Just before turning to the left at the point where the path divided, Aleksandr allowed himself one quick glance at his next victim.
The policeman with the bad leg was looking back at him.
4
“This is foolish,” Elena Timofeyeva said, peering through the window of the bistro on Kalinin Street.
Elena looked at Sasha for support. He intended to give it, but a look from Iris Templeton tempted his resolve. He had not been with a woman for almost five months and here was a pretty, smart, famous woman regarding him with obvious intent.
“It is not a good idea,” he said in compromise.
Iris Templeton smiled at Sasha and said, “Perhaps not, but I’ve made my career by doing foolish things that others were afraid to do. You are police officers. There must be many times when you tread when there might be danger.”
The meaning of her words was not lost on either Elena or Sasha.
“Besides, you will be right behind me.”
“But-” Elena began.
“But,” Iris Templeton continued, “your orders are not to give me advice, but to provide me with protection. Is that him?”
Iris nodded at a lone man who sat drinking from a coffee cup at a small, round table against the far wall of the crowded bistro.
“Yes,” said Elena.
The man they were looking at was well built, fair skinned, with prematurely white hair. He could not have been more than forty years old. He wore a blue button-down shirt and on his chair was draped a leather jacket so fine that it shined with the reflection of the overhead lights.
“I’m going in. Stay here,” said Iris, examining her reflection in the window.
“We are not under your orders,” said Elena. “We decide where we must be to protect you.”
“It would be better if we were friends,” said Iris. “Sasha and I are going to be friends.”
Sasha resisted the urge to brush back the unruly lock of hair that dangled down his forehead.
Iris Templeton entered the bistro. When the door opened, the two police officers could hear the sound of music from a CD player inside. As the door closed, they heard the somewhat familiar sound of some popular singer shouting loudly. Neither Elena nor Sasha recognized the performer. Both knew that Zelach could immediately identify the song, the performer, and his complete discography.
“It is not a good idea,” Elena said with mocking sarcasm as the door closed. “If something happens to her, we will be held responsible.”
Sasha did not respond.
He watched Iris Templeton move to the table of Daniel Volkovich, who half-stood in greeting. He was smiling as he took Iris Templeton’s hand and held it for a few seconds longer than Sasha thought necessary.
Iris Templeton sat across from the pimp. She was in profile. White light danced on her face. It was a cameo that attracted Sasha, who well knew the danger of responding to what he was feeling. Yet he could not control it.
“Let’s go in,” said Elena, pulling the collar of her jacket around her neck. “I’m cold.”
Sasha felt neither hot nor cold. He felt bewildered.
“Yes,” he said.
The two entered the bistro. There were two empty tables, only one of which had a clear view of where Iris and Daniel sat talking. A fat man with a red face had to move in tightly to allow Sasha to sit. The fat man looked annoyed. He was about to speak, but something in the near baby face of the man who had forced him to move warned him that it would not be a good idea.
The police officers were too far away and the music too loud to let them hear what was happening at the table where the reporter and the pimp were sitting. What Sasha could see was that the two of them were getting along very nicely, with smiles, words, and nods of agreement.
Elena wanted to say, You are jealous, Sasha Tkach. How many times must you be misled by your sex? This woman plans to use you.
“Jealousy and love are sisters,” Sasha said as if reading her mind.
Elena knew the proverb. It did not impress her. She had experienced jealousy with Iosef, but it had been under her control and did not deter her from the wedding. Was it really only two days away?
Daniel Volkovich leaned across the table and rested his hand over that of Iris Templeton.
The familiar demon within Sasha banged at his chest and in his brain. It took a great effort to control it, to keep from walking over to the table and sitting next to Iris. He had only known the woman for hours, but there were factors that made her difficult to resist. Perhaps the most important factor was that she was definitely interested in him. Next, she was pretty. Next, she was smart. He was not looking for love or even for sex, but when it presented itself so openly he knew resistance was impossible.
Elena saw no waiter moving from table to table, nor did she see anyone behind the bar who might be a waiter.
“You want a drink?” Elena asked, rising.
“Beer. American or German,” he said, his eyes fixed on the couple at the table against the wall.
He willed Iris to pull her hand from under that of the charming seducer. She did not move it.
Elena had no need to tell Sasha to keep a close watch on Iris. She moved through the random harvest of crowded tables to the bar determined not to drink anything that might blur her senses or add unneeded calories. Iosef said that he liked her the way she was. She was sure he would like her even more if there were less of her.
Ten minutes later Daniel Volkovich took a cell phone from a pocket of his leather jacket and punched in a number. He did it all with one hand so he would not have to relinquish Iris’s hand. Daniel spoke briefly and put the cell phone back in his pocket.
During the phone conversation, Volkovich had glanced at Sasha and nodded. Sasha averted his eyes.
Both Sasha’s beer and Elena’s coffee were long finished when there was a noise at the table of the fat man behind them. The fat man shouted. A chair was pushed into Elena, who stood facing the disruptive table. The fat man stood on unsteady feet and toppled against Sasha, who struggled not to be blown from his chair.
Sasha pushed the man away.
“Not your business,” the fat man said, his large red nose inches from Sasha’s face.
Sasha threw an elbow into the man’s face. The fat man tumbled backward into his already-overturned table. A pair of men, one with a bald head and large, bushy mustache, came to calm things down and usher the fat man and his party out the front door.
It was only after some sense of order had been restored that Sasha looked toward the table in the corner. Elena did the same.
Iris Templeton and Daniel Volkovich were gone.
“This is what it comes to,” Paulinin said, changing his gloves.
On the two tables deep below Petrovka lay the bodies of Lena Medivkin and Fedot Babinski.
“Comely in life, serene in death,” Paulinin said, scalpel in hand as he looked down at the naked bodies that lay side by side on their backs only a few feet from each other.
Paulinin had the urge to help them reach out and clasp each other’s hands. They made an interesting couple. She was young, dark, and when the blood was cleansed quite beautiful except for the bruises on her face and the crushed right cheekbone. He was a man of no more than forty-five. His was a muscular body with no chest hair. There were a few scars, one on his stomach, another on his forehead. His face was roughly handsome, with a much-broken nose that made him more interesting than he might otherwise have been. The blood had also been cleansed from his face, but the man’s fists and knuckles were quite bloody. He must, Paulinin tentatively concluded, have fought back and done some damage to whoever had beaten him to death. Paulinin did not clean the knuckles. The blood of the killer might still be on them.