"It's a scone," said Anton proudly. "British."
Rostnikov bit it and took a sip of tea.
"Tasty," he said, though the roll tasted a bit as Rostnikov imagined crushed seashells might taste.
With a smile of satisfaction, Anton hurried back to the kitchen, and Rostnikov made a call to Moscow. He asked the Petrovka operator to connect him to Emil Karpo's phone. The operator informed him that Inspector Karpo was out but had left a number where he could receive messages. Rostnikov recognized the number.
He hung up and called it. Mathilde Verson answered sleepily and with some irritation.
"Yes? What do you want?"
"Rostnikov. Have you ever eaten something called a British scone?"
"No," she said. Mathilde was also the closest thing, besides Rostnikov, Emil Karpo had to a friend. Karpo's relationship to her had been going on for three years. At first they had met once a month. That increased to every other Wednesday and now was on an every-Thursday basis. Rostnikov knew that Karpo was required to pay Mathilde for each of their encounters. He also knew that the payment was the mortar that kept their growing relationship from a situation Karpo did not wish to handle.
Although she was almost forty, Mathilde lived with her aunt and cousin on Herzon Street in an apartment that they vacated in the late afternoon or early evening so that Mathilde could pursue her profession.
"Scones taste like crushed seashells," Rostnikov told her, looking at the lump in his hand, "but perhaps I got a bad one."
"You woke me to tell me that?" she asked with amusement.
Rostnikov imagined her sitting up in bed, her dark brown hair loose over her shoulders. Mathilde was not a pretty woman in the conventional sense, but she was tall, handsome, strong, confident, and Russian sturdy.
"Karpo," he said.
"Give me your number. I know where to reach him. I'll have him call you right back," she said.
Rostnikov sat watching the bleary-eyed early risers in the lobby as he finished his tea, tore crumbs off his scone, and popped them into his mouth. Emil Karpo was being very careful. Rostnikov knew that if anyone but he had called, Mathilde would have said that she would pass on the message, though she had no idea when she would be hearing from Karpo. Karpo did not want to be reached.
"Call," said the desk clerk across the lobby, and Rostnikov had picked up the phone.
"Emil Karpo," Rostnikov said even before Karpo spoke. "How is Moscow doing without me?"
Although he was accustomed to Rostnikov, Karpo was frequently at a loss in replying to him. Humor was wasted on Karpo, though he recognized it. He recognized but had no idea of how to respond to it. When in doubt, he resorted to literalism.
"Moscow proceeds," he said. "Do you wish to speak?"
Which, Rostnikov knew, meant, did he think this was a safe phone line, one that was not regularly monitored? There was no way of knowing. In fact, it was very likely that the hotel phone was monitored by the KGB. However, it was either no conversation, try to get back to Moscow, or risk the call. Rostnikov decided to take the chance.
"Georgi Vasilievich is dead," said Rostnikov. "He was murdered here yesterday in the morning. An attempt was made to make it look like natural death, a rather unprofessional attempt."
Karpo said nothing. Rostnikov had expected no response. He went on.
"Misha Ivanov, you know him?"
"KGB, recently transferred from Odessa," said Karpo.
' 'Emil, I doubt if any other member of the MVD in Moscow would know that," said Rostnikov.
"Perhaps," said Karpo.
"He is here, in Yalta," said Rostnikov. "I am wondering how many other KGB, MVD, and GRU investigators are here. Perhaps we could gather for a convention, a dinner."
"You want me to make some inquiries?"
"Do you have the time?" ' 'I will make the time,'' said Karpo.' 'I have been ordered to go on vacation by tomorrow morning."
"To Yalta?" asked Rostnikov.
"No," said Karpo. "Kiev."
"Tell me things, Emil Karpo. Tell me what is going on. Tell me what you are working on."
And Emil Karpo spoke. Concisely, clearly, without interpretation, he told of Carla's death, Yakov Krivonos, and Jerold.
"Conclusions, Emil?" he asked.
"You went on vacation when we were both working on the Bittermunder murder,"
Karpo said. "Now, as I move close to finding his killer, I am ordered to go on vacation."
"You think someone in authority is protecting this killer with spiked hair?" asked Rostnikov.
"Yes," said Karpo.
"It is possible," Rostnikov agreed. "Perhaps it is a conspiracy of criminals.
Investigators from all over are being sent on vacation to keep them from catching criminals?'' "It does not make sense," said Karpo.
"Indeed it does not," said Rostnikov. "Where are you?"
"A phone near a club, the Billy Joel on Gorky Street. It is owned by a man named Yuri Blin with black market connections, drug connections. Carla Wasboniak came here. So did Yakov."
"A waiter told me last night that the name of Gorky Street has been changed."
"It is my understanding," said Karpo.
"Things are changing quickly. Move softly, Emil Karpo, so that these things do not come loose beneath your feet. Call me when you can."
"I will do so."
Rostnikov had hung up the phone. That had been more than two hours ago.
Now Rostnikov watched as Ivanov ate wordlessly, with massive movements of jaw and sounds that would have offended even the patrons of all but the least savory cafes on what had been Gorky Street.
Anton placed two glasses on the table, each containing a spoon. From the steaming gray pot that he carried in a towel he poured hot water, letting it run down the spoon to keep the water from cracking the glass. The two seated men watched solemnly and continued to eat while Anton put the pot down on the table and, with a flourish, produced a stainless-steel tea holder that he carefully dunked into the two glasses till the liquid in each glass turned a tepid brown.
It wasn't until Anton was safely out of earshot and heading back to the hotel with his cradled pot of water that Rostnikov spoke.
"Are you a reading man, Ivanov?" he asked, reaching for the glass of tea.
Ivanov spoke around the mouthful of sandwich. "I have a passion for English romantics, "he said. "And Gothics. Have you heard of Monk Lewis?''
Ivanov's eyes moved to Rostnikov, but the response was a disappointment.
"No," said Porfiry Petrovich.
"Nightmares of the soul," said Ivanov with a movement at the corners of his lips that might have been a smile.
"I will attempt to find a book by Monk Lewis," said Rostnikov.
"I have one with me you can borrow," said Ivanov. "It's in English."
Rostnikov nodded. It did not surprise him that the KGB man knew he read English, nor did it surprise him when Ivanov went on.
"And I will be happy to read one of your American detective romances if you would be kind enough to let me borrow one for a night. I read quickly and with abandon, though I should savor. It is a weakness in me."
A car passed below them on the road, and both men watched it till it was out of sight on its way to town. Then Rostnikov spoke.
"There were many reasons the KGB might follow me."
Ivanov grunted and continued to eat. There was little left of his sandwich, which, apparently, he devoured with the same zeal he displayed with books.
"But," Rostnikov went on, "they are in the past. Do you like sports, Ivanov?"
Misha Ivanov's sandwich was gone. He brushed his mouth with his left hand and then folded both hands before him on the little table.
"From time to time, particularly hockey, but they are not a passion."
"Do you know why you are watching me?" asked Rostnikov.