Sasha and Elena’s plan had been to find Rostnikov and suggest that he put the boy who called himself Tyrone into seclusion to protect him from Pavel Petrov. Sasha crossed the hall quickly to the Chief Inspector’s office, knocked, got no reply, and entered to a sight that made his knees very weak and his stomach threaten to surrender.
There sat his mother and his wife.
“What?” he asked.
“We are here to see Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov,” said Lydia.
“Why?”
“To determine if you merit yet another chance,” said Sasha’s mother.
Maya sat, hands in her lap, looking up at him as if he were an unwelcome trespasser.
“Go away,” said Lydia, sweeping him away with her arm.
A dazed Sasha Tkach backed out of the office unsure of whether he had witnessed reality or a hazy dream. He considered opening the door again but decided to go across the hall to his desk.
Could it be true? Has my mother pulled a plum from the pie?
14
Pavel Petrov’s office at Gasprom was impressive. It was meant to be. Colonel Igor Yaklovev, however, was unimpressed.
Both men wanted, lived for, power, but the Yak was content with a reserved power.
Petrov wanted those who came in contact with him and heard of him to think in terms of ruthless power. The Yak wanted few to hear of him and most to think of him not at all.
And finally, Pavel Petrov was a violent pimp and a murderer. Igor Yaklovev was definitely not violent, and if he had caused a death or two in his career, it was just part of the job.
Most visitors to Petrov’s office were intimidated by its size, the awards on the walls, the massive antique desk, and the man behind it.
“Please sit,” said Petrov.
It was not the Yak’s wish to leave his office except on very rare occasions to dine, lunch or dinner, at a restaurant, seated at a quiet table to the side, from which he could watch the people at middle levels of power. This was sufficient public exposure.
The Yak sat, expressionless, across from the smiling, confident Petrov, who said, “You are admiring my desk.”
“Yes.”
“Following the Revolution the desk was taken from the office of the head of the personal guard of the Tsar himself. For sixty years it was forgotten in the office of a pompous notary. And then one day a collector of such pieces told an acquaintance of mine who owed me more than just a favor. And within a day, the son of the now-dead notary, after a very small payment and a few minutes of persuasion, sold the desk to me.”
Petrov lovingly ran the palm of his left hand across the shining desk.
They were a study in contrasts. Pavel Petrov was tall, definitely handsome, with well-groomed black hair, almost perfect skin, and white teeth. He was a presence with which to be reckoned. Igor Yaklovev in mufti was a most unimpressive presence. He was five-foot-six, lean, pale. Yes, Petrov decided, the man does look like Lenin.
“It is yours,” said Petrov, patting the table as if it were a favorite pet. “I give it to you.”
“There is no room in my office for such a gift.”
Pavel Petrov swiveled in his chair. His back was to the Yak.
“Then sell it. In one of the drawers you will find a very generous sum.”
“How generous?”
“That depends on the evidence you have of certain indiscretions of mine.”
Had Petrov sent someone to follow the Bresnechov boy?
“Like murder?” asked the Yak. “I am not interested in money. But I do have a counteroffer. I have a recording of a conversation between you and an English journalist named Iris Templeton.”
Pavel Petrov spun around again to face his visitor. Petrov’s fingers began to tap out a quite uneven beat.
“What does interest you in this fragile life?”
The Yak ignored the threat and told the powerful man across from him that he wanted only to let him know that he had the tape.
“I see,” said Petrov. “And copies?”
“I expect to have all that exist in my hands before tomorrow ends.”
“Am I to trust you, Colonel Yaklovev?”
“It does not matter if you trust me. It matters only that you know I have the tape.”
“I think we understand each other,” said Petrov, standing.
“No, we do not,” said the Yak. “If you engage in any other criminal activity involving brutality or murder, if you hurt anyone, the tape gets released to the media and to all the members of your board of directors.”
Petrov was up now pacing the floor, pausing here to touch some object or award, pausing there to look at a photograph of him with a famous person, including three with Vladimir Putin.
“Offer accepted,” said Petrov.
“It was not just an offer. It is also a condition.”
Petrov decided to probe the dour man’s vulnerabilities. He would take his time. He would work slowly. He would find someone within the Office of Special Investigations to corrupt, someone who could find that tape and destroy it, as Petrov would then destroy this Colonel who reeked with the sweet smell of victory.
Pavel was brought to a halt in his pacing by the Yak, who said, “I am not vulnerable to intimidation. I have no living relatives that I care in the least for. I have no friends. I have never broken the law, not even when I was a child.”
The policeman had kept up with him.
“I understand,” said Petrov. “Now, if you please, I would like to get back to work and do my part in keeping the gas flowing for the people of Russia.”
“And what is your work?”
“I am afraid I am not allowed to tell you that.”
“Politburo.”
“I cannot answer that.”
The truth was that Petrov existed in the company as one of but several people who deflected attacks on the company with charm, half-truths, and lies.
The Yak nodded in understanding.
Petrov decided that Iris Templeton had to have a copy of the tape and it would have to be destroyed. How many copies of the tape were out there? How many people would he have to kill or have killed? It was his own doing, his own arrogance. He had lived long on the edge and felt he would never plummet. Even now, when disaster crawled toward him like a fat spider, Pavel Petrov felt a thrill.
The smug police bureaucrat sitting in his office might have to be disposed of and-
“The tape is safe,” said the Yak. “If something happens to me it goes to someone who will immediately arrest you for murder. It will not matter if my death comes from a bullet in my brain or a fall down a flight of stairs.”
This is the second time that Colonel Yaklovev has seemed to read my mind. Am I that obvious?
Petrov decided he would make a phone call the moment the Yak left the room.
“You want evidence of corruption within the corporation?” said Petrov.
“Yes.”
“And you will overlook my. . indiscretions?”
“No. Never, but I will not yet call them into the light as long as you continue to provide me with evidence that I can use.”
“And you want this simply to uproot corruption?” said Petrov.
“I have other reasons you would not understand.”
“An honest man. There are all too few of them. I do not like honest men.”
The two men did not shake hands, nor did Petrov rise. Igor Yaklovev showed himself out, which was fine with Pavel. He had urgent business elsewhere. He picked up the telephone on his desk.
Paulinin took a plastic container from his desk drawer, popped it open, and put two yellow pills in his palm. He had been up for the past two days.
He had to speak to the dead.
Some of the dead had to be spoken to quickly, before they faded away. They did not stop yielding information, but they did deprive Paulinin of their company. The dead spoke only to him.