“We agree,” said James Harumbaki.
Iosef had been informed by Porfiry Petrovich, who had been informed by the Yak, that it would be more convenient simply to get the Africans out of the country than to deal with the ramifications of their being in Russia.
“Good,” said Iosef rising. “Then your stay in Russia is over.”
Chapter Eighteen
The meeting with General Frankovich could not have gone better. Yaklovev had arrived armed with a report on the successful breakup of the diamond smuggling network that stretched from Siberia to Moscow to Kiev, and probably well beyond. He also had some audio tapes and a thick file discretely marked “Frankovich” which he placed next to himself at the conference table, where he sat next to the General. The directors of three other departments and a Kremlin representative were also at the table.
Yaklovev reported, was congratulated by the Kremlin representative and informed that the Office of Special Investigations had done an outstanding job. The Kremlin representative added that President Putin himself was going to send a letter of commendation to Yaklovev.
Throughout the meeting, General Frankovich said not one word.
Sasha appeared at the door of his wife’s apartment one minute after seven o’clock. He brought with him a small yellow stuffed bear for Pulcharia and a picture book about airplanes for his child, whom he had resolved to call Taras until the bearer of the Ukrainian name grew tired of it.
Pulcharia opened the door. She wore a green dress he had never before seen. Over her shoulder she called out, “It is the policeman father.” And then to Sasha, “Did you bring a gun?”
“No,” he said.
She shrugged in disappointment and accepted the bear.
Sasha stepped inside as his daughter closed the door.
“Taras is here,” his son giggled.
“I see,” said Sasha, handing him the book.
Brother and sister, without a word, exchanged gifts.
“Come in,” said Maya. “Dinner is ready.”
There was to be no small talk in the living room, just conversation over dinner at the small table Maya had set up there. Taras, who constantly repeated his new name, rocked back and forth in his chair and smiled at Sasha, who smiled back and, from time to time without success, attempted conversation. Pulcharia played with her beet borscht, filling her soup spoon and dribbling it on a tender square of floating meat. The main dish was sichenyky, ground meat patties. For dessert, Maya had purchased a medium-sized babka. Sasha noted that nothing on the table was Russian. He noted, but he did not speak.
When they were finished, except for Pulcharia who continued to play with her food, Sasha rose to help clear the table.
“Stay, talk to the children,” Maya said.
This was just the thing that Sasha did not want to do. He wanted to talk to Maya, to try again to persuade her. He did not wish to hear his son rock from side to side saying “Boyka” and his daughter creating a tepid volcano from a mound of floating beets.
Sasha grabbed some dishes and followed Maya into the kitchen alcove where he reached past her to place his stack in the sink.
“When?” he asked.
“We shall see.”
“You mean never.”
“I mean never.”
“If I do not see the children regularly, they will forget me. If I do not see you. . the Swede?”
Maya did not answer.
The children were no more than a dozen feet away, and Sasha had to admit that he was beginning to look forward to leaving the apartment. His children were perfect in the abstract, but not unflawed in reality. It depressed him. It made him feel guilty.
“You want to leave,” Maya said, taking two dishes from Pulcharia, one of which tottered dangerously.
“No,” he said.
She paused and turned to face him as Pulcharia headed back to the table.
“You are lying.”
Sasha did not answer.
“If you cannot stand them for an hour, how would you stand them for many hours each day? You would make excuses to be elsewhere. It is what you did. It is what you would do.”
“I love my children,” he said softly.
“I know,” she said.
“I love you,” he said.
“I know that, too, but love is only the first part.”
“You read that somewhere,” he said.
“Come back in a year.”
“You will have remarried.”
“It is possible.”
She suddenly came close to him and kissed his lips. She smelled of sweet babka. He wept.
“And so?” asked Iosef, sitting at the desk in his cubicle in Petrovka.
“And so?” said Elena.
“What do you say?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then we marry on Tuesday. Your aunt has the papers and will preside. She is well enough?”
“Yes,” Elena said.
She was sitting in the Kiev airport talking on her cell phone. Sasha Tkach sat across from her next to a man with huge eyes. Sasha did not seem to notice. He was busy looking at nothing.
“And that is it?” asked Iosef.
“I will see you in Moscow tonight,” she said.
She hung up. So did he.
Iosef realized that he had failed to tell her that he loved her.
Pankov had spent the night in his sweat-dampened suit preparing material for the Yak’s meeting with Frankovich. The temperature inside of Petrovka was notoriously uncertain. Last night it had been warm, hot even.
At some point while preparing this important material, Pankov suffered a stroke. His right arm began to twitch uncontrollably, the pen flying across the room and creating a black dot on the wall. Gradually, the tremor stopped. He felt as if he might pass out. When he was reasonably sure this would not happen, he resumed his preparation of the material. It was the third small stroke he had suffered in the past month. He had told no one, seen no doctor. With the other two incidents, as now, he had gone back to his duties.
Gerald St. James and Ellen Sten stood next to the window in his office looking through a steady, steaming rain at the top of the DeBeers building.
In his right hand, St. James held a dart. He rolled it between his fingers.
“Nothing to connect us?” he asked casually.
“Nothing. Those who could are dead or so well compensated that revelation would not be worth the reward we are giving them and their families. The network is ended,” she said. “Do we start a new one at Devochka?”
“We will wait a year,” he said. “Maybe two. Then I will decide.”
The primary value of the Devochka operation was a diversion. It brought in little, but kept authorities in sixteen countries from more closely examining St. James’s larger operations in Australia, South Africa, and Botswana.
Some day soon he would sit at the table at DeBeers. When he sat, he would be Sir Gerald St. James. He was in the process of purchasing and bribing his way into the peerage even as he stood at the window.
“Loose ends?” he asked.
“The Africans will not talk. Balta already is talking, but is having great trouble getting anyone to believe him. The British police will certainly be informed through Interpol, and they may want to talk to you.”
St. James made a sound signifying indifference and turned to place the dart on his desk.
Porfiry Petrovich sat in the office of his half-brother Fyodor. For fifteen minutes, they said nothing, just listened to a CD of recently restored early Louis Armstrong records.
“Panin will not talk,” said Porfiry Petrovich.
“He is a good man,” said Fyodor.
“A good man,” said Porfiry Petrovich. “He murdered two people, innocent people.”
“There is that,” said Fyodor, as Armstrong’s trumpet played a plaintive six-note passage.