The letter had been a bonus and not necessarily a welcome one. The real treasure he had sought now lay before him in the form of neatly folded sheets of names, dates, transactions, agreements, and documents.
Igor Yaklovev slowly examined the list on top of the pile, a list of some of the most prominent men in government and public life, not only in Russia but in various states of the former Soviet Union.
Before him was clear evidence of payoffs to these men from the Ural Mafia in return for protection and favors. There were even documents making clear that some of the most influential of these men were aware of killings that had taken place.
These documents were the real treasure.
Director Yaklovev returned the papers to the package, rewrapped it, and stood. He placed the package in his briefcase, lifted his phone, and pushed the button to connect him with Pankov, who answered instantly. The Yak ordered a car and hung up.
In his apartment, he would make copies of everything in his briefcase on the machine he kept in the alcove of his bedroom. The Yak lived modestly. His goal was not luxury but power. His physical needs were simple. His ambition was great but well calculated for his own protection. He did not aspire to the highest offices of Russia. He aspired to gently dictate policy to those who held such offices.
Documents like the one in his briefcase, tapes he had been collecting along with favors granted, would soon put him in position for a major move. He would savor his power like a secret collector of great art who kept his treasures for his own eyes and information and the simple, pure satisfaction of having them.
Once home and having made the copies, he would follow his long-established pattern of protecting his acquisitions by making copies in triplicate and securing them where they could not be found.
He retrieved his coat from the small closet behind his desk and reflected on what had been a very good day. Earlier, the unspoken agreement with Nikoli Lovski had gone smoothly. The Yak had arranged for the release of the man Akardy Zelach had shot and had assured Lovski that there would be no further inquiry into the situation regarding his son. In fact, there would be no report on the incident. It was a family matter. Lovski had made it clear that he fully understood and appreciated what the director of the Office of Special Investigation was doing.
As a test of their new understanding, the Yak had said to Lovski that he would very much appreciate it if Lovski’s media “gave proper credit to the heroes who had, at the risk of their own lives, made Moscow safe from the subway killer.”
Lovski had said that he would see to it that Iosef Rostnikov and Elena Timofeyeva were treated as heroes and their positions with the Office of Special Investigation made quite clear.
“And, of course, we will see to it that you too are given full credit.”
“I would prefer it if my name and contribution were not mentioned,” the Yak had said.
“Then they will not be,” Lovski had readily agreed. “There may be one problem, which I leave fully to your discretion. Your man, Karpo. He is a bit …”
“He will be no problem,” the Yak had said reassuringly.
And that had ended the conversation. It had been a good day. The car was waiting for him when he stepped beyond the gates of Petrovka. The snow was deep now. The sky dark. The air cold, a brisk, satisfying cold. Yes, it had been a good day.
It had not been a particularly good day for Elena Timofeyeva. If one discounted the pain and the twenty stitches in her shoulder, however, it could have been much worse.
There was one small lamp on the table next to the bed and it was turned on the lowest of its three-way bulb.
“I can stay but a minute,” Porfiry Petrovich said, standing over her at the bed in her aunt’s tiny bedroom. “You are all right?”
“Some pain, tired, but all right,” she said with what she hoped was a smile.
She looked very pale, and Rostnikov suspected that she had a fever. He reached down and touched her forehead. She was decidedly warm but not hot.
“I’m taking pills,” she said. “Anna is doing her best to play nurse. She is not very good at it, but she tries.”
“I will let you sleep,” he’ said. “I will come back tomorrow.”
“You look tired,” she said.
“I am,” he said, touching her hand.
She gripped the hand and said, “Has Iosef told you?”
His son was in the next room, the only other room of the tiny apartment, with Anna Timofeyeva.
“What?”
“We have decided to marry as soon as I am out of this bed,” she said. “He asked me to tell you.”
“You have told me and I am pleased,” Rostnikov said.
“I do not intend to leave my job,” she said.
“I would not wish you to,” said Rostnikov. “Recover. Sarah and I will plan a wedding.”
“Small,” she said. “Talk to Iosef. A small party. No religious wedding. A simple state wedding.”
“May I ask you a question?” Rostnikov said.
“Yes.”
“If it is an intrusion? …”
“You want to know if we plan on children.”
“Yes.”
“At some point. We have talked. At some point.”
“Good. Now sleep.”
She closed her eyes and smiled.
“Shall I turn off the light?”
“No,” she said. “I prefer it on, at least for tonight.”
Rostnikov nodded and left the bedroom.
Anna Timofeyeva sat in her chair near the window with her cat, Baku, on her lap. Iosef stood, a cup in his hand.
“Coffee or tea, Porfiry Petrovich?” she asked.
“Coffee, perhaps.”
Iosef moved to the small stove near the door to the apartment to get the cup of coffee for his father.
“You look tired, Porfiry Petrovich,” Anna said.
“I am,” he replied, taking the cup from his son. He took a sip. The coffee was tepid but strong. “And you, Anna Timofeyeva? How are you?”
“Angry,” she said with resignation. “But I have been told it is bad for my heart to be angry, so I try to convince myself that the anger is something I can put into an imaginary box and hide in the cabinet with the soup cans.”
“And does it work?”
“Of course not,” she said. “But I am trying. I read about it in a book Elena and Iosef gave me. Mysticism.”
Her reaction to the word mysticism was a nod of resignation. She was a pragmatist, always had been. She had been quite comfortable in the Communist Soviet Union, though she acknowledged its defects. Authority had been clear. The world had been solid and tangible. You worked. You died. Now her niece and the man she was going to marry gave her books about achieving tranquility. Anna was willing to exert her considerable will on being calm. She needed and wanted no books. One could rely on one’s mind if not one’s body.
“She will be all right?” Rostnikov asked.
“She will be fine,” said Iosef glumly.
“He thinks it is his fault,” said Anna, stroking the cat, whose eyes were shut in contentment.
“Of course it was my fault,” Iosef said, looking into his empty cup. “I should have seen, been more prepared. She could have been killed because I was not alert.”
“One cannot anticipate all contingencies,” said Anna Timofeyeva. “You deal with crime and criminals, sometimes lunatics. You are a policeman, not a bricklayer.”
“I know,” said Iosef. “But …”
“If you spend your life going over each act that you did not and could not anticipate,” said Anna, “you will fail to address the present.”
“Anna Timofeyeva does not believe in the past,” Rostnikov explained, gulping down the last of his coffee. “And she does not believe in God.”
“There is no past,” she said. “It is gone. There is now. There may be tomorrow. That is what you address. That is where you live, right where you stand.”
“You have turned to philosophy,” Rostnikov said.