothing. At least her death meant the keeping of the secret.
“So”—Peotor sighed, looking around the room—“I must run.”
“No,” said the man. His voice wavered. “You must die.”
Leonid Dovnik sat in the straight-backed chair waiting to die.
He had no doubt about what awaited him. His hands were tied painfully behind him. Of course, given the opportunity, he would try to escape, though these Arabs were clearly skilled in this sort of thing and would allow him very little room to act. Even if he were given no opportunity, he would at least try. To passively let them kill him was beneath his dignity.
The room was small. He had half expected that they would take him to the Syrian embassy, and half hoped that there would be some kind of offer made. They had traveled no more than twenty minutes in silence when Leonid reached the conclusion that he was to be killed.
Before they did this, however, they wanted something from him. He knew this was so simply because he was still alive. He was not foolish enough to think that he could negotiate for the information, whatever it was, but it was keeping him alive for now.
He looked around the room. It had a single floor-to-ceiling window. If he judged correctly from the view of the house across the street, they were at least one flight up, perhaps two. The room was furnished with four straight-backed wooden chairs, including the one in which he was trussed. A wooden table, once firm and solid, was now shaky on at least one of its three curved legs. A single lamp with a yellow shade stood in the corner. Nothing on the walls. No rug on the concrete floor. He had been sitting alone in this room for at least an hour before the door opened and a dark, well-dressed man stepped in.
“Leonid Dovnik,” the man said. This did not surprise Leonid, since they had taken his wallet.
“Yes,” he said. “And you?”
“My name is Durahaman. I am the oil emissary from the government of Syria. What does that tell you?”
“That you are the father of Amira Durahaman and that you intend to kill me,” said Dovnik.
“I do not deny either statement,” said the man. “But there are many ways to kill. There are artists and butchers. You are a butcher. I have men who are artists and will gladly give you a lesson you will never be able to use.”
Leonid tried to move his hands, which were tied behind him. The circulation was almost gone in his fingers. They had little feeling besides a gentle electric tingle. “What do you want from me?”
“You killed Zalinsky,” the man said.
Dovnik did not answer.
“You may speak,” said the man. “It really doesn’t matter if this is recorded or not as far as you are concerned.”
“I killed him,” Leonid admitted.
“For money?”
“For money,” Leonid agreed. “I am a professional. I don’t kill for fun. I am not some sick terrorist or gang member.”
“Admirable,” said the man, standing over him. “The woman who paid you is named Tatyana. She ran the Nikolai Café.”
“Ran?” asked Leonid.
“She is missing,” said Durahaman. “I think she will not be found. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Leonid.
“There was an accident,” said the man. “She joined the missing before she could tell us. You like trees? The sight of a new automobile? The feel of a woman?”
“What difference does it make?”
“None,” said the man. “I’ll make a bargain. You get two more days of life, an evening with a woman, if you sign a confession that you and you alone are responsible for the murders of Zalinsky and Tatyana.”
“I do not care for women. Or for men.”
“Then one last question. Were you also paid to kill my daughter?”
“No,” said Leonid. “Though it made no difference to me.”
“You do not value your life, Russian.”
“Not much,” Leonid agreed. “It is dangerous in my business to value anyone’s life.”
“It is even more dangerous not to,” said the man. “One more chance.” He stepped closer to Leonid. “Will you sign a confession?”
“Why do you want me to sign a confession? What difference does it make to you?”
“I think you know,” said Durahaman.
“I do not know,” said Leonid.
“Then what difference does it make to you whether you sign or not? You are a fool.”
“All right. I will sign if you give me time to write a letter to my mother, but first I have something I must tell you,” said Dovnik.
The oil minister leaned over and Dovnik whispered so softly that his voice could not be heard. The oil minister leaned even closer and then he discovered why Leonid Dovnik wanted to make him lean very close.
Leonid brought his head up suddenly, smashing it into the Syrian’s face. Durahaman staggered back, grabbed his chin, and toppled over a chair. Leonid half stood, still attached to the chair, and shuffled forward as quickly as he could toward the window. Durahaman, utterly dazed, tried to rise.
“Who is the fool?” Leonid shouted. He heard a shuffling of feet outside the door and flung himself, eyes closed, through the window. Shards of glass and splinters of wood dug into him. Cold, cold air slapped his face. As he tumbled forward he opened his eyes to watch the street rush toward him.
The fall couldn’t have been more than twenty feet, but it was vivid and complete. He was aware, as he fell, that there were people moving nearby. He tried to turn as he fell, and then he hit. The chair’s rear legs struck first, snapping and playing a two-beat as they clattered away to the accompaniment of Leonid Dovnik rolling on his side and striking his shoulder against the pavement. Something inside him cracked loudly and his head hit the ground with a melonlike thud.
Death Of A Russian Priest Page 18