“She killed people?”
“Let us say, she was proximate when people died.”
“You believe in this ghost girl?”
Fedya stopped pacing and sat in the chair facing his brother. He lowered his voice and said, “No, but that is said only in the relative privacy of this office which, as far as I can tell, is clean of microphones. In here, I’m an atheist. Out there with the people who live here and work the mines, I am an agnostic. Some of these good and not-so-good people have families that have been here four generations. They are the families of criminals sent to this Gulag. They have developed their own lore. I respect it or I cannot do my job. So, as someone said, ‘Sometimes the prospect of two and two equaling five has a definite attraction.’ ”
“Dostoevsky,” said Porfiry Petrovich.
“I know,” said his brother. “You want to talk to more people or you want to go into the mine?”
“Both. People first. Mine later.”
“I have from time to time kept track of you,” said Fedya. “Curiosity. Even in so remote a spot as this, it is remarkable what a security officer can access with a computer-even information about a Chief Inspector of Police in Moscow.”
“And I, I confess, have from time to time kept track of you. It is remarkable what a Chief Inspector of Police in Moscow can, with a telephone, discover about a security officer at a remote mine in Siberia.”
“Yes, the mine. We must not in our nostalgic journey forget about why you are here. Your man Karpo is down there right now. Would you care for a slice of apple square or a Gogol Mogol?”
“Very much.”
“Good,” said Fedya. “Let’s see what they have in the cafeteria.”
Oxana did not trust Jan Pendowski. There were many reasons. First, he had the diamonds now. Second, he was a policeman, a corrupt one to be sure, but the police, she believed, were divided into only two groups, the ones with devious minds and the ones who took the most direct approach. Oxana had known both. Jan was devious, but not nearly as clever as he thought himself to be. Oxana was certain the diamonds were in his apartment. She was certain he meant to go with her to Paris, let her sell the diamonds, and then kill her. It was the only reasonable thing to do. They were very good at pleasing each other in bed or on the floor, but they were not in love.
And so, Oxana meant to get into Jan’s apartment, find the diamonds, and then kill him.
Meanwhile, the gods of her great grandparents looked down at her. Her agency had called. An editor of Paris Match was going to be in Kiev for a few days to set up a layout. The editor, Rochelle Tanquay, wanted to meet Oxana for dinner to discuss featuring Oxana in a spread, at least six photographs, to be shot in Paris in a week.
That was why Oxana was ushered to a table at the same restaurant where Balta had dined the night before.
And Balta was there again at this most interesting meeting.
Rochelle Tanquay was slim, elegant in a dark dress, hair cut in a Louise Brooks bob, perfect makeup. She was extremely pretty, perhaps thirty-five, maybe a bit older.
“I speak French,” said Oxana.
“And I speak some Russian, but I’m sure your French is better than my Russian,” said the woman with a smile, offering Oxana a cigarette, which Oxana accepted.
“I brought my portfolio,” said Oxana.
“Not necessary,” Rochelle said with a wave of her hand. “I am familiar with your work.”
“You are a model?”
“Was,” said Rochelle ruefully. “Do you know that man over there?”
“Man?”
Oxana turned her head. There was a lean man of about forty who turned his head, pretending to admire the not-very-interesting plaster figures on the wall.
“Yes, I see. It’s not unusual for men to give me furtive glances,” said Rochelle, “but this one seems particularly interested in you. He has the look of a stalker. I should know.”
“You have had the experience?”
“More than once,” said Rochelle, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “Shall we order first or begin talking?”
A waiter would approach soon. Ukrainian waiters were gallingly slow and inattentive, but not to women who looked like these two.
Balta watched, smiled.
“We want you for a new line, Givenchy all-purpose evening wear. I think you would be perfect. The photographer who will be doing the shoot thinks you are perfect.”
A waiter approached, hovered, offered wine suggestions, told of specials he recommended. They ordered.
“I have negotiated a price with your agency. I am sure you do not want to talk money. Neither do I. I do want to talk schedule. Could you be ready to leave for Paris two days from today?”
“Yes,” said Oxana.
Rochelle noticed that the man at the nearby table was still watching them.
“I have some business to take care of here,” said Oxana. “The day after tomorrow would be perfect.”
Rochelle touched her chin with an elegant finger and said, “A man?”
“Yes. I just need the right moment to let him know that I will no longer be seeing him.”
Rochelle nodded and said, “Make it soon.”
“I will,” said Oxana. “Very soon.”
Both Rochelle and Oxana ate lightly, a salad of beets and carrots, and drank moderately, a French wine. Rochelle picked up the check. It was what Oxana expected. This was a business meeting, and Paris Match could certainly afford it.
When they rose, so did the man at the nearby table.
Balta had seen enough, heard enough. Patience. When the time came to kill Oxana Balakona, and it would surely come soon, he had a very nice surprise for her.
At ten thirty-five on the second night of the investigation, the person who had murdered the Canadian geologist Luc O’Neil, put a knife deeply into the side of Anatoliy Lebedev.
Lebedev was old, a brittle collection of scarred sinew and bones. He had not wanted to go into the mine at night. He did not want to go into the mine at all. He had spent enough time in that coughing, cold darkness of muffled echoes and distant cries.
He did not believe in the ghost girl. Never had believed, even as a very young man, when he was known as Tolya. No one had called him Tolya for many years. There was no one still alive who even remembered when he was Tolya.
The second thrust came, far less painful than the first. This one entered on the left side of his neck and pointed downward.
“I am sorry,” the killer whispered.
Lebedev could barely hear him. It was time. He wanted to sleep forever now. The intrigues of the living were pointless. They only thought they were doing something of importance to anyone. Lebedev had stopped telling stories of his youth, stopped declaring the triumphs and losses of his boyhood. No one cared.
The irony was that the person standing over him in the green glow of the lights in the mine was one of the few, the very few, who had shown any interest in Lebedev, except to court his vote on the Board.
“You understand?”
The face was inches from his. Lebedev wanted it gone. First you murder me and then you let my last image be that of someone who needs mouthwash? The smell of garlic, cheese, tobacco, and something else rancid and sweet would be his last memory.
There was no hereafter.
There was only the unpleasant smell of the slayer, the knife wielder, the assassin, the killer. Unpleasant.
He said something so low that the man who had killed him had to lean forward, ear inches from the mouth of the dying man.
As Lebedev died, the killer whispered, “Da svi’daniya. Good-bye, Tolya.”
Anatoliy Davidovich Lebedev smiled and died.
At ten thirty-five on the night of the second day of the investigation, Emil Karpo sat, book in hand, at a table in the cafeteria. He was situated, as he had wished, where he could see people come and go. He intended to sit here until one a.m.-he had been told the cafeteria never closed-and then go to his room to sleep till six o’clock. He needed no more sleep than this. Karpo’s nights were without dreams, always had been so except for the few weeks after the death of Mathilde Verson. Mathilde, smiling, full of life, then full of death.