“‘No foundation up and down the line,’” Zelach said.
Everyone looked at him. Zelach did not attend all of these sessions, and when he did, he seldom spoke unless directly addressed.
“William Saroyan,” said Hamilton.
All heads turned to him except for that of Emil Karpo. They had not wanted to be so rude as to examine the black FBI agent who spoke perfect Russian and sat erect in an impeccably pressed blue suit.
“A play, The Time of Your Life,” explained Hamilton. “It’s a favorite of mine. One of the characters keeps repeating that line.”
“Arkady Sergeyevich Zelach,” Rostnikov said with deep interest. “You read American plays?”
Zelach shrugged and didn’t meet Rostnikov’s eyes.
“When I was recovering, I read what was in the apartment,” he said. “My father’s old books.”
Sasha Tkach took some tea. It was strong but not particularly good. Zelach had spent a long convalescence after he had been shot, a near-fatal shooting that, with good reason, Sasha felt responsible for. Zelach had many months of reading behind him.
“We will speak freely in front of Agent Hamilton,” said Rostnikov, looking around the table. “First we all wish to extend our sympathy to and support for Emil Karpo for the loss of Mathilde Verson, a loss that is also ours.”
Karpo said nothing. His head moved slightly to acknowledge the words of condolence.
Later, when he could get Karpo alone, Porfiry Petrovich would invite him for dinner as Sarah had suggested. If necessary, he would order him to come for dinner. Sarah might get him to talk or at least to listen. And normally Karpo appeared to like the company and questions of the girls. But that would be later. Sarah would want a gathering soon of the entire group so that there could be some kind of formal toast, a farewell to Mathilde.
“If there will be a funeral …?” Rostnikov began.
“I’ve spoken to her sister,” said Karpo. “When the autopsy is complete, her body will be cremated and her ashes taken to the sea. I would prefer that this end the discussion.”
With Karpo it was difficult to determine if he was showing signs of cracking. The blank look remained the same as always. When Tkach had suffered a breakdown, it had been easy to spot-increasing irritability, abnormal defensiveness, and a self-pity that easily turned to anger. But Karpo displayed nothing.
“First order of business,” Rostnikov went on. “Does anyone know what this is?”
He grunted and pulled his drawing of the bush in the Petrovka yard from his pocket and passed it around. When it came back to Rostnikov, Karpo said, “It is a vinarium, also called a sure bush or a Russian angel.”
“It endures,” said Rostnikov, looking at Karpo, who met his eyes.
“‘No foundation up and down the line,’” Karpo said. “‘Nothing endures.’”
Karpo had lost himself to Communism and the Revolution. He had believed in it religiously, recognized the faults of those given the task of making it a success, sought to cleanse society of those who would break the law or try to erode the Revolution. That was all gone now. Mathilde was gone. There was no foundation. There was only unfinished business.
“Elena,” Rostnikov said, turning his eyes from those of Karpo. Whether or not Emil Karpo was going to break would be impossible to determine. Karpo’s expression never changed. It always amazed Rostnikov that children loved Karpo; they ran to him and took his hand. Pulcharia Tkach always jumped into his arms, and he held her firmly and spoke to her as an adult, which may well have been where the child picked up her precocious vocabulary.
Mathilde Verson had begun, after more than five years, to bring a sense of life to Karpo, had managed to keep him from falling apart when the Soviet Union fractured. Now she was gone.
“Elena?” Rostnikov repeated. “The electrician’s treasure?”
Elena looked at Hamilton, who had finished his tea and was attempting to eat one of the wafers.
“It all disappeared,” she said. “Every piece. During the night. Natalya Dokorova claims to have burned everything-books, paintings, furniture. There were guards at both doors of the Dokorov house who confirmed that she had a fire going all night.”
“Guards?” asked Rostnikov.
“Teams from different units,” said Elena. “Even so, I checked. No hidden rooms, no secret level below the floor.”
“Walls?” said Hamilton.
“Checked them,” Elena said. “And the roof. Getting them up to the roof would have been more than Natalya Dokorova could have done, and landing a helicopter without being heard or seen would have been impossible.”
“And the old woman claims to have burned everything?” asked Rostnikov.
“Everything. She stayed up all night determined that if she could not keep what her brother had left her, she would not let the government take it.”
“She destroyed everything?” said Rostnikov. “Did you find ashes?”
“Some,” said Elena.
“Many of the items in the collection could not be burned,” said Karpo. “And I do not believe, given the magnitude of the collection, that she could have burned it all in one night.”
The little finger of Karpo’s left hand was splinted and taped. Everyone was curious. No one asked.
“That is what she told me,” Elena answered, glancing at the American.
“And you believe her?” asked Tkach.
“I … no. But if she’ll talk, I think it will be to me. She seems to like talking to me.”
“Do you like her?” asked Rostnikov.
“Yes.”
“Perhaps I’ll talk to her later in the office,” said Rostnikov. “Perhaps if I can get our colonel to pull some strings, I will talk to the guards on both doors.”
“Tomorrow?” asked Elena, making a note.
“Today, five, no … six for your Natalya Dokorova. Same time for the guards, if it can be arranged,” said Rostnikov. “Emil.”
“We may be dealing with a mafia that is stealing nuclear weaponry or the means of making it,” said Karpo.
All heads turned to him.
“The members of the mafia are all former convicts,” Karpo went on. “Each bears the prison tattoo of an eagle clutching a large bomb. The tattoos are generally on their buttocks or back. Two of these men were killed in the street battle this morning. I found another convict with a tattoo and interviewed him. In spite of my most zealous interrogation and persuasion, I was unable to get him to reveal more about his gang than that they are called the Zveri, the Beasts. He seemed particularly proud of that.”
There had been a message on Rostnikov’s desk when he and Hamilton had stopped by the office. He had called the major in charge of the district station where Karpo had interrogated the giant, Stanislav Voshenko. The major was an old acquaintance of Rostnikov’s. The major thought it would be nice to have Rostnikov owe him a favor. Rostnikov made the call and discovered that Karpo had broken both of the prisoner’s thumbs and was methodically twisting Voshenko’s ear, which was beginning to tear, when the policeman in charge of the lockup had finally responded to Voshenko’s shouts of pain and anger.
“I will report this possible breach of national security to Colonel Snitkonoy,” said Rostnikov. “However, until we have some evidence that these people actually have nuclear weapons or access to them, we shall continue our investigation. Do you have a plan?”
“Yes,” said Karpo.
“Would you like to share it with us?”
It was clear that Karpo wanted to say no, but he answered, “I will interview members of Voshenko’s family and continue the search for others with the tattoo,” he said.
“You wish assistance?” asked Rostnikov.
“Alone,” said Karpo.
Rostnikov nodded.
“Sasha?”
“There are desperate people in Moscow living like animals,” said Sasha as he brushed aside his hair and caught the eyes of Elena Timofeyeva, who was paying particular attention. “There are small children murdering people for a few kopecks.”