The room had not been cleaned or cleared or touched since their last visit.
“Nina Aronskaya,” Karpo said. “Where is she?”
“Anarchista?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I ask,” said Karpo, staring down at the boy who tried to hold his ground.
“I do not know where she is,” he said.
“You will come with us,” said Karpo. “Put on some clothes.”
“Where are we going?” the boy asked, looking at Zelach, who blinked behind his glasses.
“Somewhere where you will be very uncomfortable,” said Karpo. “Somewhere where you will remember where Nina Aronskaya is. Somewhere where you will remember perhaps where Misha Lovski is.”
“I do not know where the Cossack is,” the boy said. “He is … this is no big thing. He just wandered for a few days. He will come back.”
“Put on your pants,” said Karpo. “You have one minute. It is cold outside today. One minute or we take you as you are.”
The boy looked at Zelach, who continued to do his best to look impassive. He wanted to tell the boy to do what Karpo wanted, that Karpo had been behaving even more strangely than usual, that the boy would be very sorry if he did not cooperate. Zelach willed the boy not to show any disrespect. Karpo was never in the mood for disrespect for the law. Today would be a particularly bad day to test him.
“She went with Acid,” the boy said.
“Yakov Mitsin,” said Karpo.
“Yes,” the boy said. “To the Gorbushka. They are looking for new clothes, giving us a new look in case the Cossack does not come back.”
“You just told us you were sure he would be back,” said Karpo.
“I know, but Anarchista said we should not count on it. She is getting a little … forget it.”
“A little what?” asked Karpo.
“She said the Cossack is a Jew, that his father is rich,” the boy said. “She has been talking crazy like that. They got new clothes for the band and when the Cossack comes back he will be pissed.”
Karpo stared into the eyes of the boy, who tried to meet the look but gave up.
“Does Mitsin have a cell phone? The girl?”
“No,” said the boy.
“If you are lying and you call them, we will return for you,” said Karpo.
“I will not be here,” the boy said. “This is getting too … I am getting out.”
“No,” said Karpo. “You will stay here. If you leave, we will find you and you will not be pleased when we do. You understand?”
“I will be here,” the boy said with a sigh.
Then the policemen had headed for the market.
It was Zelach who spotted the girl, not because his eyes were more keen than Karpo’s. They were not. Not because he was looking more closely. He was not. It was a sense he could not explain, a sense his mother had taught him to accept. One moment he was looking at random faces and the next he felt that he should turn left and look all the way across the room. The crowd parted for a fraction of an instant and he saw her.
“There,” he said to Karpo.
Karpo turned his eyes toward where Zelach was looking. He was tall enough to see over most of the people who shuffled and stomped down the aisles, and he caught a glimpse of scarlet hair.
It was pointless for Emil Karpo to try to hide in the crowd, in any crowd. People parted when he approached, even people inside this concrete shrine to hatred.
“Go to the door,” he told Zelach. “She does not get out.”
“Yes,” said Zelach.
“You understand?”
“Yes,” he said.
“If you must shoot her or anyone who attempts to stop you, do so, but try not to kill them.”
Zelach did not say yes. He did not nod. Karpo was already beyond him, making his way toward the girl with the flaming-red hair. Zelach looked toward the girl, who did not seem to have noticed the two policemen. He made his way as quickly as he could back to the main entrance. People did not part for him as they had when he was at Karpo’s side. He was jostled, given nasty looks. He heard a few muttered insults and some not so muttered. Alone he looked less formidable and more like a storekeeper or office worker who had made the wrong turn into a bad neighborhood at lunchtime.
It took him almost a full minute to get back to the front entrance. He patted his jacket with the inside of his right arm and felt his gun resting in the holster. He was almost certain that he would be unable to shoot the girl or anyone else unless they were armed and directly threatening him. He would brandish his gun, which might bring the crowd down on him but might succeed in stopping the girl. He could fire into the ceiling, which might bring the crowd down on him and might stop the girl. Or he could try to subdue her and hold her till Karpo came to his aid.
Zelach was not weak. He did not have nearly the strength of Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov or Iosef Rostnikov or Emil Karpo, but he was not without his reserves.
That was what he would do.
Zelach was now convinced that something had happened to Karpo, that he would have to tell someone about the strange things he was doing, but who? Porfiry Petrovich was the logical choice, but he was on a train heading into Siberia. Zelach had no desire to come face to face with Director Igor Yaklovev, who might not believe him or might not care. He had the distinct feeling-no, the certainty-that Yaklovev considered Zelach a fool to be suffered because Chief Inspector Rostnikov wanted him.
Emil Karpo was the senior inspector in the Office of Special Investigation in Porfiry Petrovich’s absence. Zelach decided to do what he always did in difficult situations. He would ask his mother.
Positioned next to the door, trying not to draw attention to himself and failing miserably, Zelach adjusted his glasses, leaned back against the wall, and plunged his hands into his pockets.
Across the room in the vicinity of where he had seen the girl, Zelach could make out the spear-straight figure of Emil Karpo. He wished he could hear what was being said. He had the distinct feeling that it was not going well.
Had he been close to Karpo and privy to the conversation, he would have seen and heard what follows:
Neither the girl nor Yakov Mitsin at her side noticed Karpo approaching. They were haggling over the cost of studded-denim and leather jackets, caps, and belts with a thin man wearing a black overcoat.
“Nina Aronskaya,” Karpo said.
The girl froze in mid-sentence. She had met Karpo but once. She would never forget his voice and knew what she would see when she turned.
Mitsin turned first and faced him. Then she turned.
Karpo said nothing. He ignored the young man and looked at the girl. She was overly made-up, her artificially powdered face even whiter than Karpo s own. Her lips were a bright artificial red that matched her short hair. She wore a ring through her nose, which she had not borne when Karpo had seen her naked in Misha Lovski’s apartment.
The look of fear was there and gone almost before it came into existence, but Karpo recognized it. Now would come the bluff, the lies. They would come if Karpo did not stop them. People around them were watching them now, sensing a confrontation.
“Misha Lovski,” answered Karpo.
“How did you find us?” Yakov Mitsin asked.
Karpo ignored him.
“You found him?” the girl asked.
“If we had, I would not be here.”
“What do you want?” asked Mitsin, looking at the watching circle of faces.
Karpo continued to ignore him.
Mitsin was wearing a leather jacket covered with patches displaying weapons. The girl wore an almost-matching jacket, but hers bore painted images of naked males’ and females, some pressing together facing each other or with the male figure behind.
“Where is Misha Lovski?” Karpo asked the girl.
“I do not know,” she said. “How should I know? I am not his mother.”
“That is Anarchista,” a male voice came from behind Karpo.
“And that is Acid,” came a female voice. “It is Acid.”