Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov was accustomed to the darkness and smells in the laboratory below the surface of Petrovka. He was also accustomed to finding a corpse on one or both of the tables beyond the labyrinth of tables filled with books, beakers, poisons, and instruments whose function it was best to keep to himself.
“These two,” said Paulinin, pushing his glasses up his nose with the back of his hand, which clutched a bloody scalpel. Paulinin preferred to work without latex gloves. He wanted to explore the nuanced corners, crannies, and protuberances that lay beneath the skull and inside the organs.
Paulinin, on rare occasions, admitted to himself that he might be mad.
“These two,” Paulinin repeated, looking down at the pale naked corpses of a bearded old man and an older woman. “They are victims of yet another copycat.”
The skull of the man was most recalcitrant. Paulinin picked at the cracked pieces as if they were parts of a coconut.
“Different hammer,” the scientist continued. “Different power. Different hand. These two were struck by someone left-handed. Your others were all murdered by a right-handed killer, except for the two of which I told you already.”
“He is even further from his goal than he thought,” said Rostnikov.
“His goal?” asked Paulinin as he probed into the dead woman’s stomach, which he had opened with a steel scalpel.
“To kill more people than any other Russian ever has.”
“In that case, I will delve more deeply,” said Paulinin, his fingers searching the cavity he had opened.
“Do that. And call me when you have something.”
“You already have an idea,” Paulinin said, using his free hand to turn the head of the man so it was facing straight up, eyes open.
“Perhaps,” said Rostnikov.
There was no direct flight from Moscow to London. Iris would have to spend two hours in the Frankfurt airport. She had experienced such waits before. She had a book with her, Notes on a Scandal, but she was sure that she would be unable to read. She had begun writing her story before the plane took off.
Iris Templeton welcomed the distraction of her laptop even more than that of the book she was reading. Iris Templeton had a secret. She had a deadly fear of flying. Given the choice, she would never fly again, but she did not have the choice and she did not want anyone to know her fear was kept in control with pills, hypnosis, alcohol, and meditation. She always flew first-class and always sat in an aisle seat. She limited herself to one drink a flight, regardless of how long the flight. Her preferred drink was a premium straight brandy. She loved the taste of brandy.
Iris did not have to stand when the woman moved past her to the window seat. There was plenty of legroom. The woman was slightly heavyset, well-groomed, business suit and briefcase with laptop computer. The woman smiled. Good teeth.
“Elizabeth Croning,” she said, reaching over to shake hands.
“Iris Templeton.”
Iris was in no mood for new friends or idle conversation. She removed her novel from her briefcase, inserted the fragile airline plugs in her ears, and adjusted the volume. It was something classical, possibly German, and too sweet for her taste but all right for holding off conversation.
She removed her laptop from its sleeve and waited for the gate to open like a Thoroughbred and for the fear to be smothered by the bright light of ideas and music.
From where he sat, he could just see her arm resting.
He had almost missed the flight. The call had come when he was on his way home. He had immediately caught a cab, gone to the airport, showed his passport and his identification, and hurried to the gate at the final call for takeoff.
There had just been time to pick up a travel bag at the airport.
He had been told that he would be supplied with a very compact weapon in lockers when he got to Frankfurt and London. He would not have to carry a weapon onto the plane. He had been told that Iris Templeton had a two-hour layover in Frankfurt. He had been told what he had to do. He would do it.
He had an aisle seat next to a black man in a gray suit and matching tie. The black man gave the late-arriving passenger as much room as he could and concentrated on the notebook full of lists of numbers.
The man who had arrived late did not look away for more than a few seconds. There was reason to believe someone else was on this plane watching Iris Templeton. Before it was over, he fully expected to know who that was and what he should do.
“Well?”
“What do you want to do?”
Iosef shrugged. He had hoped Elena would answer the question, but it looked as if there was to be a stalemate.
They sat on the edge of the bed in front of the window. Iosef’s apartment was small, hardly an apartment at all, one tiny room with a bed near the window and a sink in the corner with a single-burner stove top next to a small refrigerator with a microwave atop it. There was also the luxury of a toilet and shower right next to it with just enough room to stand.
Sara had done her best to make the room comfortable for her son, and she had done a good job.
It was the place where he and Elena could be alone.
It was the place where they now had to decide if they were to marry the next day.
“Do you really want to?” she asked.
“Yes, I wish to marry you. I wish to spend as many of my days as possible with you next to me laughing, frowning, humming, and I wish you to have a daughter with me, one who looks like you, and I wish to have a son with you, one who looks more like you than me, and I wish to begin this journey soon.”
“Tomorrow? You are sure?” she asked, not looking at him.
“Everything is ready. It is as good a day as any and better than most.”
“I sense,” she said, “a lack of enthusiasm.”
“You sense the nervousness of any normal bridegroom. And you? Are you not on less than sturdy legs?”
“Yes,” she said with a smile, looking at him. “But I will not fall.”
He leaned over, kissed her gently, and felt her arms tighten around his neck as they rolled back on the bed with Iosef on top.
“We had best call your mother and tell her,” whispered Elena.
“We have something else to take care of first,” he said, reaching down to unbutton her blouse.
Rostnikov did not hear the first knock at the door. He was asleep in the chair he had placed by the window from which he could cause unease in Aleksandr Chenko.
With the second knock, Rostnikov called out, “I am coming.”
And come he did, rumbling to the door, urging his mechanical leg to cooperate with his good right one.
He went to the door, right hand in his pocket, where he had tucked in a small, efficient seven-shot Nagant revolver.
“I brought you something,” said Aleksandr Chenko as the Chief Inspector opened the door.
Chenko held out a bottle.
“Nitin wine,” said Rostnikov. “Perhaps we can have some later.”
Then Aleksandr took a tarnished pocket watch from his pocket and handed it to Rostnikov, who held it in the palm of his left hand as he stepped back. Right hand still in his pocket, he motioned to the chair opposite the one he had been sitting in for the past two days. Chenko sat, a smile on his face, teeth showing.
Was this how the old couple sat night after night talking, reading, falling into a literary slumber?
Chenko was dressed in a pair of well-worn jeans and a black sweater. He sat awkwardly.
“I can offer you either tea or coffee the temperature of this room,” said the policeman.
“Perhaps a glass of the wine I brought.”
“Later.”
“Yes,” Chenko said, folding his hands in his lap and looking out the window at the darkened window of his own apartment.
“You look uncomfortable,” said Rostnikov. “Would you prefer we go for a walk?”