“You are famous,” said Gorodeyov. “You are now a hero. You have the power to impel thousands, maybe even millions, to embrace the Union of the Return.”
“Which is a political party calling for the return of Stalinist control,” said Vera. “Stalin for Christ.”
Ivan groaned and tried to roll into a more comfortable position, but the pain in his neck, arm, and shoulder was too much to bear.
Doctors, nurses, therapists had come, though Ivan was too groggy to fully understand what had happened. He did know that he was not expected to die. He did know that returning to the ring now was a distinct possibility. Only hours ago he had abandoned all hope of boxing again. Now he was a hero.
“Rest,” Klaus Agrinkov had said. “No hurry. We have impressive offers from all over the world: Kuwait, the United States, Indonesia, everywhere.”
Ivan reached for Vera’s hand now as Gorodeyov leaned forward and continued his sermon.
“You owe it to Mother Russia,” whispered Gorodeyov.
Ivan could smell the man’s breath, an unpleasant combination of garlic and breath mint.
Vera was impressed by the man’s ability to penetrate the imposing protection of the quite visible police in the hallways. The Union of the Return had more power than she had expected, to get through the gauntlet of uniforms.
“I am tired,” Ivan said.
The bed was uncomfortable, at least half a foot too short. His feet dangled over just enough to disturb whatever comfort he might hope to find.
His unwanted visitor reminded Ivan of a soccer ball. He began to smile but failed. Even a smile brought pain.
“We will talk later,” said Gorodeyov. “You can come to the compound to rest and recover. You will be protected, unbothered.” The visitor’s offer was very appealing to Ivan. He remembered the compound. Were the people that friendly? Was it really that beautiful?
“Consider it, Ivan Medivkin,” said the man, patting Ivan on the arm.
The giant was now snoring fitfully.
The usual crowd at Gatwick stood waiting at the belt for their luggage to rumble by. Since it was just after midnight and many passengers had been traveling for as much as a full day or more from all over the world, the battle for a good space was less frantic than usual. There was almost a dreamy haze of shared understanding.
Iris had but one bag, green canvas, wheels, made for world travel. She reached between the bustling woman and the lean man from the plane with a “pardon me.” Someone bumped into her and the bustling woman’s hand reached out to grasp the handle of the bag and start to pull it from the grinding belt.
Iris reached out to stop the woman. Before it was necessary to do battle, the woman loosened her grip and the canvas bag tumbled forward on the belt for another ride.
Iris turned toward the woman, heard an odd intake of breath, and saw a look of pale anguish on the face of the woman. She seemed about to fall. Iris reached out a hand, but the woman found sudden support from the pale man who immediately and calmly helped the woman to a seat. Many glanced; none moved; the woman seemed to be in safe hands. They all wished her well. They had apartments to get to with telephone messages, cats to feed, beds to drop onto.
On the belt came Iris Templeton’s green bag once more, but somehow it had lost the thin blue ribbon attached to the pull-up handle. She pulled it down. There was no longer a name tag on it.
She took it down and wheeled it out in search of Richard Neatly’s minuscule blue German car, and as she did so she walked within a few feet of the reclining woman and the pale man.
When Iris was out of sight, the pale man leaned close to the woman and in Russian said, “You are not seriously injured, Christiana Davidonya.”
Christiana, Pavel Petrov’s assistant, had felt a sudden sharp jab to her kidney just as she had the handle of the green canvas bag in her hand. The jab had taken her breath. She had managed to glance at the pale man who supported her to the bank of aluminum and leather.
Her assignment had been simple: switch the bags. She had failed. Christiana had watched in pain as Iris Templeton wheeled past her, the tape deep inside the canvas bag.
There would be no follow-up attempt. It was too late. Even now Christiana anticipated Pavel Petrov’s rage and imagined that it might be taken out on her.
“We go back on the same flight,” Karpo said. “Perhaps we can sit together.”
Christiana gasped from the pain in her lower back and decided she would be in Moscow just long enough to pack, get to the money she had saved, pick up the passport in another name hidden in the bottom of a double boiler in her apartment, and make the next airplane connection to Brazil.
The planned attack on the English journalist in the Frankfurt airport had been called off by Christiana because it had proved to be too dangerous. She was sure Pavel would have tried it, probably would have succeeded in killing Iris Templeton, but Pavel had not been there. Christiana had decided it would be better to face his extreme displeasure than to be caught by the German police. Pavel liked taking chances. She did not.
Pavel Petrov was not going to survive.
She was.
On the flight to São Paulo, after a nap she would study Portuguese.
The pale black-suited man who now reminded her of a vampire guided her firmly in the direction of the ticket counter. She went quite willingly.
As soon as Neatly dropped her at her apartment, Iris locked the door behind her, put her bag on the bed, opened it, and found the small tape where she had placed it inside a stocking.
She pulled out her tape recorder, inserted the tape, and hit the “play” button. She let it run and then hit the “fast forward” button.
The tape was empty, nothing but the rush of ambient air. She turned the tape over. The other side yielded no voices.
Iris sat on the bed for about thirty seconds before she allowed herself a smile. Sergei Bresnechov, Tyrone, had fooled her. He had made a deal with another, perhaps several others, buyers, perhaps Pavel Petrov. It was too late and she was too tired to work it out now. She would sleep on it. In the morning it was sure to make more sense.
Just before she fell asleep it came to her. Tyrone would not make a deal with Petrov, the man who was responsible for the destruction of his apartment, the beating he had endured, and all that had been taken from him. No, Tyrone would want to cause maximum pain to the murderous Petrov. Tyrone would turn the tape over to the police or, better yet, make a deal with someone in the police to help him torment Petrov.
And just as she was dozing, at the very moment when thoughts and dreams are forgotten, Iris came up with a name: Colonel Igor Yaklovev. And then she was asleep.
15
General Misovenski sat red faced and in full uniform to impress Colonel Igor Yaklovev, who was dressed in a gray suit and matching tie. The General wanted to remind the Colonel who the superior officer was at this table. The General had already pressed home his superiority by indicating where he and Yaklovev would lunch.
Now they sat over brandy after a meal of cold borscht with cucumbers, beets and sour cream, and chicken tabak.
“A satisfactory conclusion to the Maniac murders now that he has been identified?” asked the General.
“Yes,” said the Yak. “The Maniac taken out of the picture, no trial, which might suggest a lack of investigation by your office, your team presented to the world as coming to the rescue of my chief investigator. Your highly efficient team came into the room and almost killed my Chief Investigator.”
“It could not be helped,” said General Misovenski. How is your man-Rostnikov, right?”