A trio of men in clean green uniforms stepped into the cafeteria, talking and arguing. Their voices were almost at the level of rage as they debated the pros and cons of starting a colony of humans on Mars, a colony that they would never live long enough to witness.
One of the men, the shortest, was not speaking. He was shaking his head to indicate that both of his fellow workers were wrong. It was this short man who noticed Karpo looking up at him. The short man stopped in front of a table of clean, heavy white platters.
The other two men noticed that their colleague had stopped and they did so too although they tried to keep talking.
The policeman from Moscow made them instantly uneasy. It was not that they were guilty of anything. At least nothing very much. No, the policeman scared all three of them. He just sat there, back straight, unblinking, dressed in black from shoes to shirt. The three men left the cafeteria saying nothing to each other, having decided not to eat.
Five minutes later the manager of the cafeteria, a heavy, lumbering man came out of the kitchen and went to sit in front of Karpo.
Karpo looked at his visitor, who was clean shaven with perfectly clean, trimmed fingernails.
“May I ask you to leave, Chief Inspector?”
“I’m not a Chief Inspector,” said Karpo.
“Inspector, then. You are frightening away people on the night shift who want to get some coffee, a roll maybe, and sit talking for a few minutes. You understand?”
“Perfectly,” said Karpo.
“So. .”
“I am not ready to leave.”
The manager rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and went on. “All right. I get paid no more if I have one customer, you, or thirty.”
“That was always a weakness of Communism,” said Karpo. “A lack of incentives.”
The chief started a smile and then let it go.
“Then you will leave?”
“Eventually,” said Karpo.
“I cannot put this more delicately,” said the manager with a sigh. “You frighten away almost everyone.”
“I am aware that my face and bearing evoke no smiles.”
“That is putting it very delicately,” said the manager, leaning forward and whispering, “Can I tell you something in confidence?”
“Of course,” said Karpo. “However, I may not be prepared to listen in good faith.”
“I give up. You are a conundrum. Do you play chess?”
“No,” said Karpo.
“You want another coffee?”
“Yes.”
The manager, defeated, began to rise. Karpo spoke.
“The Canadian died at eleven at night. The killer was someone familiar with the mine. The killer may have come in here just before or just after the murder.”
“And?”
“It is my hope that when he sees me he will betray himself.”
“Or herself?”
“Yes,” said Karpo.
“I will get your coffee. Do not hurry off on my account before I come back.”
“I will be here,” said Karpo.
It was just about then, give or take ten minutes, that the killer Karpo sought walked into the cafeteria, glanced at him, nodded, and moved to the coffee urn after first picking up a clean cup. Tolya Lebedev had been dead for less than fifteen minutes when the killer sat down in front of Karpo, coffee mug in one hand, small plate of cookies in the left.
“Do you mind?” the killer asked amiably.
“No,” said Karpo.
“Well,” said the killer, reaching for a cookie as the cafeteria manager returned with a mug of coffee. “Now, what shall we talk about?”
Contrary to the hope of Emil Karpo, the killer did not reveal himself.
Igor Yaklovev, the Yak, had a whiteboard with a black marker and a cloth to erase anything he might not wish to be seen. The board almost covered the top of the desk in his bedroom. The Yak had a small bottle of alcohol with which to rub down the board after erasing it. He had been assured by a forensics technician he had known in the KGB that nothing would remain that could be brought out by even the latest chemical or ultraviolet ray techniques.
The Yak used the board to get a graphic image of whatever he was working on. While he used pens, pencils, paper, and even the computer, he distrusted them, and with good reason. He had learned a great deal from the discarded writings of others. He still had Pankov go through the waste baskets and check e-mails and daily file entries.
After a few minor successes on notes written by his detectives and people in other offices who had not been careful, the Yak had ceased to check Rostnikov’s garbage. This had occurred shortly after Yaklovev had taken over the Office of Security Investigation. Pankov had brought him a trio of crumpled papers. The first contained an unflattering penciled likeness of Igor Yaklovev looking into a trash can. The second paper contained an erased note in English that the Yak carefully brought up. The note read, Do your job and you shall be rewarded. The third sheet was an ad torn from a newspaper. It read: EXPERIENCED SCAVENGERS WANTED.
Yaklovev sat at the desk in his bedroom. A few feet to his right there stood an antique upright radio. The radio had not worked since 1943. It had belonged to the Yak’s grandparents. His father had turned the radio into a shell that could be lifted. Inside the shell was a safe to which only Igor had the combination. Should anyone penetrate the safety devices in the apartment, find the safe, and open it, they would be facing neat piles of official-looking documents they could easily grab and run with.
The Yak knew this might indeed happen-the radio and the safe were but decoys. The truly important notes and valuables, audio and video tapes, and substantial amounts of cash-euros, dollars, and yen-were safely hidden in a concealed wall safe in an apartment one block away-a short walk to the Shabolovskaya Metro. The safe was rigged to explode if anyone who did not use the fail-safe code opened it.
Now, the Yak looked at what he had printed on the board:
Devochka-Diamond mine-Diamonds slowly stolen-Rostnikov, Karpo-Diamonds taken secretly to Moscow. Problem: Canadian geologist murdered in mine. Why? Because he found the thief? Probable.
Moscow-Diamonds are delivered from Devochka to Botswanan smugglers. Courier transports to Kiev for payment.-I. Rostnikov, Zelach. Problem: Two of the Botswanans are tortured, murdered. Why? By whom? Dispute among Botswanans? Someone else wants to profit?
Kiev-Courier exchanges diamonds for cash? Courier murdered on Kiev-Moscow train. Tkach, Timofeyeva-Problem: By whom?
The Yak sat back, adjusted his glasses, and examined what he had written. The black writing held clues to profit-profit political and financial. Igor Yaklovev was not a greedy man, but he was an ambitious one.
He had survived through the end of the Soviet Union to the present by gathering information on everyone up to and including Putin. His goal was not to be rich or famous but to exert quiet power at the highest levels, even if it were from the office he now headed.
As it was, his current position of power was being threatened by a general named Frankovich, who coveted the Yak’s small but increasingly influential base. The Yak was working on this. One had to work constantly to remain even and hope to gain just a bit at a time.
To accomplish his goals, Igor Yaklovev had to rely on Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov. The Yak did not understand Rostnikov. They were as unlike as two survivors could be and yet they were a perfect match. The taciturn Chief Inspector, who always seemed amused by some inner joke, had no ambition, but he understood fully that his present and future were very much dependent on the Yak. Yaklovev provided protection for his Chief Inspector and his detectives, and Rostnikov provided information success after success.