The man had been both observing and following Rostnikov for the past two days.
It was not the first time he had been followed in his career, nor was it a surprise. Rostnikov assumed that it was the KGB again. He had run afoul of them more often than it was safe to do so, and from time to time, to remind him that his past indiscretions were not forgotten, a KGB agent would follow him for a few days and take no particular pains to remain unseen.
Rostnikov had assumed this was one of those times, but since the death of Vasilievich and his preliminary investigation, he was no longer sure.
"You knew he was there, didn't you?" asked Lester McQuinton with a grin. "You didn't bat an eye, turn your head, or twitch."
"I was aware of his presence, yes," said Rostnikov, reaching for his glass of wine and taking a drink that finished the glass. "Please excuse me. I will be back shortly."
He touched Sarah gently on the back as he rose.
As Rostnikov headed in the general direction of the rest rooms and the woman with the accordion made a fool out of a fat American she had coaxed out to dance, McQuinton nibbled at his food, chewed on his bread, and pretended to listen to Andy and the Russian cop's wife trying to carry on a conversation. He watched the Russian cop make his way through the crowd and the bald guy pretend not to watch him.
The Russian cop was interesting. He was the only truly interesting thing he had encountered since he left New York. The doctors hadn't fooled him, and they hadn't fooled Andy. Lester and Andy didn't believe their words of hope because the doctors themselves didn't and weren't street smart enough to fool a thirty-year detective who spent too much of his time dealing with lies. Andy had half a year, maybe a little more or less. And she had wanted this trip, less because she wanted to travel than that she wanted the distraction and because she couldn't bear staying in New York and watching him observe her. She had accepted it eagerly when he suggested it.
He had complained since the beginning, for he wanted this to be a perfect trip for her. He complained because he was angry. He complained because it was normal to do so and he didn't want Andy to feel that he was doing anything but being normal. None of it had worked. Until now.
He could tell from the eyes of the Russian cop's wife that she sensed something of what Andy and he were going through. Well, maybe not everything, but enough. For the moment, the burden of being responsible for his wife's happiness had eased, and the game the Russian cop with the bad leg was playing focused his attention on something besides Andy.
A cackling laugh came from a woman to McQuinton's right. The laughter turned to choking, and someone, a man, he thought, began to scold the choking woman in Russian. The woman managed to control herself and the accordion squealed into a tune that may have been "Fascination."
McQuinton admired the way Rostnikov weaved through the crowd and made the turn around the corner toward the rest rooms. The bald guy didn't follow, didn't move. Why should he? The cop had left his wife at the table. The cop with the bad leg was obviously going to the toilet. The man watching was good. He didn't let up. He ate, drank, kept his head down, and let his eyes take in the entire room. But the cop with the bad leg was better. He was back in seconds, much too fast to have reached the toilet. He headed directly for the bald man and even with the bum leg got to him before he could get all the way up. The cop put his right hand on the bald guy's shoulder like an old friend in friendly conversation, but McQuinton knew the bald guy was trying to rise and was being stopped by the pressure. Lester's respect for the cop with the bad leg went up another notch. He was keeping the man down with one hand and almost no effort.
"We can do that, can't we, Lester?" Andy said.
"Sure," said Lester, though he had paid no serious attention to the conversation of the two women.
The Russian cop with the bad leg was sitting next to the bald man now. They were talking like two strangers who strike up a conversation while hanging on to bus straps on the way home from work and find they have something in common. Lester smiled.
Behind the two Russians Lester McQuinton was watching, two men appeared in the open doorway that led to the lobby.
They were an odd couple-a giant and a nervous little man who looked at Lester and then at Rostnikov. The smile left Lester McQuinton's face.
One of the privileges of being a policeman in Moscow was having a phone in your apartment. One of the disadvantages of being a policeman in Moscow was that you were seldom at home to use it, Maya answered after the first ring, actually before the first ring had even ended. Sasha had been standing at the lonely booth at the corner across from the park, trying every three minutes to call his number. He had been trying for half an hour when he finally got through.
"It's me," Sasha Tkach said, trying to hide his irritation.
"The baby just fell asleep," Maya whispered. "A few minutes ago." ' 'I wanted to say good night to her,'' he said. ' 'Your phone has been busy.'' "Your mother, Lydia," said Maya, and that was all that needed to be said. "Are you all right?"
"Yes," he said.
"Did you eat?"
"Yes," he said.
He wanted to tell her that he was filled with frustration. They had spent only four nights in the apartment together. He wanted to make love to her without worrying about his mother listening in the next room. He wanted to hear her purr like a cat when he rubbed her back. He wanted to cover her wide mouth and full lips in his and lose himself in her. He wanted her to keep talking, for he loved her voice, her Georgian accent, and he dreaded the walk back to Zelach and the apartment in Engels Four. He wanted to say these things, but instead he heard her say, "Sasha?"
"Yes."
"I have to work early tomorrow.''
Maya worked in the day-care center for mothers in the TsUM department store. She brought Pulcharia with her when she worked and put in as many hours as she could. A new baby was coming. Seven months away. Sasha had hoped for intimate months together before Maya was too large and uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry I'm keeping you," he said with sarcasm. "I'll hang up and let you get some sleep."
"I wasn't trying to say I wanted to go to sleep," she said. "I was… You weren't talking. I was just telling you."
The movement was slight, a change in the light dancing off the leaves of the bushes fringing the cement path. It could have been many things, but it wasn't.
It was a person. Sasha sensed it before he knew with certainty. But he had almost missed it. He had almost lost himself in the conversation with Maya, a conversation he should not be having. He had been ordered specifically to make no contact with his friends or family for the duration of the operation.
"I'm sorry," he said, turning his back on the movement in the bushes and holding up his wristwatch as if he were weary of the conversation and checking the time.
Sasha pretended to adjust the watch and flipped the supple band so the back of the watch was facing him, the shiny back of the watch in which he could see the bush as he put his hand up to lean on the side of the phone booth.
"Get some sleep, Sasha," Maya said.
"I will," he said. "You, too. And kiss Pulcharia in her sleep."
The man moved carefully from behind the bush. He was large, appeared to be young, and was wearing dark slacks and a dark sweater. He ducked behind a second bush, somewhat closer to Sasha. A second man, with long blond hair and a blond beard, followed the first man. Sasha lowered his arm.
"I'm not tired, Sasha," Maya said. "We can talk if you like."
"Tomorrow, Maya," he said. "I have to go."