Master Abhramov's studio was over a pita bakery. The place always smelled sweetly of dough. Their car slowed in front of the run-down building.
"Study hard." His father winked."There's a lot at stake."
Pavel gathered up his notebook and computer, and opened the door. He ran inside Abhramov's building, on cloud nine. As he headed for the narrow stairs, a man was standing in his way.
"I'm afraid that I'm lost," he said."Do you know where Haaretz Street is?"
The man was large and handsome, in a blue shirt and khakis, his eyes hidden by sunglasses. He spoke English like a tourist. American, perhaps.
"Haaretz? I think it's just down there. At the end of the street."
"Can you show me?" the man asked."I'm not from around here."
Abhramov would be expecting him. They had an hour and a half, and the grumpy old master didn't like him to be late.
"Just here." Pavel pushed back through the door and pointed."At the end. The bakery. You see?"
That was one of the last things he remembered.
Other than a hand wrapping around his mouth, and the damp, acrid cloth that smelled of chemicals. And the feeling of total weightlessness, of being carried away.
And the fear that his father would be angry when he came to pick him up and he wasn't there.
Chapter 97
"MIRA, LISTEN CLOSELY.I can't find Pavel! "
Nordeshenko's heart was beating wildly. The chess instructor said his son had never arrived for his lesson. It had happened a few times before-always when Nordeshenko was away on business. He combed the streets around the studio. He checked the ice-cream stalls, the bakeries, Pavel's favorite places. No one had seen the boy.
"He wasn't there when I went to pick him up at Abhramov's. I was hoping he had called."
"What do you mean?" His wife became alarmed."He always waits there. He knows not to stray."
"He didn't go to his lesson. Is there anywhere he might go that you can think of? Someplace he's spoken of? A friend?" How many times had he told the boy he had to be careful?
"No!" Mira's voice began to get excited."Maybe he took the bus. I've let him once or twice."
"He wouldn't let us know?"
Over the years, Nordeshenko had experienced the hollow feeling when a job didn't go right. He had that feeling now.
"We've got to call the police," Mira said.
"No!"The police! That was exactly what he couldnot do. Draw attention to himself. Now-with Reichardt in his house. What if they looked into him? He'd have to explain where he'd been overseas. And who this visitor was.
No, he had to think."You could be right about the bus. I'll follow the line. I'll call you closer to home."
Nordeshenko switched off and wound the Audi through the streets of the Old Town, frantically searching for his son's face amid the crowds.This is payback, he thought,for the things I have done.
On Hassan Shukri, near Memorial Park, he overtook a city bus and swung the car in front of it to block its path."I'm looking for my son," he yelled, and pounded on the door for the driver to open."Please, let me in!"
People would be panicked, he knew. They would think him a terrorist!"Look, I'm not armed." He put out his arms. Finally, the hesitant driver opened the door.
"Pavel!" Nordeshenko jumped on, searching the rows of startled passengers.
Pavel wasn't there!
"I'm sorry, but we must move on," the driver said. Nordeshenko stepped back onto the street.
Mira was right. They would have to call the police. There was no escaping it. Even to delay a minute could endanger his son more. Reichardt would have to leave-immediately. But surely Mira would mention him. The police would look into him.This was very bad!
Minutes later, Nordeshenko pulled into his driveway. He slammed the Audi door and ran into his house."Any word?"
"No." Mira shook her head, clearly panicked.
"We're in trouble," Nordeshenko said, realizing now there was no other choice.
Reichardt came in from the deck."What's wrong?"
"You have to leave.Now. Pavel is missing. We have to call the police."
The South African's eyes stretched wide. Nordeshenko instinctively knew what the man was thinking. The conversation would turn to their visitor. They would have to explain him-and why he had had to leave so suddenly.
The telephone rang, reprieving them.
Mira covered her mouth."Maybe that's him."
Nordeshenko ran to the phone. He didn't want to let the South African out of his sight. He swallowed, lifting the receiver.
"Pavel?"
"You have a nice boy," the voice on the line replied."I'm going to give you instructions, and the degree to which you follow them will determine whether you ever see him again."
"What?" Nordeshenko grunted. So it was some kind of kidnapping. He spoke in English.Perfect English.
"I have your son," the caller said again."The good news is you can have him back safe and sound in a matter of minutes. The bad news is if you don't do precisely what I ask, you'll never see him again."
"Who is this?" Nordeshenko demanded.
"Never mind who it is. What I'd focus on now is which of those two scenarios you see taking place."
Nordeshenko looked at Mira, gave her a bolstering nod."Let's proceed with the good news. Getting Pavel back."
"That's wise. First things first. I think we're both aware that it's not in either of our interests to involve the police. Do we have an understanding on that?"
"We don't have an understanding on anything, except that you will give me back my son. I want to speak with him."
"I'm afraid that won't be happening. Let's just say he's wearing jeans and a red sweatshirt and Nike sneakers, and he's carrying some chess books and a wallet with a picture of his family in his pocket. As far as the rest, I'm afraid you'll have to trust us on that."
"You don't have any idea who you're dealing with," Nordeshenko threatened into the phone.
"Oh, yes I do. I know who I'm dealing with,Kolya Remlikov. "
Chapter 98
IF SOMEONE HAD suddenly burst in and blasted Nordeshenko up against the wall with a shotgun, he would have been no less stunned. No one had uttered that name to him in ten years.
He realized he was dealing with a more serious adversary.
"You hurt him," Nordeshenko said,"you'll be paying for that mistake the rest of your life."
"Hurthim?" the American caller said."I believe that's more your style, Remlikov. You mean hurt him as in the elevator of the courthouse back in New York? Like what you did to those two marshals?"
Whatever color was left in Nordeshenko's face drained.
Who could this be? Who had traced him? Even Cavello's people didn't know who he was. This was worse than a ransom. His whole life was unraveling.
Nordeshenko's mouth was as dry as sandpaper."How much do you want?" he muttered.
"How much do we want? Not a cent, not a penny. You can have your boy back and go on with your decrepit, lying life. All you have to do is give me a single piece of information."
"Information." Nordeshenko wet his lips."And what is that?"
"Cavello," the caller answered.
Nordeshenko's heart crashed to a stop. He had never once given a client up. He had never traded with anybody, never considered it. The list of people he worked with was sacred.