He stood looking at her, feeling no great pain, only the realization that he was no longer aware of his right arm and hand.
The second thrust, just below the ribs, made it clear to him what was happening.
He saw Rochelle, knife in hand, lean forward to kiss him quickly and then step back to avoid being touched by his blood as she thrust the blade smoothly into his neck. He went to his knees, clutching his throat. Blood seeped through his fingers. Breathing was impossible.
He slumped face forward to the now blood-soaked carpet as Rochelle deftly took the pouch of diamonds from his hand. Jan Pendowski made three urgent gasps for breath and died.
And then someone knocked at the door.
“And so we are gathered,” said Iosef, looking at the strange quartet coming down the sidewalk.
The nervous man in a leather Mafia coat a bit too warm for the weather was smoking and clenching and unclenching his right fist. Behind him walked a very young man in a not-quite-so-fashionable coat, but a coat nonetheless. The substantial bald man they had seen on the Metro when they followed the two Africans was also wearing a leather coat, the uniform of the day for those with no imagination who wanted to hide weapons. Both Iosef and Zelach were well aware of what rested behind the leather.
The bald man had a tight grip on the left arm of a slight black man of no more than forty who wore no coat and displayed signs of having been beaten so badly that he belonged in a hospital. All four joined the man in the doorway who was watching the cafe.
Iosef watched the men in coats confer and talk to the man who had been hiding in the doorway.
“I think we are about to witness the gunfight at the OK Corral,” said Iosef.
Zelach had no idea of what he was talking about. All he could think of was that they were probably about to face four heavily armed gangsters on one side and possibly a pair of armed Africans, maybe more than a pair, on the other. The two policemen were badly in need of heavily armed support.
“If we bring in backup at this point,” said Iosef, “many people might be killed.”
“If we do not,” said Zelach, “maybe we will be killed.”
“You are not afraid,” said Iosef.
“No,” said Zelach. “I was thinking about my mother.”
Iosef turned his head away from the gathering in the doorway down the street and looked at Zelach.
“You are right,” Iosef said. “I should have called for support.”
“It is too late now,” said Zelach, looking at the cafe.
The door had opened and the Africans named Biko and Laurence had stepped out. They were not alone. Five more black men carrying pistols and revolvers of various ilk were with them.
“Who do we shoot?” whispered Zelach.
“No one. I think they are going to shoot each other,” answered Iosef.
The meeting was scheduled for tomorrow.
Yaklovev stood at the window in his office, looking down at the courtyard of Petrovka. He needed just a bit more to bargain with in the face of the potential loss of his control of the Office of Special Investigations. He was certain that with his connections he could find a reasonably prestigious and responsible position in the bureaucracy, possibly within the Kremlin itself. He was not concerned about what might happen to Rostnikov and the other detectives. But his current position and their investigative skills afforded him a perfect entree into the private lives, indiscretions, and crimes of politicians, business moguls, and even successful Mafia figures who wished for some degree of legitimacy.
No, he did not want to lose it now.
He went to his desk, pushed a button, and returned to the window. Below, a uniformed policeman had two German shepherds in tow and was heading for the gate beyond which stood a waiting police van.
The door opened, and Pankov came in.
“You rang for me?”
“You need not say that every time I call you,” said the Yak. “Just come.”
Yaklovev knew his statement would be ignored. The constantly frightened and nervous little man could not exist without frequent and ritualistic affirmation.
Pankov for his part was always startled upon entering the office to see the resemblance between Director Yaklovev and Lenin.
“I am going to get a call tonight from Chief Inspector Rostnikov. You are to be here and record it. Then you are to transcribe it so that I can, if necessary, edit it. Then you are to type it cleanly, make six copies, and have it in my hands by nine o’clock.”
“Shall I bring it to your apartment?”
“No. I will be here till you have it done.”
“It may take. .”
“I expect it to take all night,” said Yaklovev, watching as the dogs went through the rear doors of the van, which were then closed.
When he could no longer see the dogs, the Yak turned to Pankov, who stood, pad of paper and pen in hand, as close to the door as he could without looking ridiculous.
“You look particularly agitated today,” Yaklovev said. “You are sweating. I would prefer that you not sweat when people come into the office.”
“I wipe my brow and face constantly when no one is looking.”
“I know,” said the Yak, “but often someone is looking.”
Pankov was startled into near panic. Did Director Yaklovev have a hidden camera in the outer office? Had Pankov done something he should not have done? He knew that the office and the offices of all the detectives were wired, because he was responsible for monitoring. He also knew that all the detectives were well aware that they could be heard. From time to time they made jokes at his expense and for his ears. Actually, only Iosef Rostnikov made such jokes.
“Pankov?”
“Yes.”
“Pay attention. What is bothering you?”
“Will we all be replaced tomorrow, after your meeting?”
“If it is to be,” Yaklovev said, “you would come with me wherever I were to be assigned. You are too valuable for me to lose.”
Pankov was stunned. Never had he received anything resembling praise or reassurance from Director Yaklovev. Were he to be asked at that moment to get on his knees and kiss the feet of the Director, he would do so. Well, maybe not.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Bring me the full file of General Frankovich.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Pankov hurried out of the office and into his reception area office, where he experienced a rush of something that resembled comfort. He went to the locked cabinets in the room just to the right of his desk where files were carefully stored, updated, and indexed. The files were impressive, and Pankov kept them up to date, with every document uniformly lined up. Finding the thick file on General Frankovich took seconds.
What Pankov did not know, what no one but Igor Yaklovev knew, was that in a vault in a German bank not fifteen minutes from Petrovka, under a quite fictitious name, were other files, including one on General Frankovich. There was even one on President Putin himself. Yaklovev fully expected that Pankov’s files were not only vulnerable but had probably been expertly penetrated. There was nothing in them that the Yak felt a need to keep from anyone with the ability and inclination to find them.
He moved back to his desk, sat, and waited for Pankov to return with the Frankovich file.
Later, when he grew hungry, he would send Pankov out to get him a sandwich. In the morning he would shave and change into the suit he had in the small closet behind him.
The Yak not only intended to survive, he was confident he could do so. Whether the same could be said of the detectives of the Office of Special Investigations would be decided in the morning.
Chapter Seventeen
The pause was long. In the not great distance cars and trucks rambled, and the familiar construction sounds of discarded wood and rusted metal rattled down a chute and clanged onto the bed of a truck.