"…an American association because of the weapon and the drug," Kostnitsov was saying as he now rummaged through one of the drawers of a laboratory table against a wall.
"Please repeat that," Karpo said.
Kostnitsov returned and held out a glass pill bottle containing six blue capsules with yellow dots. The capsules were cushioned by a small wad of cotton on the bottom of the bottle.
"Take one," he said. "That's all I have now. I'll try to get more, but who knows when. Got them from the pocket of a Canadian vacationer who was killed by a drunken cabdriver. Wasted three of them discovering what they were." ' 'What are they?'' "Something," said Kostnitsov, "that will control your migraine headache so you can function while you do whatever your headache wishes to prevent you from doing."
Karpo looked at the bottle.
A wave of nausea curdled up from his stomach. He opened the bottle, shook out two capsules, and downed them with a gulp. Kostnitsov watched Karpo. The pain did not stop, at least not immediately. The two of them stood for perhaps a minute. First, Karpo's stomach relaxed, and then the throbbing in his head slowed like a steam locomotive coming to a gradual stop.
"I have no more time for this, Inspector," said Kostnitsov, moving back to his desk and searching for something under a mound of coffee-stained journals and papers.
Karpo moved to the door to leave and was taken by an impulse that he did not fully comprehend.
"I will be leaving Moscow for a vacation tomorrow night," Karpo said, hand on the door, resisting the urge to touch his temples. "Perhaps when I return you can join me for lunch."
"Lunch? Lunch? What day?" asked Kostnitsov without looking up from the sheet of paper he was examining.
"At your convenience," said Karpo, who, in his forty-two years, had never issued an invitation to a meal to anyone.
'"Tuesdays are best," casually answered Kostnitsov, who had never, since his mother's death twenty years ago, been asked to join anyone for any meal.
Karpo left.
SIX
The pear-shaped KGB agent with the bald head was Misha Ivanov.
Once it had been made clear that he could not get away with the pretense that he was simply a carpenter on vacation, he had calmly volunteered the information to Rostnikov, who had not looked directly at the man.
Instead, Rostnikov's eyes were on the concertina lady and her captive tourist.
Occasionally, Rostnikov would glance at Sarah and the two Americans. The American policeman with the name that sounded Irish or Scotch appeared to be absorbed in the conversation of the two women, but Rostnikov knew his attention was really on him and the bald man.
"You are from Moscow?" asked Rostnikov.
"Yes," said Misha Ivanov, deciding to attack a soggy tart of unknown berries before him.
"I've never seen you."
"Transferred from Odessa two months ago,'' the man said.
"You are watching me," said Rostnikov.
"Do you wish confirmation? If so, I am unable to give it," said the man.
"The food is not good here," Rostnikov said, looking at the tart.
Misha Ivanov shrugged and kept eating.
"Did you know Georgi Vasilievich?"
"By reputation," said Ivanov. "I saw him with you on several occasions during the past week and obtained identification."
"Do you know he is dead?" Rostnikov asked.
"Yes," Ivanov answered evenly, continuing to eat.
"Did you kill him?" Rostnikov asked.
"No," said Ivanov.
The man was not impressive looking, but he was, Rostnikov had decided, both formidable and professional, which meant it was almost impossible to tell when he was lying.
"He was murdered," Rostnikov said as Ivanov finished his tart and wiped his chin.
"So it would seem," said Ivanov, shaking his head, not for the death of Georgi Vasilievich but the poor quality of the tart, for which he had apparently had great expectations.
For the first time since Rostnikov had sat at the table, Ivanov turned to face him. The bald man's face was white, with red cheeks. There was something of the potential clown in Misha Ivanov, but Rostnikov did not make the mistake of giving in to the facade. Rostnikov had learned that in his professional life there was very little room for mistakes.
"The woman plays the concertina very badly. Perhaps we should meet in the morning," said Ivanov. "For breakfast. The table outside, if weather permits."
"Are you sure you don't want a less observable meeting? The possibility exists that someone is also watching you, Comrade Ivanov.'' "A definite possibility," Ivanov said. "I would say a likelihood. If so, I have already been compromised by your sitting here, but I'm sure you have already considered this and come to the same conclusion. May I rise now?"
Rostnikov folded his hands on the table in front of him, and Ivanov rose.
"Tomorrow," said Ivanov. "Shall we say nine?"
"Tomorrow," agreed Rostnikov, rising. "Nine."
The two men did not shake hands. Accompanied by the whine of the concertina, Misha Ivanov left the dining room, and Rostnikov limped back to his table. He decided he would try to reach Emil Karpo early the next morning.
It was just after three when Sasha Tkach awoke in Tamara's bed. He was not sure what woke him, Tamara's snoring, guilt, the uncomfortable lumps in the mattress, but wake he did, and rise he did. Tamara stirred and stopped snoring.
"My little Jew," she moaned sleepily, her eyes closed.
"I must go," he said, finding his underwear and pants.
"No," she groaned, turning on her side. And then: "Later. Tonight."
"Yes," he said. "Tonight," he said, but he meant, No. Never.
She was snoring again before he finished dressing and went for the door. The small apartment smelled sweet, too sweet. If he stayed much longer, he would be ill. Perhaps that was what had awakened him. It was a smell he remembered, associated with someone, a woman from his childhood. It didn't matter. Sasha had no trouble leaving puzzles unfinished.
He went out as quietly as he could into the hall, took a deep breath of the stale but unsweetened air, and found that he had to lean back against the door.
His legs were trembling. Stupid, he had been stupid. He should sort out what he did, why he had done it. He knew he would try later and that something within him would distract him.
In a few moments his legs felt a bit stronger, so he took a few steps and touched his face. He would need a shave, a clean shirt, before he packed up the computer and went back to the subway and made his way to the work cubicle of Yon Mandelstem. He dreaded going back to that cubicle. He dreaded going on with his masquerade as computer expert and Jew. And now he would need a lie for Zelach.
Since it was Zelach, it would not be difficult.
On the darkened stairwell he could hear the sound of foot steps echoing off the walls. He moved up slowly and almost bumped into a young man in a suit carrying a briefcase and with a cautious look in his dark eyes.
They almost collided, and the man let out a sudden "Uhh" of surprise.
"Prastee't'e. I'm sorry," the young man said, clutching his case suddenly to his chest and trying to move past Tkach. One of those unintentional games began.
Sasha tried to get out of the man's way by moving left, but the man moved right and was in front of him. Sasha and the man moved in the opposite direction, and a look of panic filled the man's eyes.
It was not that Sasha looked formidable, though it was early, he did need a shave, and his clothes were rumpled. There was certainly a look of anguish on the face of the detective that may well have been taken for something else.