Kate recalled reading Dostoevsky with distaste. It was on this square that the killer Raskolnikov fell to his knees, begging forgiveness from the people. He wouldn’t have been able to do that anymore: all the open space had been turned into a parking lot. The view was stunningly unreal. A mall in the far corner of Haymarket Square towered like an iceberg of mercurial glass. The red ruins of brick walls were visible just behind it. A Roman mansion with columns from a neoclassical epoch abutted the square at the other end. Nearer to her was a multistory monstrosity from the beginning of the last century. A building with a corner tower, recalling the boulevards of Paris, stood opposite. Round-roofed trade pavilions huddled underneath it, just as they had a century before when the market bustled and carts of hay stood all around. It seemed as though holes had been ripped in the fabric of time on the square, connecting various eras and centuries.
Both power and enmity lurked there. That was what Kate sensed, anyway. There was something about it—what exactly, she couldn’t say. It was as though some unknown force was hiding behind every corner and observing her, an uninvited visitor. She shivered, as from the morning chill.
By then it was seven a.m., and still the square was almost empty. Just an old man dressed in rags, with a pushcart stuffed with grimy bundles of paper. A shadow darted past his feet; Kate didn’t realize what it was at first. She wasn’t afraid of mice or hamsters, but it was shocking to see a live rat in the center of a European city. The little gray creature pressed itself to the stoop of a meat shop, then, sniffing the air, it casually went on its way.
Moving around the sprawling square in a circle, Kate overcame her fear of the unfamiliar space. On her way back to Griboyedov Canal she dialed the secret number. For a long time there was no answer. Then, finally, the ringing cut off. Someone coughed on the other end of the line and a husky male voice said, “What do you want?” Kate said the code word. There was a hacking cough at the other end again that went on for some time, followed by the gulping noises of a throat swallowing something with difficulty. The line fell silent. Then the same voice, but in a completely different tone, started arranging their rendezvous. No unnecessary questions. They would recognize each other.
Strolling around, Kate arrived at the venue ahead of time. In an all-night café, she sat at the far table. There were four customers there besides her, tending their mugs. Instead of the aroma of fresh coffee and cream, the place was permeated by a mix of chemical scents used to mask the smell of decay. Rousing techno-pop was piped through the loudspeakers. The waiter, with a hairy wart on his lip, took a long time writing down her order but returned almost immediately with a large coffee and glass of water. Kate did not so much as sip the murky water: she was keeping her eyes on the door. Nevertheless, she missed his arrival. He had been at the café for a long time, observing her and making his assessments. He stood up swiftly and seated himself at her table.
Porphyry looked exactly as he’d been described to her: a week-old stubble, rheumy red eyes, and the persistent fumes of a heavy drinker. Even in the summer, he wore a fur jacket with a greasy shirt sticking out from underneath it. He was a tramp, a lowly nobody. Yet he was the one her Facebook friends had recommended. They said that this unpleasant person reminiscent of a polecat could take care of any problem in the city. He could deal with any kind of trouble. Even something as serious as Kate’s situation.
“Who told you about me?” he asked, swallowing a mouthful of her coffee.
“You helped some friends of mine.” Kate recalled a few names.
Porphyry accepted her explanation with a curt nod. He fixed her with an unblinking stare, as though testing her mettle. Kate kept her composure and said, “I have a serious problem.”
“That’s the only reason people come to me.”
“My sister is missing.”
“Since when?”
Not long ago her parents had been seized by the idea of showing their youngest daughter, Sonya—who was born in America and spoke no Russian—the country of her roots. A gift of sorts for her twelfth birthday. They got their visas and had arrived in St. Petersburg one month before.
“Then what happened?”
Sonya had just disappeared. According to her parents’ incoherent account of events, she asked to go out for a walk around the hotel and never returned. Their parents only noticed her absence when the girl had been gone for a full three hours. They called the police, who refused to help, saying they couldn’t do anything unless she had been gone for more than a week. Dad paid the lieutenant a bribe to persuade him to start the search immediately. The officer came back the next day to say that nothing could be done: Sonya was gone.
Kate listed many more relevant details, but she didn’t divulge the most important one of all. When her parents had broken the news to her, she immediately knew it was her mission to save Sonya. It was like a revelation. Kate dashed to the Russian embassy, but despite her Russian name, tears, pleas, and an envelope with a hefty bribe, they said that the procedure for issuing a visa would take a month. She decided then and there that she would spend the intervening time not on prayer, but on preparation: she took leave from her job at a law firm and hired a trainer, a former marine, to teach her skills that would come in handy for rescuing someone. Killing, in particular. She trained with a desperate zeal. Now she could finish off the slight man sitting in front of her using nothing but a teaspoon. Except she couldn’t let anyone know. The trainer had said, “Never let your enemy know your real strength.” And Porphyry looked more like a foe than a friend.
He snapped his fingers nervously. “Got a photo of your sister?”
In the last picture of her, taken at the airport in Chicago just before their departure to Russia, the child stared with grudging severity into the camera lens. Porphyry wanted to keep the picture, but Kate refused to let it out of her grasp.
He scrutinized the image for a long time. Then he said, “You know my rates?”
Kate quoted a price.
“Half up front. No refunds. No matter what the outcome.”
Ten bills were counted out for him. Porphyry carelessly shoveled the pile into his pocket and made to leave: “I’ll keep you posted.”
“No.” Kate said it with such conviction that he sat down again. “I am going with you. I might be able to help.”
“Oh yeah? How?” Porphyry sneered.
“Sonya is being held somewhere on Haymarket Square.” “How do you know?”
Kate had only accepted the news of her sister’s disappearance because she was certain that Sonya was alive. She couldn’t explain it, but she could sense her sister even at a distance. It had always been like that. They could never play hide and seek: Kate always found Sonya instantly. An inner voice whispered to her. “Sonya is somewhere nearby,” she said.
“Just keep in mind that I haven’t promised I’ll find her alive. Got it?”
“She’s alive.”
“Hope is a good thing.”
“She’s alive,” Kate repeated obstinately.
“We’ll find out soon enough. Listen up, now. Here are the rules: You do exactly as I say. No objections, no questions. Keep a cool head no matter what happens. No hysteria. Got it?”
Kate accepted all of his conditions.
“Oh, and uh… pay for my breakfast,” Porphyry said, walking out of the café.
A low-vaulted underpass diving into the bowels of the subway cut across the insides of Haymarket Square. Even in summer a wind blew from within it. Kate was told to keep her distance.
Porphyry descended the stone steps and headed for a motley pile of rags. He stopped beside it and said something. The pile began to stir, as though there was a mole burrowing within it, and a human face emerged. It was a swollen, cadaver-colored lump. Staring at Porphyry, the creature belched. Then the castoff clothing began to rustle, and a paw appeared, clutching a new iPhone. The face muttered a few short, incomprehensible phrases into it, switched off the phone, and disappeared once more into the heap of rags.