Biko and Laurence sat in the almost empty late evening car of the Metro as far from others as they could. Across from them on a seat lay a German shepherd, asleep. There was no human who looked like an owner nearby. Laurence was particularly fond of dogs and wanted to move across and carefully offer his hand. The dog did not seem to belong to anyone. Maybe they could take it with them. Dogs had a calming effect on him, and he harbored a very slight feeling of guilt about the three times not long ago in Somalia when he had eaten the meat of scrawny dogs.
Farther down, three Russians were sprawled on the seat. They were drunk. One man had his head in the lap of a second. The third lay by himself, eyes open, about to slip to the floor.
As the car doors began to close, a large bald man holding a cloth to the back of his head got in, glanced at Biko and Laurence, and sat at the far end of the car.
The train moved out of the station, and a Russian voice announced the next station.
The bald man, Pau Montez, did not look directly at the Africans, and in the next car Iosef and Zelach sat doing their best not to be seen by the desperate Biko and Laurence.
“Do you know why I pace like this?” asked Kolokov without stopping.
James Harumbaki was not interested in the question but he waited for an answer. He was seated at a table, the chessboard before him. He was not tied, and he considered, since the large bald man was not present, that it might be possible to run across the room, throw open the door, dash through the house, and, once in the open, make a dash over the pile of rubbish and into the partial cover of the trees. He had gauged all this. It might be possible, but it was unlikely to succeed. James Harumbaki’s legs were weak. One eye was almost closed. He felt slightly dizzy. And there were two others in the room, silent Russians, one of whom, though he looked quite out of shape, was close to the door. Better to wait for a more promising opportunity.
“Do you know why I pace?” Kolokov repeated, smoking as he walked a bit faster across the room.
James Harumbaki’s lower lip was swollen where Kolokov had punched him.
The room smelled of sweat, tobacco, and sour dampness. James Harumbaki would have been sick to his stomach even if Kolokov had not punched his belly.
“No, I do not,” said James Harumbaki.
“Because, it helps me think, think, think.”
With each “think” Kolokov had tapped the side of his head with a distinct thwack.
James Harumbaki nodded his understanding.
“I am not surrounded by a council of great minds,” Kolokov said, looking at his two cohorts who provided no response. “I would like to have at least one person I can count on to use his head for something besides a battering ram. You know what I mean?”
James Harumbaki croaked a “yes.”
As a matter of fact, he did know what it was like to be surrounded by people who could not think. He wondered what resources Patrice, Biko, and Laurence were calling upon to replace his leadership. His life depended on what they were going to do and, while he did not doubt their determination, loyalty, or courage, he had no illusions about their intellect.
He smiled. Two gangs of incompetents led by a mad Russian and a Botswanan who really wanted to be a baker of fine cakes.
“This is funny?” asked Kolokov.
“No,” said James Harumbaki. “I was just thinking that you are clearly correct in your assessment of the situation. We Africans smile at different things than do Russians.”
Kolokov decided to ignore his hostage’s reply.
James Harumbaki decided that he would have to control himself to keep from beating the Russian in six or eight moves when the man stopped pacing and decided to play another game of chess.
“All the great. . ” Kolokov began when the door opened.
The large bald man entered and said, “You will not believe this.”
Kolokov had stopped pacing.
“I would believe that Putin has become a Jew,” Kolokov said. “I would believe that the sun is about to stop shining. I would believe you have seen the ghost of Lenin. What can you possibly say that I would not believe? What are you doing here? You are supposed to be waiting for us at the War Memorial. You are supposed to be looking for the Africans.”
“There was a demonstration at the War Memorial,” said the bald man. “Faggots were putting flowers on the tomb.”
“How patriotic,” said Kolokov.
“Then there were lots of people. Men, boys, old women, priests. They came throwing eggs, water, stones. I got hit. Look.”
He turned his head to reveal a bloody opening that almost certainly needed stitches and certainly would not be getting them.
“The police came.”
“Yes, they beat the queers,” said Kolokov, wanting the bald man to get to the point.
“No, they beat the others, the men, the women, the priests. .”
“Yes, yes,” said Kolokov. “Were the Africans there?”
“Yes, there were two of them. They ran away. I think some of the crowd was chasing them. I followed them. They got on the Metro.”
“Where did they go?”
“To a bar, a bar full of blacks. I think they may have noticed me.”
One of the other two men made a sound that may have been a laugh. The bald man gave him a warning look.
“How could they possibly notice you?” Kolokov said. “A big, bald white man with a gushing wound on his head. They must have had to employ very keen powers of observation honed from a hundred generations of hunting in the jungle. They will not be coming to the memorial to make the exchange.”
“I have the phone number of the cafe,” said the bald man.
Kolokov scratched his neck, and the bald man handed him a torn corner from a newspaper.
“You know the cafe they went to?”
The question was addressed to James Harumbaki.
“Yes,” he said.
“You will call them and I will tell you a new place for the exchange,” said Kolokov.
James Harumbaki said nothing.
“There is one more thing,” said the bald man.
Kolokov had been leaning forward so that his face was only inches from his hostage.
“And what is that?” asked Kolokov, still looking at James Harumbaki.
“There were two other people following them. I think they were policemen.”
Kolokov clasped his hands together, then clapped once and stood up.
“Go take care of your head,” he said calmly. “We will all have a drink from the bottle of vodka which Bogdan, who laughs in the corner, will pour for us all. I will then play another game of chess with our valuable guest and decide how we will engage our endgame with his friends and the police.”
He sat across from James Harumbaki.
“It will be interesting, and when it is over either we will have millions in diamonds or this will be the last game of chess for our guest.”
It was at this point, as the mad Russian waited for him to set up the pieces on the board, that James Harumbaki decided that it was not the time or place to beat his captor.
The bodies of the two Africans had been replaced on Paulinin’s laboratory table by two bodies that had been flown in from some idiotic place in Siberia.
Rostnikov had called, inquired about the condition and tranquility of his leg, and asked that the examination of the bodies he had sent be done as soon as possible.
One reason, Rostnikov said, was that the Canadian government wanted the body of the younger man.
And that was why Paulinin had turned on the CD of Peter Illyich Tchaikovsky’s Rococo Variations for Cello and Orchestra, switched on the bright overheads, scratched his head, adjusted his glasses, scrubbed his hands, and made a decision. In the privacy of his laboratory, he would perform a dual autopsy.
Before doing so, however, he consulted with the two dead men as he laid out his instruments.