"Lenin did not love telephones as objects," said Karpo.
"He wished to control communication during the postrevolutionary period. It was essential." ' 'And he could listen to any call in Moscow if he wished,'' said Rostnikov.
"He could," said Karpo.
"I think we shall speak no more on the telephone," said Rostnikov.
"As you think best, Inspector."
"Be cautious, Emil Karpo."
They hung up, and Rostnikov emerged from the booth, picked up two cups of hot tea, and went back to the chair where the American sat reading, a pair of half glasses perched on his nose.
"I'm going to take a walk," said Rostnikov, handing McQuinton one cup of tea and placing the other on the table near the chair in which Rostnikov had left his book. He took off his sweater and placed it next to the book.
"I'll go with you," said McQuinton, closing the book.
"No, please," countered Rostnikov. "The wives should be returning soon. You can greet them. I won't be long."
"Okay with me," McQuinton said, settling back again.
Rostnikov did not enjoy walking. The stress on his leg was great, and though he had a distance he felt it essential to walk each day for his health, he had passed that mark hours ago.
He began his journey by going to the men's room just off the lobby. Misha Ivanov watched him but did not leave his chair. Rostnikov had intentionally taken the cup of tea for himself and left both his sweater and his open book on the chair next to the American. He wished to give the impression that he was going to the rest room and would be right back.
The rest room was in an alcove next to a door that led to the kitchens. The door was seldom used and probably kept locked, but it was a simple door designed to deter. Rostnikov opened it with his pocketknife and went through it, pushing it closed behind him. Misha Ivanov had no reason to think anything was out of the ordinary. It would take him at least three minutes to become professionally concerned enough to check on Rostnikov.
The kitchen was empty, at least there was no one Rostnikov could see, but a woman somewhere sang a folk song in a quite beautiful voice. It struck Rostnikov that the hotel would be better served having the woman with this voice singing in the dining room than the dreaded concertina lady.
In spite of his reluctant leg, Rostnikov was outside the Lermontov in less than a minute. He did not expect much from his excursion, but it was essential if he were to be able to go on to other things. There were times when he found a song playing in his head or saw the face of a minor movie actor or remembered a book and desperately needed to place the author. At these times he found it almost impossible to function efficiently unless that little piece of unnecessary information could be supplied, preferably by his own recollection.
He had carefully searched Georgi Vasilievich's belongings, his room, and had discovered that the dead GRU man had had no friends in the sanitarium and knew no one but Rostnikov in the town. Vasilievich's room had been searched by whoever killed him, and it did not seem that they had found what they were looking for. What was it? Where, if it existed, had Vasilievich put it?
Rostnikov knew the route Georgi had taken each night back to the sanitarium. If Vasilievich knew he was being followed, might he not hide the treasure? Probably not, but possibly so. Rostnikov followed the route.
The sky was clear, with a tangy breeze from the sea. The sweater he had left on the chair would have been welcome. He wended his way down the path from the hotel, across the road, and into the woods. There were trees, just trees, nothing but trees. If Vasilievich had hidden his treasure in a tree, there was little chance of it being found. He would, Rostnikov was sure, hide it someplace protected from the animals and weather, someplace he could retrieve it quickly.
Porfiry Petrovich's eyes scanned the path as he walked. Far ahead of him he heard the laughter of a man and woman, but he did not see them. From time to time, he paused at a promising tree, a formation of stones. Nothing.
The path turned to the sea, and he followed.
In front of him the sound of the man and woman moved farther away. He came to a clearing on his right, an outcrop of rocks and a rotunda offering a view of both the sea and the castlelike sanitarium in the distance. Rostnikov moved cautiously onto the rotunda platform and stood for a moment watching the waves and a quartet of distant birds hovering over the water. One of the birds suddenly plunged into a wave and disappeared. Rostnikov watched till the bird reappeared on the surface of the water, shook itself, and took off again to join the other three.
It was difficult for Rostnikov to kneel. His leg protested and made the process not only awkward but painful, but he did kneel at the edge of the platform and reach under it, his finger probing, exploring. He felt nothing and moved a bit farther along. Getting up would not be easy. His fingers touched something under the boards, something soft and alive that scuttled away. He had covered less than half the possible undersurface when his fingers caught the edge of something on the rocks. He had almost missed it. Vasilievich's arms and fingers had been longer than those of Rostnikov. It was something pliable. He strained and grasped the prize as well as he could with two fingers and then coaxed it toward him until he could get a more solid grip on it. And then it was out.
Porfiry Petrovich didn't get a good look at what he had found till he raised himself from the platform slowly, his leg paying the price, with the help of the handrail and fence that ringed the little platform. Only when he was standing did he fully understand that he held a clear plastic zippered pouch inside of which there rested a red plastic-covered notebook about the size of a wallet. He removed the notebook, put it in his back pocket, then folded the plastic pouch into a neat rectangle and plunged it into his front right pocket.
Now it was time to get back. He could examine the book later. Misha Ivanov would know that he had gone somewhere, but there was little he could do about it.
Besides, if the book contained what Rostnikov assumed it would contain, he would soon be sharing its contents with the KGB man.
Going back proved to be much more difficult than coming. The primary problems were two. First, there was a slight uphill incline out of the woods. Second, the strain on his leg had taken a great toll. Rostnikov was in need of a warm bath or shower. Most of all, he was in need of a chair in which he could sit.
He continued to move, though he was forced every minute or so to pause, apologize to his aching leg, and promise it better treatment in the future. His leg, old enemy that it was, was not listening.
The woods around him were not silent. Birds fluttered, and the sea waves echoed under the canopy of thickly leaved trees. It was a place he would, given rest, like to take Sarah.
That was the thought on his mind when he became quite suddenly aware that he was not alone on the path. He knew it even before he made the turn. It was not magic. Perhaps it was a flurry of leaves or a lessening of sound or a vibration on the path that he sensed and didn't turn into sensations, but he knew. There was no turning back and no possibility of running. It could be innocent, a stroller in the afternoon. It could be and might be, but Rostnikov doubted that it was.
He considered quickly hiding the notebook or even throwing it off the trail next to a tree or rock he might recognize later, but the chances of his being able to retrieve it would be slight. Instead, he moved forward slowly and made the turn in the path.
Standing about five yards in front of Porfiry Petrovich, blocking his way, were the two men he had seen in the lobby of the Lermontov, a little man with one eye that looked quite mad and another eye that was definitely made of glass. Behind the little man was the other man, an enormous young man with the body of a large refrigerator.