“A bad book about some fools who hijack a train in Germany,” said the man. He was at least fifty and had a stocky build and a flat, blocky face.
“You have something to say to me?” the man said, standing in front of Karpo.
“I have something to say to the man or men who employ your services,” said Karpo. “I wish to make a trade with them.”
Karpo took the printout of the disk out of his cloth bag and handed it to the man, who took it and read the first page. When he was done, he handed it back to Karpo.
“It was prepared by Igor Kuzen, who was murdered yesterday,” Karpo said.
The man nodded in understanding and left in search of a phone. He returned five minutes later and sat next to Karpo.
“A car will be here in about five minutes,” he said.
Karpo nodded. No more was said even after a black Buick with darkly tinted windows pulled up to the curb. Karpo followed the man and got into the backseat. The driver did not turn around. He had a tattoo of a green snake encircling his neck.
The car pulled up in front of the Sofia Restaurant across from the Pekin Hotel. On the sidewalk, in spite of the temperature, a man was playing the accordion while another man joined him with a violin. They had a single cap laid out for contributions. Karpo and the man who had followed him got out of the car. The car pulled away.
The musical duo was playing an old Russian dance. Six people stood around watching and listening. The man who had followed Karpo went to the restaurant, opened the door, and stood back so that Karpo could enter. There were no waiters, no settings on the tables. The restaurant would not open for hours. At the rear of the room, lighted at the moment by one small track of lights, a man sat at a table smoking and looking at Karpo.
The man who had followed him motioned for Karpo to go to the rear of the restaurant. Karpo walked toward the man at the table. The man who had followed him did not go with the detective.
When he approached the table, the seated man pointed to the chair across from him. Karpo sat and placed the printout on the table.
“Drink?” asked the man, leaning forward. “Coffee, tea, juice, a little Baileys?”
“No,” said Karpo.
The man across from him was dressed like a businessman-well-pressed suit with a colorful Italian tie. He was a big man, a broad man, with a pleasant, slightly pink face and long hair that was tied in a ponytail. He smoked assiduously, pausing only to drink from what looked like a large mug of tea. When the man reached for the mug, Karpo saw the tattoos that crept down his arms and the backs of both hands.
“Do you know who I am?” the man asked.
“I presume you are Lev Semionov,” said Karpo.
“And how did you arrive at this assumption?” asked Semionov.
Karpo looked at the thick computer printout. Semionov reached for it, placed it before him on the table, and began to read. His name was at the top. He stopped reading after a page and began to flip through the rest of the pages. He did this quickly and then pushed the printout back to Karpo.
“I’ve read it,” said Semionov. “It seems that Igor Kuzen, the late Igor Kuzen, fooled me after all. He said that he had this disk and that he had sent a copy to a friend with instructions to mail it to the minister of the interior himself if Kuzen didn’t call for three days. He did not, of course, give us the name of this friend. It took us five days to find everyone Kuzen had been close to since he was a boy. On the fifth day we found Katerina Molensaya, a cousin of Kuzen’s in Minsk. She confessed almost immediately and turned over her disk. She died of the shock and a bullet.”
“We also erased Kuzen’s file on his hard drive,” Semionov said. “But it appears there was still another copy. There may even be more.”
“What happened three days ago-the killing on the street?” asked Karpo.
“Well,” said the man, “as you know from reading this report of Kuzen’s, we have no nuclear weapons or material. We have already received vast amounts of money from North Korea to deliver weapons and material we do not have and do not yet know if we can get.”
“What happened Tuesday morning?” asked Karpo.
Semionov laughed, a small, bitter laugh. “The German worked for the North Koreans. Actually, he was a middleman, a counterpart of our Igor Kuzen, but much, much better. I could see on his face after he met with Kuzen that the German knew we had nothing. We followed him to the café where he met the prostitute, and we killed him before he could pass on information about the inadequacies of our famous scientist. I regret that your friend was killed, but … look, it’s early. I’ve ordered a little something to eat.”
“The bullets that killed Mathilde Verson did not come from the gun found near the body of Mikhail Sivak,” Karpo said.
“The other gun,” Semionov said with a shrug.
“There was no other weapon found at the scene except that of the dead German,” said Karpo.
A man came to the table bearing a tray of rolls, butter, a coffeepot, and two cups. He placed the tray on the table and left immediately.
“I have no explanation,” said Semionov.
“One more question,” Karpo said as Semionov poured a cup of coffee. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Ah,” said Semionov, putting down his cigarette. “I am confident that you did make copies of the disk, which includes information not only on our nuclear deception but on the crimes of all but a few of our more important members. Killing a policeman at this point will accomplish nothing. You have a list of names. A list of names means nothing.”
Semionov handed a full cup to Karpo, who took it. Semionov’s hand remained out. Karpo gave him the copy of the disk.
“See?” said Semionov, pocketing the disk. “If this were your only copy, you would not have handed it over so readily.”
“And now?” asked Karpo.
“And now?” Semionov poured himself coffee. “We will have to find ways to neutralize this information.”
Karpo nodded. “Bribes? Blackmail? Threats?”
“Actually,” said Semionov, “you have done us a great favor. You have bought us some time to act instead of surprising us with a series of arrests. Or letting our North Korean partners find out before we do. Have a roll. Fresh. Smell them.”
Semionov himself smelled one of the rolls, tore it open, and slathered it with butter. He offered it to Karpo, who declined it.
“She would be alive if you had not murdered the German,” Karpo said.
“Oh, yes, I see your point,” said Semionov, popping the roll into his mouth and chewing for a few moments. “But there is little more you can do. You’ve turned in the disk. Are you going to start killing us all? There are more than eighty of us,” he said, tapping the printout in front of him. “And you don’t even have the most important names. Kuzen didn’t know them. Look at it this way. Had your system not fallen, we could not exist. If we did not exist, your … What was her name?”
“Mathilde Verson.”
“Mathilde Verson,” Semionov acknowledged with a wave of his hand, “would be alive today. Blame Yeltsin. Go shoot Yeltsin. Or if your fucking Revolution had not been corrupted by lunatics like Stalin and the fat thieves and alcoholics who followed him, there would have been no need to overthrow Communism. Go dig up Stalin, and Brezhnev, and … You see my point?”
“I see,” said Karpo. “Everyone is responsible.”
Semionov nodded in agreement, chewing amiably. “Now, I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’ve got a lot of work to do to try to contain this. I’m not fool enough to offer you money or to threaten you. You’ve studied me. I’ve learned a bit about you.”
“Responsibility rests with the one who commits the act and the one who orders it,” said Karpo.
“Is that a quote?” asked Semionov, reaching for a second roll.
“Lenin,” said Karpo.
Semionov shook his head sadly. “Yes, I heard you were one of those. When I was in prison, I read Lenin, Marx, Engels, Gorky, Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Gogol, Moliere, Shakespeare, Nietzsche. I read. I thought. And you know what I concluded?”