While Rostnikov was reading his book, Major Sanchez and Antonio Rodriguez met in the major’s office, where they drank from glasses filled with Russian vodka.
“He knows,” said Rodriguez, adjusting his thick glasses.
“That doesn’t surprise me, Antonio.”
“Nor me. Does it matter?”
Sanchez looked at his drink and pursed his lips.
“Who knows? Probably not.”
“I like him, the Russian policeman.”
“He is likable,” said Sanchez. “But …”
“But?”
Major Sanchez put a finger to his lips and said quietly, “Antonio, my friend, there are things it is best that you not know, things I wish I did not have to know.”
The major held up his glass.
“To the Russian.”
Rodriguez blinked once, raised his glass, and repeated, “To the Russian.”
“But if the devil springs forth suddenly from the earth …” Sanchez said.
“… then may he spring forth not under us but under the Russian.”
“Salud.”
“Salud.”
Emil Karpo sat upright in his straight-backed wooden chair staring at the wall of his room.
Earlier, as he did every morning before dawn, Karpo had wrapped himself in the thick, dark robe he had been given by his mother two decades ago. He had taken a clean blue towel, the blue plastic container that held his soap, and the black plastic container that held his straight razor, and had gone to the communal shower at the end of the hall. Under the stream of cold water, he had carefully soaped and washed his body and hair. He had then shaved without a mirror. When he was done he had carefully rinsed his razor.
Back in his room, Emil Karpo had dressed and brushed his hair back with the same bristle brush he had used since coming to Moscow years before. He had taken good care of his few belongings, and they had endured.
He had eaten his bread and tomato, drunk his glass of cold tea, and cleaned his already clean room.
Now he sat facing the wall, his dark shades and curtains drawn to keep out the sun, a bright lamp turned to face the map of Moscow on his wall. It was not as elaborate as the map in Yevgeny Odom’s apartment, and the names of the streets had not yet been changed to eliminate the revolution, but otherwise it was the same.
Karpo had prepared four Lucite overlays for his map. He had purchased the thin Lucite sheets at a market not far from the Kremlin. Each sheet had been covered with advertising for some French cigarettes. Karpo had painstakingly removed the advertising with a sharp knife.
The four overlays, each marked in a different color, were arranged so that they could be read even if all were placed over the map at the same time. One overlay showed the location of each murder he felt reasonably certain had been committed by Case 341. A second overlay showed the date, time of day, and weapon used in the murder. A third overlay gave information on each victim by location. A fourth overlay indicated if any witnesses had been found and what, exactly, the witnesses had seen.
Karpo had looked at his map and overlays for hours. There should have been a pattern, but there appeared to be no pattern—no relationship between the days of the week of the murders, the intervals between, the times of day, the phases of the moon, the victims (though he seemed to prefer them young), the weapons used, the locations.
Yet perhaps there was a pattern. The killer was working hard to keep from falling into a pattern. He had even attacked twice in the same location, among the stand of birch trees behind the USSR Economic Achievements Exhibition. The pattern was the conscious avoidance of a pattern.
Karpo’s task was to outguess the killer. To do this he had to figure out where and when he was least likely to attack next.
So Emil Karpo sat for a time, his eyes on the map. Occasionally he got up to switch the overlays, then sat down again to stare at the map, consider a new possibility, take more notes.
He was going over the relationship of night attacks to day attacks when he sensed the sound of footsteps long before he was fully aware of them. They came up the stairs toward his landing, moved down the uncarpeted floor of the corridor. The pace slowed a few dozen paces from his door, and he rose silently, crossed the room, and opened the door. It was Mathilde Verson.
“You don’t ask who’s knocking before you open your door at five in the morning?”
Karpo stood back to let her in.
“You didn’t knock.”
“You didn’t give me a chance. But it doesn’t matter. You knew it was me,” she said, stepping inside. He closed the door.
Her red hair flashed fiery in the light of the lamp as she walked toward the window.
“May I let in the sun?” she asked, reaching for the shade.
Karpo said nothing.
“The sun is up,” she said.
“Five forty-seven,” he said.
She eased the shade up and let in the day. She wore an orange dress with yellow flowers.
“You have something to ask me, Emil Karpo?”
Her hands were on her hips. With the open window behind her he could not clearly see her face, but he was sure she was smiling.
“You are going away,” he said. “An emergency. You will not be gone long.”
“My detective,” she said, looking about the room.
“If you were in trouble, you would have said so in the hall. It would have been evident from the tension in your muscles and your voice. However, if it were not an emergency, you would not have come here this early. If you were going to stay away long or were planning never to see me again, you would not be in a playful mood.”
She sat on the edge of his bed and looked at the map on the wall.
“And where am I going on this brief trip?” she asked.
“Odessa,” he said. “Your sister is getting married, an unexpected marriage.”
He could see her face now. She smiled and cocked her head to one side.
“Absolutely wrong,” she said.
Karpo stood rigid.
“No.” She sighed. “Don’t worry. You are not wrong.”
“Your family is in Odessa. Births, marriages, and honors are nontragic emergencies. Your sister is unmarried and so—”
“And so,” Mathilde interrupted. She got up from the bed. “How many years have we been together, Emil Karpo?”
“Four years, two months, and twelve days,” he answered instantly.
“I know better than to assume romance, Karpo.”
“It is both a failing and an asset that I am committed to precision,” he said.
“But our relationship has changed greatly in that time,” she said, taking a step toward him.
“Yes.”
“You began as a client and became a friend,” she said.
“That is accurate,” he agreed.
“And,” she said, stepping even closer to him, “I have learned that behind your dedication to duty is a human with needs beyond those of a cyborg or an animal.”
Karpo said nothing.
“What is on the wall?” she asked.
He told her. She looked at the map and the Lucite coverings.
“There are so many,” she said.
“And no pattern,” Karpo said.
“Then something’s missing,” she said.
“No,” said Karpo. “It is complete.”
“No,” she insisted, walking to the map. “Something looks … You have a Metro map?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Same size?”
“Yes, and one for bus lines. But he has, as far as we know, never used the Metro in any—”
And Karpo stopped, the right corner of his mouth moving slightly in something only Mathilde Verson would recognize as a smile.
Moments later the Moscow Metro map was on the wall covered by the clear plastic sheets.
“Every murder has taken place within a five-minute walk from a Metro station,” he said.
“No attacks in Metro statio
ns?” asked Mathilde.
“No. Nor right outside of them.”
“Maybe he wants to be near them,” she said. She was sitting in the straight-backed chair in the middle of the small room and looking up at Karpo. “But why?”
Karpo looked at the map again.
“Every Metro line,” he said. “Kirovsko-Frunzenskaya, Arbatsko-Pokrovskaya … Not just one or two lines.”
“Perhaps,” she said, “he is unaware that he is doing it. Or, perhaps, he cannot move far from the Metro yet wants to draw our attention away from it.”
“Because,” Karpo said, “he may work near the Metro.”
Karpo moved to his desk, gathered his notes, and turned to face Mathilde.
“I should have seen this,” he said. “What do I lack that prevented my seeing this?”
“Imagination,” Mathilde said.
“There may be some other link, some other grid that also matches. It could be a coincidence.”
“But you don’t think so,” she said.
“No. If this is right, we have narrowed our search down to perhaps eighty thousand people.”
“I did not say I could solve your problem, Emil. I simply pointed out a pattern.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Two weeks,” she said.
“Then I shall see you when you return. I wish you a good trip,” he said, moving toward the door.
“Where are you rushing to?” she asked.
“I shall wake Sasha Tkach and proceed to consider the relationship between the killings and the Metro.”
“He has a wife, two children, and a mother,” Mathilde said. “Let him sleep a little longer.”
Karpo considered the suggestion.
“Perhaps. He may be more useful if he is fully rested.”
Mathilde stepped toward him again.
“Emil Karpo, I am in a good mood. I have just given you a useful suggestion for finding a murderer. I am going to see my sister married. Therefore, though it is not Thursday, I suggest that you and I get undressed, get on top of your little prison cot, and make love.”
Karpo simply observed the woman who was now only inches from him.
“I am not proposing marriage,” she said. “Just a major deviation from routine.”
“When must you leave?” he asked.
“My train leaves at eleven. I’ll have to be out of here in no more than an hour.”
“That will give Sasha Tkach another hour and ten minutes of sleep. That should be sufficient,” said Karpo.
Mathilde shook her head, took the notebook from Karpo’s hand, and whispered, “How could any woman resist such a romantic offer?”
SEVEN
IT WAS RAINING. NO, to call it rain was an injustice to the madness that the skies had unleashed. The sheets of dark water that poured down were like nothing Porfiry Petrovich had ever seen. First there had been a gradual gathering of dark clouds as he drove toward the police station. Then came a distant cracking that might have been thunder or sounds from a construction site.
By the time Rostnikov arrived in the small cell in which Igor Shemenkov now sat at a small wooden table, the sky had gone insane. Rostnikov was fascinated. He stood at the window, his back to Shemenkov, whose neck was surrounded by a crude metal brace that made it impossible for him to turn his head.
“What are you looking at?” Shemenkov rasped.
“The rain,” said Rostnikov. “I have never seen rain like this.”
“It always rains like this,” Shemenkov croaked.
A loud crack and a bolt of lightning tore through the sky.
Rostnikov turned to face Shemenkov. “Moscow,” he said, “was built to make people feel small against the magnificence of the revolution. The streets are eight lanes wide, the statues are five stories high, the buildings are as big as mountains. But this—look at it, Shemenkov—this really makes one feel small. You feel we could be washed away in an instant.”
“I have been impressed by the weather since I came to Havana,” Shemenkov said. “And by the women. I wish I had never encountered either.”
Rostnikov looked at the disheveled hulk before him. Shemenkov had his head in his hands. Wisps of whatever hair he had left crept through his fingers. His eyes were puffed and red.
“If you kill yourself, Igor Shemenkov, you will be assumed guilty and I will have come to Cuba for nothing.”
Shemenkov pressed his head more tightly in the vise of his fingers.
“I did not attempt suicide to embarrass you,” said Shemenkov. He coughed painfully.
“Don’t do it again,” said Rostnikov. He crossed the room and sat down in the chair opposite the prisoner. “I bring you something that might be hope.”
Shemenkov’s eyes scanned the face of the detective.
“Someone threatened Maria Fernandez three or four weeks ago, a Santería in a place called the Cosacos.”
“Yes,” said Shemenkov. “I told you. His name is Javier.”
“Do you think this Santería might have killed Maria Fernandez knowing the crime would be attributed to you?”
“Of course,” rasped Shemenkov so low that Rostnikov could barely hear him, “I didn’t kill her. Those people … they can go through walls, cast spells. … Of course.”
Another rumble of thunder and more lightning made them pause.
“I hate this country,” said Shemenkov.
“I thought you wanted to stay here.”
“That was before Maria was killed. Now I hate this country.”
“What happened the night this person … ?”
“Manuel’s son, Javier,” Shemenkov said. “We got into a fight. He was bothering Maria. She made him look like a fool. He was going to go after her with a knife. I stopped him. He tried to bite my nose. I broke his nose with my head. Į have a hard head.”
“An admirable asset,” said Rostnikov. “And he said he would kill Maria?”
“And me too.”
“What else?” asked Rostnikov.
“What else? Nothing else. Maria’s dead and they say I killed her. What else is there? I can’t talk any more; My throat is burning. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep.”
Rostnikov nodded.
Then Shemenkov said, “These people, who knows? It’s possible.”
Rostnikov got up, unsure of whether Shemenkov was talking about Cubans in general or the Santería in particular. Rostnikov’s leg felt as if it had been filled with water and a weak charge of electricity was being sent through it. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and not terribly unpleasant, which led him to the conclusion that the Cuban weather might actually be soothing to his leg.
“Then,” said Rostnikov, who began moving toward the door, “stay awake and stay alive.”
“Look at me,” said Shemenkov, rising. “I’m a shell, a worthless shell. They won’t let me live. You don’t know these Cubans. They won’t let me live. Even if some crazy African killed Maria, they won’t care. They are going to punish Russia for abandoning them. They are going to punish Russia by killing me and throwing my body into the sea for the sharks. They are going to spit on my body. They are going to laugh at us. And I,” he said, pointing to his chest, “I am going to … I am a dead man. I am worthless.”
As he spoke Shemenkov had turned around completely to face the departing detective. He almost fell from the awkwardness of his stiff-necked movement.
“I did not kill Maria,” he said. “I did not—” Another crack of lightning broke through the ocean that was falling upon Havana.
Rostnikov called the guard to let him out. As he stepped into the corridor he heard Shemenkov shuffle toward his cot in the corner of the room. Rostnikov made his way down the corridor to Major Sanchez’s office, where he knocked. He heard “Entra” and stepped in.
Sanchez was seated behind his desk drinking from a steaming cup. He pointed to another cup across from him on the desk and said, “Coffee, Porfiry Petrovich?”
Rostnikov nodded and sat. He took the cof
fee in his hands and enjoyed the warmth of the cup against his palms. The room was pleasantly air-conditioned, and though it was morning and he had slept remarkably well, the drum of rain, the hum of the air conditioner, and the warmth of the coffee made Rostnikov drowsy.
“I like your coffee and your rain,” said Rostnikov.
“Gracias. My father had a theory,” said Sanchez, looking into his coffee cup. “If a Cuban is home when the rains come, he feels protected. It is like being in a castle with a great moat. No one will enter. It is a time for peace and security. All are equally trapped and protected by it. It is a time for coffee and love. Is it the same with snow and cold? Is that why Russians are willing to live in Siberia?”
“Your father was a philosopher,” said Rostnikov, finishing his coffee.
“Stonemason,” said Sanchez.
“You heard what I told Shemenkov, what he told me?”
Sanchez simply smiled.
“And?” Rostnikov went on.
“I think this pursuit of a vengeful Santería is a waste of time and energy,” said Sanchez. “Everyone who commits a crime blames it on the Catholics or the Santería. More coffee?”
Rostnikov held out his cup, and Sanchez refilled it from the pot behind him on the table.
“But it is my time and energy,” said Rostnikov.
“Your time and energy,” Sanchez agreed. “You have the services of myself and my staff in your fruitless enterprise.”
“I will call upon them if I need them,” said Rostnikov.
“Let me try another way, Inspector,” said Sanchez. “Havana is divided into ninety-three zones of the Provincial Court. Each zone has its own court division with professional judges. Each zone has its own prosecutors, attorneys, and others affiliated with the integral Vigilance and Protection System, the SUVP. Each zone has representatives of the National Revolutionary Police. Things are done quickly within this system. Do you understand?”
“If a person is arrested for a crime, it is almost a certainty that the system you have described will swiftly convict him,” said Rostnikov.
“It was the same in your country before it was stricken with chaos,” Sanchez went on. “Not only is it unpopular for anyone within the system to represent the accused, it is practically impossible. I have been at trials in which the attorney assigned to the defendant attacked his client with greater zeal than the prosecutor. In this way he let the court know that he was not being disloyal.”
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