Karpo didn't bother to say,' 'What else?'' He simply stood, pen poised, and waited while Elena wiped her eyes with the back of her left hand and looked around.
"Thursday," she said. "The American one, Jerold, told the other one to take it easy, that he had to be ready for Thursday. And the one with the orange spikes said he would be ready. That Walther would be ready.'' "Walther?" asked Karpo.
"Yes. You know who Walther is?" she asked.
"Walther is a gun," Emil Karpo said.
The door to Elena Kusnitsov's apartment suddenly burst open. She screamed, and her knee began to dance again. A young man in a brown policeman's uniform, carrying a black weapon that he held in two hands, entered.
"What are you doing?" she screamed. "This is my apartment. It may not be much, but it is mine. Just because two lunatics broke in doesn't give everyone the right to break in."
The young policeman looked at Karpo, who gave him no help, and then at the woman.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I've been violated." she screamed.
The young policeman took a step backward.
"What is it?" Karpo asked the young man.
"You are to report to Colonel Snitkonoy at Petrovka immediately, Comrade Inspector,'' the policeman said.
"Violated," Elena repeated.
The policeman backed out of the room quickly and disappeared. Karpo tore a sheet from his notebook and handed it to Elena Kusnitsov, who took it carefully, as if it were extended bait and he might suddenly reach out and grab her.
"It's the name of a lock for your door and window," he said, putting his notebook away. "I've written where you can buy them and the name of a woman who will install them for you. No one will be able to pick or break the locks."
Karpo didn't add that a determined assailant could break down the door or smash the window. The lock could not keep someone out, but the need to make noise might be sufficient to make a burglar consider another door.
"Thank you," Elena said, carefully placing the sheet of paper in her lap as if it were a fragile wineglass.
"A policeman will remain in the building all night," he said. "The two men will not be coming back."
"But others might," she added quickly.
"Statistics do not support that likelihood," he answered, moving toward the door.
"But they exist," she said triumphantly.
"They exist," he admitted, and went into the hall.
FIVE
"We can go to your apartment if you prefer," Tamara whispered, holding Sasha's arm tightly as they went up the stairs, breathing in his ear. "I can get my bottle and bring it.'' "No," said Sasha, wondering what Zelach and Tamara might think and say if they suddenly faced each other in the small apartment.
He had a very simple plan. He would go with Tamara to her apartment, remember something he had to work on, make his excuses, and depart. Maybe he would have one drink. How could it hurt? The men who he thought were watching him were probably just muggers, not the computer thieves. Moscow was filled with muggers who roamed confident that the police were too busy with more important crimes occasioned by Gorbachev's reforms to deal with a little mayhem and the loss of a few rubles here and there.
Sasha deserved a drink, a moment to relax. He seldom drank and didn't intend to now, but the idea of one drink, a few moments watching Tamara, having her hold his arm, was appealing. It could cause no harm. Zelach was sitting behind the door ready if someone came while Sasha was out.
I could even argue that I had left intentionally, he told himself. Left to lure the thieves into breaking in so Zelach could catch them.
"This is the door," Tamara said with a big grin, showing her teeth. The center tooth had just a spot of lipstick on it.
"I've got to get back to my apartment,'' Sasha said, trying to remove the woman's hand from his arm. She held fast.
"One drink," she said, searching for her key in the little purse she carried with her free hand. " A moment. I'm afraid to go in by myself. Just go in with me. I'll turn on the lights, and then you can go if you want.''
' 'I can stand in the hall,'' said Sasha, adjusting his glasses.
"You're cute," she said. "My shy little Jew."
Tamara opened the door with one hand, the other still holding tightly to Sasha, tugging at him as she entered. He told himself that he had no choice but to follow.
"The light's here," Tamara said, kicking the door shut behind them.
For an instant she released Sasha's arm and left him standing in the darkness, penetrated only by a faint light through the window from the street below. Then the light came on. The room was bright, a room of yellows and reds, the furniture modern and colorful, with flowers, and the rag a large yellow rectangle with a red rose the size of Maya's favorite mixing bowl in the center.
"I must go now," Sasha said.
Tamara smiled at him from where she stood across the room near a floor lamp.
"If you have to work, you have to work," she said with a shrug, kicking off her shoes and moving toward him with her right hand held out. As she neared, he held out his hand to take hers, to shake it quickly, to make a hurried departure and get back to Zelach, who was probably asleep and snoring in the chair behind the door.
Tamara ignored his extended hand, moved in, and put her arms around his neck and her open mouth on his. Sasha took her arms to remove her, but she had her hands locked behind his neck. He opened his mouth to tell her he really had to leave, but her tongue entered, licking his lower teeth before he could speak.
She tasted of warmth and alcohol, a sweet, different taste from Maya.
"Maybe another night,'' he said as she released her grip and stood back to look at him with a knowing smile. "Tomorrow. ''
Her right hand moved forward suddenly between his legs. He backed away but had only a half step to the door. Her hand pressed forward.
"Tonight," she said, moving in, releasing his belt.
Sasha wanted to speak, opened his mouth again, but Tamara said, "Shhh," and unbuttoned his pants.
This must stop. Now. He must halt her firmly, his mind ordered, but his mesmerized body would not obey. Her fingernails rubbed against the flesh at his waist, not quite gently, promising, threatening. He said no more as she dropped his pants to the floor and put her thumbs inside his underwear. It was too late.
There was no point in issuing orders to his body. His underwear came down to his knees, and Tamara stepped back to look at him.
Her hands went to her hips, and she asked, "Are you sure you're a Jew?"
Colonel Snitkonoy had exhausted his complete array of poses, and none of them had worked on Emil Karpo, who sat impassively alone at the conference table and looked up at him. Had it been daylight, the colonel could have set this meeting with Karpo for the precise moment the sun hit the window. Then, the Gray Wolfhound knew, he would be outlined in light, a tall figure with bright filaments of red and yellow stabbing into the room. His voice, carefully nurtured, would resonate in baritones off the walls. It would have been a concert of light and sound to which few failed to respond.
But this was very early in the morning, before five, before the sun. Before Karpo had arrived, the Wolfhound had turned on the two floor lamps in the corners of the office and the one lamp that reflected upward from the well-polished top of his oak desk to create deep shadows around the eyes and below the lips. Aware of every crease and button on his perfectly pressed uniform, the colonel had moved from one light to the other since Karpo had entered the room. Erect, hands clasped behind his back, the Wolfhound found the right nuance of light for the right phrase. Nothing. But it was difficult to discourage Colonel Snitkonoy. Some said it was impossible. He had too much confidence. Others had suggested that he did not have the intellect to merit such confidence.