Bronborg was thirty-six years old, a mercenary who had worked as a private bodyguard in Brazil, Norway, France, and Bahrain. He spoke many languages and had many names, including Antonio Barleon, Sven Istermann, and Stephan Pomier. His current name was unknown and he had given Karpo none before he went into surgery and when he emerged after it.
Bronborg answered no questions. He met Karpo’s eyes and spoke, but answered no questions. He had been given, at his own insistence, only a local anesthetic. It was clear that he wanted no drug or medication to interfere with his thoughts. Pain was preferable. Karpo understood.
“I will answer no questions,” he said in nearly perfect Russian.
“Then,” said Karpo, “I shall ask you none. I will tell you that we know who you are.”
“Interpol?”
“Yes,” said Karpo. “Interpol. You are not wanted anywhere.”
“I know,” said the man in the hospital bed.
He was the embodiment of a mercenary or bodyguard, powerful arms and chest, a determined, hard dark face of no particular ethnic distinction. He had a white scar high on his forehead, and up close Karpo could see that the man had lost just a small piece of the tip of his left earlobe.
“I know who you work for,” Karpo said.
The man in the bed looked at the policeman with his deep-brown and unemotional eyes and said, “I believe you.”
“You tried to kill a police officer,” Karpo said.
“I did not know you were a police officer,” the man said. “I thought you were an assassin or kidnapper.”
“So you and your friend were there to protect a pair of minor musicians.”
“That is a question?”
“Let us call it a statement.”
“My companion, whose name I do not know, and I saw you and assumed the worst. You are not exactly a reassuring figure. And people do lie about being policemen.”
“And about being protectors of musicians.”
“You have my file. I work for whomever pays me. It is what I do. I cannot tell you more. In my work, my reputation for confidentiality is essential. I am sure you understand.”
“I understand,” said Karpo.
“So, if you plan to torture or drug me, please proceed. It will not be the first time. I will not speak.”
“You will be neither drugged nor tortured,” said Karpo. “I know who your current employer is. It is in your file.”
“Then I would like to rest,” said the man, closing his eyes. “We can resume our conversation later.”
“You will be charged.”
“You will do what you must,” the man said.
With that the man was asleep. Karpo was certain the Swede was not pretending. It was not just the aftermath of surgery. The man had learned the art of sleeping when one could and, Karpo was certain, the art of awakening fully prepared when one had to do so.
And now Emil Karpo sat behind his desk, Akardy Zelach sitting across from him, trying to hide his feeling, something between fear and concern. He was sure Karpo could read him clearly, knew what he was thinking, while he had no idea what was on Karpo’s mind. He never knew what Karpo was thinking even when the man was his usual self, which he had definitely not been for several days.
“How is he?” Zelach asked. “The man I shot?”
“He will recover.”
“That is good.”
“Perhaps,” said Karpo as he closed the folder and rose. Zelach rose with him. Karpo moved out of the cubicle with Zelach behind him. Zelach wanted to ask where they were going, but he said nothing.
Karpo did not tell him that they were going to confront a kidnapper.
Misha Lovski, the Naked Cossack, did not think he had killed his jailer. He had gone into the next room, found a light switch, and turned it on. When he went back to examine the jailer, he thought he detected breathing. Blood flowed thick and dark from the matted hair of the man.
Misha dragged the unconscious man to the cell, stripped off his clothes, and put them on. They fit well. He knew they would. He left the cage and locked the door. The jailer had carried a small revolver, not terribly impressive, but the man was not in a business that normally required him to carry a weapon. For that matter, neither was Misha, who had never fired a weapon in his life. The gun in his hand felt remarkably light as he moved back to the door to the room and opened it. If he encountered anyone, he would pull the trigger and hope it would fire.
He was well aware that his confinement, the light and darkness, the blaring music, his humiliating nakedness, which he believed he had turned to cossack strength, had altered him. That he might be a bit mad was a distinct possibility. But that would pass or, if not, he would make use of it. It had already helped him compose new songs. His mind was racing with words and driving, hammering music demanding to be set free. He wanted a guitar, not a gun, but he would use the instrument in his hand first.
The room into which he stepped, about the size of the room in which he had been imprisoned, was simply furnished, with concrete floor and walls. It looked like a space into or out of which someone was just moving, with a large, modern, modular metal computer desk against one wall with a large-screen computer on top of it. A chair stood in front of the computer. There was another table, same material, with three chairs, metal arms and legs, seat and back of tan material. A chair which matched those at the table stood in one corner, not far from the door to his former prison. It was meant to be a comfortable version of the others, with a small footrest. Next to that chair was a side table with an open book on top of it.
Misha moved to the book and picked it up. It had something to do with communications technology. He put it back and moved to another door quite different from the one to his prison. This door had a button, a round white button, next to it. He pressed the button, gun in hand, ready to kill.
The door opened almost instantly. There was no one before him. He stepped forward and the door closed behind him.
Karpo in front, Zelach behind, moved in front of the person waiting behind the window. They stopped and Karpo said only, “We will see him now.”
It was not a request. It was an order. Zelach had no idea how his order would be taken. He took a deep breath as quietly as he could and looked around at the armed men around them. This was not a terribly good idea, but he did not know what to say or how he might put into words what he was feeling. He tried to remember his mother’s advice, but it was too late for that. He was with Emil Karpo. He would do his duty even if Karpo had begun to … He did not want to finish his thought.
There was a long beat and Zelach would not have been surprised if Karpo had pulled out his gun and fired.
Instead, the person Karpo was addressing looked into his eyes and saw much of what Zelach had become well aware. The person nodded.
Misha Lovski stood, eyes forward, weapon ready. His hands were moist and he felt his heart beating quickly. He recited a mantra aloud though he did not call it that.
“The Cossack will have revenge. The Cossack will emerge stronger than ever. The Cossack will have revenge. The Cossack will emerge stronger. The Cossack will have revenge. The Cossack will emerge stronger.”
The door opened. Misha Lovski stepped out, weapon raised, and aimed at the man behind the desk across the room. Two men stood before the desk. Misha did not recognize them. One was rather soft-looking, with large glasses, a bookkeeper. The other was dressed in black with the pallor of a zombie.
The man behind the desk was Misha’s father. He looked up at his son calmly, hand flat on his desk.
“Whoever moves dies,” Misha said.
His father smiled and then the smile faded.
“You did not?…” he said.
“My brother is in the cage where you put me. I think he is alive. I do not care. You can care for another minute. Then I will kill you.
Misha moved forward.