“No, this is fine.”
The younger man was not obviously armed. He had never used a gun in his compilation of the dead, and Rostnikov was reasonably certain he would not begin now. Nevertheless, Rostnikov sat in a position from which he could easily reach the revolver in his pocket.
“You know why I am here?” said Chenko, leaning forward.
“To confess,” said Rostnikov, now examining the watch Chenko had handed him. On the back of the watch was some kind of badly scratched engraved writing that Rostnikov could not read.
“It says: ‘S.M.K. TO E.L.P.’ ”
“Who are they?” asked Rostnikov.
“I do not know. The man from whom I got it was named Taras Ignakov,” said Chenko, still smiling. “You have questions. Go ahead. I will give you answers.”
“Where did you get this watch?”
“From the pocket of a man with a dirty curly black beard, only one tooth, and yellow eyes.”
“You took it,” Rostnikov prompted him.
“From the pocket of a dead man.”
“And. .?”
The deep breath was long and quite mournful before Chenko replied.
“Oh yes, I killed him. I think he was my sixty-first. You have not yet found his body?”
“No.”
“When possible, I obtain their names and memorize them. And I always honor them by taking something from their pockets if there is anything to take. I have a hidden box filled with rings, watches, coins, even shoelaces.”
“Why?”
“At first I did it to be recognized and feared. Then I realized that swinging the hammer and listening to a cracking skull and a final sigh gave me a sense of great power. It is better than sex.”
At this point Chenko reached behind his back and lifted from his belt a claw hammer, which he placed in his lap.
“I was not asking why you kill. I asked why did you memorize their names? Why did you take souvenirs of your crimes? Do you want to remember what you did and who you did it to?”
Rostnikov shifted his weight to be better able to reach and retrieve the gun in his pocket.
“Yes,” said Chenko. “That too.”
“Normal people do not want to remember when they commit murder. Mafia members do not want to remember. Robbers who kill do not want to remember.”
“And what is your point?” asked Chenko.
“You are sick.”
“Can I be cured?” Chenko said with a smile.
“I do not think so,” said Rostnikov.
“Nor do I. You want me to confess because I feel guilty? I feel no guilt. None at all.”
“You like killing.”
“Yes.”
“And if you are not in prison you will kill again, and you may even do it in prison. You should be isolated in a cell for the remainder of your life. And I think you know I am right.”
“You could just kill me. I know you have a gun in your pocket,” said Chenko. “Or maybe I could kill you. I can leap from this chair and dig the claws of my hammer deep into your skull before you can get out your gun. Even if you manage to get it out and shoot me, I think with my lunge I could still watch my hammer strike.”
“Let us hope the moment does not arrive when we must test your theory,” said Rostnikov, looking almost sleepy. “Have you ever killed someone who was facing you?”
“No, but I will if I must. I wish to have a large and open trial at which I can tell what I have done. Can I have that, policeman, or do you plan to just kill me?”
“I have not yet decided,” said Rostnikov. “I wanted to have this conversation first.”
Chenko clicked his teeth together softly and said, “Look at my numbers. Am I not the maddest of all?”
“You are.”
“Will I stun the psychologists and psychiatrists who examine me in prison?”
“Possibly.”
“Yes, they will probe my life, ask questions about my childhood, my mother and father, and discover nothing. Why do you want to help me?”
“What have I said that makes you think I want to help you?” Rostnikov said.
“Do you have handcuffs with you?”
“Yes.”
“You will put them on my wrists and take me away.”
“It will all end in a whisper.”
“No,” said Chenko, rising, hammer in his right hand.
“First place the hammer on the ground,” Rostnikov said with a series of grunts as he rose with the revolver now aimed at the chest of Aleksandr Chenko.
Chenko ignored him and said, “People live with the constant fear of death. They, the old, fear its coming. With this hammer, I release them quickly so that they will fear no more. Do you fear death, policeman?”
He asked stepping forward, hammer now rising.
“I do,” said Rostnikov. “But that does not matter. Put down the hammer, Aleksandr Chenko.”
The door of the apartment flew open. There was a sudden storm of gunfire. Rostnikov distinctly heard a ping as a bullet hit a spot of metal on his leg. The bottle of Nitin wine exploded, its contents spraying upon the falling body of Aleksandr Chenko.
Rostnikov was certain that he felt one bullet hit him and then another one. He could see Aleksandr Chenko, spattered with wine and bullets, fall backward over the chair, the hammer spinning around in the air and breaking free through the window, sending a brief rain of shards of glass flying atop both the policeman and the serial killer.
Iris Templeton turned her head to the rear as if she were looking for the flight attendant. No one was looking at Iris. At least not at that moment. She considered the woman in a business suit in the window seat next to her. Then there was the dark, good-looking man in business class who spoke perfect Spanish on the airline phone. Perhaps it was the lean, pale man in a black suit whose eyes were turned toward the window. Even if someone was watching her, there was no point in worrying until they were on the ground, which would be very soon.
Of course she thought that the most likely truth was that no one was watching Iris Templeton. She changed her mind when the plane landed in Frankfurt and she was sitting in the coffee bar with a biscotto and a cup of coffee. She was certain she was being watched, though she recognized no one from the plane. Perhaps Petrov had called ahead, perhaps many things.
If someone was planning to get the tape of her and Pavel Petrov, they would have to wait until the plane landed in London and luggage had been picked up. Richard Neatly was supposed to meet her at the airport. She had called ahead. Richard was a very good man, but he was short, almost frail, fussy, and a few years past sixty years old and would be no good in a crisis. His heart was in a good place, but he sighed when news readers on the BBC made an error in grammar. She was certain that if he were here now he would, as he had done in the past, remind her that “biscotti” was plural and not singular, but she had never heard anyone order a “biscotto” and she did not intend to be the first.
Normally, Iris enjoyed nothing more than an almond biscotto. Even a chocolate would do. Any biscotto would help compose her. But not today. She sat. She ate. She drank, but without the enthusiasm she usually savored.
She was certain the lean man would be on the plane to London. She looked at him. He looked away, not quickly but with the deliberation of someone who had seen enough this time.
The list of arrivals and departures above her clicked, and her flight to Gatwick appeared.
She had another hour with the dark man.
“The power of Christ has saved you, but why?”
Artyom Gorodeyov had brought his message to the bedside of Ivan Medivkin, who was in no condition to hear it. Vera Korstov at his bedside in the hospital thought it would have been more helpful had Christ intervened a little while earlier.
Vera was little interested in the question the man with the shaved head and no neck had posed. Though Marx and Lenin were not her gods, at least they were firmly rooted in reality.
“Why?” asked Vera over the rush of hallway noise through the slightly open door.