"I see many problems," Karpo said, lifting the tea to his lips with his left hand, careful not to let his little finger exert pressure, his eyes never leaving the face of Jerold.
"Well, now the government, the consumer, can offer what they wish to the new capitalist," Jerold said. "A lifetime of security is gone. Freedom and capitalism bring with them insecurity, and our people have all lived their lives under the secure, though often frugal, protective arms of Mother Russia."
"Our people," said Karpo. "You are a Soviet citizen?"
"I am…" and Jerold looked up seriously. "I am an enigma.'' "Blin called you," said Karpo.
"No," said Jerold. "His young assistant, Buddy. Buddy's name is really Serge. He no longer wishes to be called Buddy. Buddy is a new Soviet capitalist. He sells his services to the highest bidder. He hopes to find economic security through his disloyalty."
"Krivonos," Karpo said, finishing his tea and putting the cup down gently as a pair of children, a boy and a girl, ran by screaming with what was probably delight.
"And if I don't tell you, you'll break my little finger?" Jerold said, holding up his left hand.
Karpo let his eyes move for just an instant to the raised hand and upraised finger, and he knew that he had made a mistake. Jerold's left hand rested on the table. His right hand was under the table.
"I have a gun in my lap," said Jerold easily. "A 9 mm Webley, very noisy. And I'm sure you now have a weapon in your hand. Do we shoot each other? Do I take a chance and shoot and hope to kill you before you respond? Do you do the same? Of course we can sit till a policeman happens by and you can call to him. I'll then have to shoot you and, if I'm still alive, kill the policeman. In any of the above situations, you will be no closer to Krivonos. Tell me, Inspector, even if it did mean you would get him, would it be worth your life?'' "It is my duty," said Karpo. "If it costs me my life, then I will die in the course of my duty. If I value my life more highly than I value the meaning by which I live, then my life has no meaning."
"Fascinating," said Jerold. "But what if your death serves no purpose? If by living you have the possibility of another opportunity, or opportunities, to serve the state, possibly even to find and apprehend Krivonos?''
"Man is capable of rationalizing any action, even inaction," said Karpo.
"You know your Karl Marx," said Jerold.
"I believe my Karl Marx," said Karpo.
' 'Emil Karpo,'' said Jerold earnestly,' 'put your gun away, get up from this table, go home, pack your bag, and go on vacation."
Before Karpo could answer, Jerold sighed and went on. "But of course you can't get up and walk away or you'll be betraying your life. I admire your dedication, but in this strange new world you are a dodo bird. You will not survive unless you embrace pragmatism, and since you will not, you will not survive."
Karpo anticipated the moment almost perfectly. He fell out of his chair to the left as Jerold fired. The white metal chair clattered to the ground. Jerold stood and fired again. The bullet hit the top of the table. People around them screamed. And Karpo, entangled in the chair, fired awkwardly at Jerold, who had moved into a crouch and was backing away toward the street.
Neither man fired again for a beat. Karpo knew he could not fire again at this distance, that there was too much danger of hitting one of the people running away behind Jerold, who raised his weapon for another shot at Karpo, who rolled to his right, pushing the table at which they had sat and sending it and the umbrella toppling. Jerold was out of time. He turned and ran down Kalinin Prospekt to the curb. Karpo rolled from behind the fallen table and kicked the fallen umbrella away as Jerold got into a dark car that had pulled to the curb.
Karpo could not see the driver clearly, but he could see that it was a young man, a young man with glasses and short hair, and he was sure that it was Yakov Krivonos.
As the car pulled away, hitting the rear of a white Volga waiting in front of it, Karpo ran toward it. But when he reached the street, the dark car was weaving through traffic.
Karpo was already moving toward the waiting white Volga that Krivonos had hit when he noticed something on the curb. He paused for an instant only to satisfy himself that it was blood. He had hit Jerold.
The driver of the Volga, a thin, bald man wearing a dark suit, stood at the curb, his keys in his hand, looking at the armed specter advancing on him. The bald man threw down his keys and went down on his knees, covering his eyes with his hands, sure that he was about to die.
It was too late. Traffic had closed in on the street. The rush home had begun.
The black car was lost.
"Get up," said Karpo. "I'm a policeman."
He put his gun back into the holster under his jacket and kicked the man's keys back to him. Behind him, Karpo could hear the intentionally unpleasant sound of a police vehicle. There would be no point in walking away. He was well aware that he would be easily identified by his description and that there would be a report about the shooting on the desk of the Wolfhound within the hour. But the colonel was a busy man and might not get to that report for hours.
No, Karpo decided, it would be best to return to Petrovka, quickly prepare his report on the incident, get the information Inspector Rostnikov wanted from the computer, and leave before he was again summoned to see the colonel.
A few things had changed this morning. Jerold was injured. Krivonos had definitely changed his appearance, and Jerold had said enough to make Karpo very anxious to talk again to Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov.
EIGHT
"And now?" yakov krivonos said as he watched the thin woman with stringy hair tear away Jerold's pants.
"Nothing changes," said Jerold, who was lying on his stomach in the position the stringy woman had guided him.
"Nothing changes," Yakov agreed, looking around the room.
The room smelled of medicine and tobacco, and the woman, in a baggy black dress with somber purple circles, did nothing to enliven it. She barely spoke and acted as if Yakov were not even in the room.
Yakov had driven more than twenty miles on the Kashira Highway to Gorki Leninskye and to the small house where the woman who now worked on Jerold's pants had opened the door and ushered them in without a word.
"I need my gun," said Yakov, walking around the small room that had been set up as a surgery. "I need my music. When are you getting me another Madonna?"
"Now you need me," said Jerold as the stringy woman cut away the leg of his pants. "Later, you will have Madonna."
Yakov paused in his wandering about the room to look at the bullet wound in Jerold's right side. He knew it would be worth seeing. The front seat of the car he had stolen was soaked with Jerold's blood, and though Jerold had neither moaned nor complained, his voice had dropped just a bit during the ride, and his breathing was definitely heavy. By the time they had reached this house, Jerold was definitely quite pale.
Jerold's wound was dark and round, big enough to put a finger in. Yakov wondered if Jerold would scream if he suddenly poked his finger into the wound. Would the doctor who displayed no emotion scream if Yakov then licked his bloody finger?
These were important questions. Questions that should be in a song, a song Yakov should, would, write. Carla had thought his idea of writing songs was ridiculous. She had never said so, but he knew what she thought. He had wonderful ideas for songs. Maybe he would get a group together quickly and perform at the Billy Joel after he killed Yuri Blin. No, he would be in Las Vegas. It was gone. The question he wanted to put into a song. It was gone.
Carla had suggested that he write his ideas in a little notebook. Perhaps he would. When Jerold gave him the money, he would write songs, learn to play the guitar, get the best teacher.