The engines of the airplane which had gone down to an uneven, impatient murmur, were now revving up with loud rattling noises of belching anxiety.
“I’m Yevgeniy Zuyev,” said the first man, extending his hand. “I am the Chairman of the Town of Devochka. Let’s go inside where we can sit and talk and complete the introductions without the sound of the airplane.”
Rostnikov nodded his agreement and followed the man, who could not have been more than forty.
As they walked, Karpo observed Porfiry Petrovich’s eyes meeting those of a bearded member of the group who looked back over his shoulder. The meeting of eyes was without emotion. Karpo noted the exchange and thought the man looked familiar. Emil Karpo did not forget names or faces. He was sure he had not met the man before, yet the uncertainty of recognition impelled him to keep his eyes on the man as they walked. The man was perhaps fifty years old, bespectacled with a very serious and not friendly look on his face.
“Slow down for the Inspector, Zhenya,” said the bearded man.
“No need,” said Rostnikov.
“Sorry,” said Zhenya Zuyev, slowing his pace.
“Thank you,” said Rostnikov.
The third man in the group was a tall, remarkably muscular man no more than thirty years old. His head was shaved and he wore no hat. He could have been quite forbidding, but the smile he wore looked genuine. The last man, who walked head down and looked worried, was the oldest of the group. His hair, peeking out from under a fur hat, was white, his back bent, his face furrowed with thin lines like dried up riverbeds.
When they reached the closest building, Zuyev held the door open, and they stepped in behind Rostnikov and Karpo. They moved down a wide, well-lit corridor with Zuyev taking the lead.
They passed a large room to their right, with comfortable chairs facing a wide-screen television set.
“This is our primary building. Government office, security, large town meeting room, largest cafeteria. We have a large collection of DVDs,” said Zuyev. “Of course, most people prefer to watch in their own rooms and apartments.”
Zuyev led them into a cafeteria-style dining room where a few of the several dozen tables held teenagers and older people snacking and drinking tea or coffee.
“We serve three meals a day, every day,” said Zuyev. “Of course, most people prefer to eat in their own rooms and apartments.”
“You said that,” said the old man impatiently.
“Do you have a weight room?” asked Rostnikov.
The bald young man with a smile said, “An outstanding weight room, eleven machine stations and a full range of free weights.”
“Viktor is bench press, snatch, and clean-and-jerk champion of Siberia,” said Zuyev, skirting the tables and going through a door into a small private dining room. “He is training for the Olympics. We are very proud of him.”
“I should like to see the weight room later,” said Rostnikov.
“You lift, don’t you?” said Viktor.
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
“I knew it,” said the young man.
They sat around the table with white mugs and matching white plates set before them. Two platters of cookies stood on the table, along with insulated pitchers that Zuyev identified as Brazilian coffee and black tea.
It seemed to Rostnikov, who reached for the coffee, more like an informal party than the beginning of an investigation into the death of a foreign visitor.
“You’ve met Viktor Panin,” said Zuyev, nodding at the bald and smiling young man. “He, and the rest of us, are on the governing board, in addition to which Anatoliy Lebedev,” he nodded this time at the old man, “is the Alorosa mine director.”
Which left. .
“Fyodor Andreiovich Rostnikov,” said the bearded man, looking at Karpo. “Director of Security in Devochka and in the mines.”
There was a silence in the room, a waiting for someone to say what had to be said. Now Karpo knew why the bearded man looked familiar.
“Fyodor Andreiovich and I are brothers,” said Porfiry Petrovich.
“Ask.”
Iosef looked at Zelach and reached for a sticky apricot and mince pastry on the plate between them.
“Ask?” Zelach repeated looking around the room.
There were seventeen people at the tables. All of them but the two policemen were black.
“Ask,” said Iosef.
“What are we doing here?” asked Zelach.
“Being very conspicuous,” said Iosef, drinking some of the thick, dark tea from the blue mug in front of him. “Have another one of these. They’re delicious.”
Zelach took a pastry. It was his third. They were delicious. He would have liked to take one home for his mother but it would be awkward to ask and difficult to transport for the rest of the day.
They were being examined. Some of the black men-there were no women-looked at them directly, with reasonable curiosity, others were more furtive. Four men at a table got up to leave.
“It is my understanding from Titov. . You know Titov in the foreign visitors section?”
“Yes,” said Zelach.
A pair of men in their late twenties now rose and departed.
“He says this is where Botswanans gather. There are places where Ghanaians do the same, and many other black Africans have their own niches.”
“But. .”
“Our goal is to sit here and drive away customers by our very presence,” said Iosef.
“Why?”
“So that someone will eventually come to us, if for no reason other than to try to get us to leave.”
“There is no other way?” asked Zelach.
“Lots of other ways,” said Iosef, “but we only have nine days. Subtlety and discretion are not options. With each departure of customers, we come closer to. .”
He paused as their waiter approached. He appeared to be the only waiter for the dwindling gathering. The man was very dark, hair cut almost to the scalp and showing a frost of gray. He had a thin mustache, which also showed signs of gray, and a smooth, youthful face that defied the hint of age.
“Finished?” the man asked pleasantly reaching for the platter.
Iosef stopped him by placing a hand over the plate.
“What do you call these pastries?”
“Vetkoek,” said the man.
“Deep fried dough filled with mince?” asked Iosef.
“Yes,” said the man, glancing over at another pair of departing customers. “And we add apricots. If you wish, I can wrap some for you to take to your home or place of work.”
Zelach wanted to speak, but held back.
“No, thank you,” said Iosef with a smile. “We’ll take our time and eat these here. You are the owner of this establishment?”
“I am.”
“Your name?”
Iosef had removed from his pocket several of the white index cards he carried for notes. He paused, clicked his pen, and waited.
“Maticonay.”
Iosef wrote the name.
“I. .”
“Business is good, Mr. Maticonay?”
“Fair.”
“We are policemen,” said Iosef.
“Yes,” said the man, looking at the low, sagging ceiling above him as Iosef put his cards and click pen on the table. Another two customers left.
“We want to ask you some questions, and if we like the answers we will leave and recommend your place to other policemen.”
“I would rather you did not recommend.”
“Then we will not.”
Iosef carefully withdrew an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. The man watched as Iosef removed two photographs and a drawing and placed them on the table.
“You know these men?”
The photographs of the two dead men on Paulinin’s autopsy tables were reasonably clear-clear enough to make it evident that the two men were dead.
“No,” said the man.
Iosef looked at Zelach who shook his head no.
“That’s not true,” said Iosef. “My partner is psychic, or maybe just sensitive to such things. If he says you are not telling the truth, then you are not telling the truth, Mr. Maticonay.”