“I’ve forgotten your name,” Maxim said. “But I know you are the son of Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov. Are you more reasonable than your father. .”
“No. I am Iosef, and this is Detective Zelach,” said Iosef, no longer smiling.
“You are not wearing a watch,” said Maxim. “I still have a few that I could give to you as a gift, were I allowed to present anything to the police that might be construed as a bribe.”
“I know the time,” said Zelach, nibbling at a piece of chocolate he had broken off.
He offered the chocolate bar to Iosef, who broke off a piece. It was bittersweet, delicious.
“You know what time it is without looking at a timepiece?” asked Maxim with a smile, looking at Iosef.
There was little Zelach might do that would surprise Iosef, who now watched for the latest hidden skill of his partner.
“It is 11:57 in the morning,” said Zelach.
Maxim looked at his watch and then at Zelach.
“You are within two minutes,” said Maxim.
“He is a man of many talents,” said Iosef, offering the chocolate bar to the old man.
“Thank you,” said Maxim, who cracked off a piece of chocolate, looked at what he had taken, made a what-the-hell shrug, and began to eat.
“Three men, black,” said Iosef. “Two are tall. One is short, chunky, wears glasses.”
“There are six of them. Sometimes they shop here,” said Maxim.
“There are only three now,” said Iosef. “Two are dead, one is missing. A Russian ten-euro gangster has him.”
“And you want to know where you can find the last three?”
“Yes,” said Iosef.
“It would be very dangerous to provoke these men, even if you had a little army. The tallest one is a little mad.”
“We will be careful. Thank you for your concern. An address?”
“I don’t know the address, but I can tell you the building.”
“He won’t know,” said Patrice, playing with a sharpened pencil, turning it over and over between the long fingers of his left hand like a miniature baton.
Patrice, Biko, and Laurence were about to leave the small apartment. They could stand it no longer. Patrice had spent one year in a Botswanan prison on suspicion of smuggling diamonds from the mine in which he had been working. The suspicions were well founded. All small rooms felt like prison cells.
The others were not much better. While Patrice had a nervousness about him, Biko was calm, seldom moving unless it was necessary, and then doing so with often vicious speed and murderous efficiency. These two men were his fellow thieves, no more. Biko’s real loyalty lay with his wives and children. For them he would die. For them he would kill even small children. He had no religion other than his family. He did, however, have a great respect for James Harumbaki as a leader who had made Biko’s life comfortable. Biko had begun life in Sudan with nothing but the likelihood of starvation after the loss of his three sisters and his parents. Biko had been nine. He had no god or gods, no country. He knew he was not smart like James or even Patrice, but he was more ruthless than they. They counted on him for the actions they did not want to take.
Laurence was a survivor. He had joined his first group of mercenaries when he was ten. He did not know what they stood for or if they stood for anything. The leader of the small band was known as Justin. Justin had used Laurence as a sex object and a boy soldier. Laurence’s one goal in life had been to graduate to bigger and bigger guns. He had succeeded. When Justin was killed by one of his own men after a drunken night, Laurence had joined another group and then another, and he was always used in some way. Chance had taken him to Botswana. Chance had put him in contact with James Harumbaki when both were waiting for a malaria injection at a free clinic. James took Laurence in. He did not abuse or take advantage of Laurence. And now Laurence had money in a bank, which he had never considered possible. He had not even known what a bank was until James taught him. And then James taught him to read and write English. Now Laurence was ready to kill or be killed if it could save James Harumbaki.
“I do not care if he knows,” said Biko. “You give them to the Russian, he looks, then he tries to kill us and James Harumbaki, but we kill him first.”
“We do not want James hurt,” said Laurence.
“No,” agreed Patrice.
Patrice’s plan was simple. He had purchased twenty smooth, bumpy, small rocks, each milky white and crystalline. Light could be seen through the rocks if they were held up to the sun or a strong lamp. He had placed the rocks in a black miniature rectangular case the size of a laptop computer. The rocks nestled on a plush black velvet surface nestled into niches in the material. This was not the best way to pass real diamonds. That was best done by putting the diamonds in a plain canvas bag with a drawstring and stuffing them into a jacket pocket or up your ass. This display of quartz was designed for show and to fool a Russian.
“He knows nothing about diamonds,” said Patrice.
“You are sure?” asked Laurence.
“I talked to him. He pretends. He speaks of pipes and carats but his words betray him. The Russian is a thug. Besides, we have no choice. We have no cash. We have no diamonds. I cannot reach Balta. I went to the club. He has not returned. He has missed shows for three nights. He is not bringing back our money or the diamonds.”
“Then we find and kill him,” said Biko. “We go to Kiev and kill him.”
“We will, but we have no time now,” said Patrice. “We need to rescue James Harumbaki.”
We need to rescue him, Patrice thought, so he can tell us what to do.
“Balta will not be easy to kill,” said Laurence, adjusting his glasses.
“Everyone is easy to kill,” said Biko.
Patrice shoved the pad of paper upon which he had been pretending to make notes into his pocket and stood.
They headed for the door, Laurence in the lead. He stepped quickly onto the darkened landing on the third floor of the building. They were greeted by the pungent smell of curry, which Biko found mildly displeasing.
The stairway was narrow, barely wide enough for two people. Patrice led the way down followed by Laurence and Biko. Twenty-six steps from the ground level alcove, amid the odors of curry and the sound of distinctly Indian music, the front door below them opened.
The three men stopped. They were looking down at the two men who had confronted them in the cafe.
Fortunately for Iosef and Zelach, they were a little more prepared than the Africans. The policemen had entered the building knowing that they might well find themselves in another gun battle. The Africans, on the other hand, while always somewhat alert, were not prepared for the sight of the two policemen.
Five men reached for handguns. Iosef fired first. Zelach fired at the same instant as Laurence. Biko and Laurence were at a disadvantage. Patrice stood between them and the two men below, who were now firing up at them.
There was a door on each side of the alcove. Iosef threw himself against the one on the right, which cracked on brittle hinges, sending the detective tumbling into a darkened room. There were two more shots as Iosef righted himself and moved to the open doorway. Then, the sounds of footsteps on the stairs. Something thudding, tumbling down. And there sat Zelach, as if he were a soldier taking a break after a long march, his weapon in his lap.
Iosef decided. He stepped into the alcove and turned his weapon upward. As he did, the body of Patrice took a tumble down the final three steps, almost knocking Iosef over. There was no one else on the steps. Biko and Laurence had retreated upward. Iosef kicked the fallen man’s weapon across the floor.
“Zelach,” Iosef called, aiming his weapon first at the fallen Botswanan and then up the stairs to the darkened landing.
“Yes,” said Zelach. “I slipped. I’m not hurt.”