Rostnikov had concluded that it was the enormity of the horror that had kept the killings a secret until now. In the midst of political turmoil, coups, ethnic riots, and gang warfare, no one wanted to accept the fact that a monster was loose in Moscow, killing, mutilating, and cannibalizing. A KGB defector named Mishionoko had told the Italian newspaper La Republica of the monster in 1989 but no one had taken him seriously. Now it was widely believed that every unsolved killing in Russia was being blamed on the monster so that when a suitable scapegoat was found dozens of political murders could be suddenly and conveniently solved.
Tkach moved past Karpo and walked toward the body, passing one of the three men who were on their knees going through the leaves and grass. Though the body was blood-soaked, twisted, and mutilated there was something about it that seemed familiar to Sasha.
Twenty yards away, one of the grass searchers stood up.
“Here,” he said. “Knife. No blood.”
Karpo moved toward where the man was pointing. Tkach kept looking at the body. Suddenly he knew what was disturbing him and he shuddered. In spite of its distance from human form, the young woman’s body bore a clear resemblance to Sasha’s little daughter, Pulcharia. The corpse with the bloody black hole where an eye had been could have been his daughter.
“I remember,” a voice came through the trees.
Sasha forced himself to turn from the body, willing himself not to shake. Karpo stood next to the investigator hovering over the knife. Everyone had stopped at the sound of the voice.
“I remember,” Blanshevski repeated as he came through the trees. “The car. The bald man’s car. It had a sticker on the bumper. One of those stickers, you know. It said something about blood.”
The old man stopped and looked at the policemen.
“‘Give blood,’ it said. I’m sure. ‘Give blood.’ It was white with red letters. ‘Give blood.’”
No one spoke and the old man’s eyes turned to the dog in his arms. He stroked the dog and repeated, “I’m sure.”
One of the lab technicians whose name Karpo did not know motioned to the deputy inspector.
“I’m sure,” the old man repeated yet again as Karpo and Sasha approached the body and the kneeling technician.
The technician lifted a pale bare leg of the dead girl and twisted it so that the bottom of her foot faced Karpo.
“A tattoo,” the man said. “On the bottom of the foot. I think it’s a hammer.”
“It’s a gun,” said Karpo.
“Capones,” said Sasha with a sigh. Behind them the old man said, “Yes, Petya, I am absolutely sure.”
They landed in Havana in darkness. Rostnikov had tried to sleep on the plane for the final few hours when the turbulence had stopped, but each time he dozed he had the sensation of falling and nausea. He woke up to the groaning of the plane, the sound of his own rapid breathing, and the aching of his withered leg.
He was happy to land and anxious to get to a bath where he could read for half an hour before settling into a bed. He planned to sleep for at least a solid day.
The airport in Havana was smaller than Rostnikov had imagined. In fact, it was small by any international standard and far from the vast empty echoing of the Sheremetyevo in Moscow.
Their luggage, one bag each, was lined up and waiting as they entered the terminal. A line was forming for each item to be checked on metal platforms. The stone-faced customs clerks reminded Rostnikov of pathologists about to examine the stomachs of the recently dead, certain they would find nothing they had not encountered before.
The thin KGB man, four people ahead of them, was doing his best to focus on the contents of his leather suitcase, which had been opened on the table before him.
Suddenly a large man in a faded but neatly ironed blue uniform approached, smiled at Elena Timofeyeva, and said in slightly accented Russian, “You don’t have to wait in line. Please follow me.”
Without waiting for a reply, the man picked up their luggage, turned, and walked slowly through the crowd. Rostnikov nodded to Elena and followed the man, who nodded at the weary customs inspector who was violating the packed undergarments of the thin KGB man.
The uniformed man with their luggage pushed open a double door marked “Oficiales Solamente” and reached back to hold it open so Elena and Rostnikov could follow.
“Am I moving too quickly?” the man asked as they entered an almost empty waiting area about the size of a tennis court.
“We are fine,” said Rostnikov.
“Yes,” said Elena.
“As you wish,” said the man. “This way. I have a car.”
Three children, the oldest no more than five, were playing on the chrome-and-plastic seats of the waiting room. A heavy woman in a pink flower-print dress watched the children, trying not to doze off.
“Air-conditioning is off again in the airport,” said the big man, looking back at them. “I don’t know if it is intentional to save power or a parts breakdown.”
He strode onto the sidewalk in front of the airport. Three Russian-made buses were lined up, their doors open, their drivers talking to each other. Two cars also stood at the sidewalk. One was a recent-vintage white Lada with blue lights mounted on its roof and the other an old rust-and-blue American Chevrolet. The large man went to the Lada and opened its trunk.
He threw Rostnikov’s and Elena’s cases into the trunk, slammed it shut, and turned to Rostnikov with a smile. He held out his hand.
“I am Major Sanchez, Havana Police.”
Rostnikov took the man’s hand.
“Your Russian is perfect.”
“You flatter me,” said Sanchez, taking Elena’s hand. “I spent four years in your country. My wife is Russian.”
Elena withdrew her hand from his.
Sanchez’s hair was dark, thin, and receding. His skin was light brown and his teeth remarkably white. His forearms and neck were powerfully muscled.
“You have children?” Rostnikov asked.
“Confused children,” said Sanchez. “They speak Russian and Spanish and think in a combination of the two that creates interesting juxtapositions. Shall we go?” Sanchez moved to the passenger side and opened both the front and rear doors. “I suggest you open the windows.”
Rostnikov got in the front seat and Elena into the rear as Sanchez moved briskly to the driver’s side and got in.
“You speak no Spanish?” Sanchez asked.
“None,” said Rostnikov, trying unsuccessfully to maneuver his leg into a position that was not terribly painful.
“Pero usted habla español muy bien, yo pienso,” Sanchez said to Elena, looking at her in his rearview mirror.
Elena looked toward Rostnikov, who was watching the traffic as Sanchez drove slowly out of the parking lot.
“Ah, I see,” said Sanchez in Russian. “You were hoping to keep your knowledge of our language a secret. Well, I wish you luck.”
“Where are we going?” Elena asked.
“Hotel,” said Sanchez. “There are many empty apartments in the Russian embassy. The place is almost abandoned, an echoing sterile mausoleum crying out for history or ghosts. You would be bored. There’s an apartment building for Russians and Bulgarians, the Sierra Maestra on First Street, right on the water, but it’s noisy and most of your people who are still there are a sullen lot, waiting to be called back to whatever country they’ve now become members of. Am I talking too much?”
They flashed down a broad street almost empty of cars. Beyond the rows of houses set back against the trees there were spots of light, suggesting a sleepy village more than a major city.
“No,” said Rostnikov.
“You have questions?” said Sanchez.
“What were you doing in Moscow?” asked Rostnikov, still looking out of the window, his eyelids heavy.
Sanchez laughed.
“I was studying literature and languages,” he said. “At Moscow University. That’s where I met my wife. I was in the army. It was expected by my family that I would come back from your country and become a general, a leader of our nation.”