He bent down and lifted the blanket that covered her.
She was absolutely white, absolutely frozen in a position of death. Her arms were sprawled like the arms of a broken doll. Her eyes were open, her mouth lolled open. She had been drained of blood.
The cut had crossed between her breasts and driven down through her belly to her sex organ. She was naked.
“Where was she killed?” Kulak said, still staring at the face.
“We don’t know.”
“How many places could there be? Look at the blood. Hardly a trace.”
“He had wrapped her in plastic.”
“Who was she?”
“Natali Kkonhn. A prostitute. We knew about her.”
“Where did she work?”
“The nice hotels. She wasn’t so bad.”
Kulak replaced the blanket and stood up. “Not so bad? You had her?”
“I didn’t mean that.” The face of Ahakn was sullen, thin, and his black eyes never met Kulak’s when Kulak spoke to him. Kulak did not like him very much; Ahakn was ambitious, which made him a bad policeman.
“Where was she working last night?”
“Her usual spot was the Presidentti.”
“Who did she work with?”
“She had a pimp but she got rid of him. She was a lesbian. Her friend is in Stockholm; she had letters from her.”
“They’re all lesbians. A lesbian isn’t going to do that to her.”
“Is that right?” Ahakn said. A trace of a smile drew his dark face into a grimace.
“Yes, Ahakn, that’s right,” Kulak said with tiredness in his flat voice. “Get her to the institute and let’s start working the hotel. Check the register, talk to the manager. Be discreet for a change if you think that is possible. This is a very important hotel, important to Helsinki, and I do not want any complaints from the management about a stupid policeman arousing the guests.”
Ahakn thought to speak but clenched his fists instead. Kulak was built like a bull with thick neck, thick arms, thick hands. His face was curiously sensitive and even placid. His eyes rarely showed any emotion except contempt. He seemed like a man perpetually angry about something that did not involve those he was working with. He had been a chief inspector for twenty-one years.
Natali. What a stupid waste. His mind addressed the corpse frozen in death under the blanket, on the snow at the floor of the construction pit. Are you the beginning or the end of something? Was it your pimp or one of your customers? What a stupid thing to do, Natali, to get killed like that. Stupid.
He felt a smoldering anger in that moment directed at the dead woman but also at himself, as though he had caused her death by failing in some duty. It was nonsense and, on one level, he accepted that; but in his guts, he felt immensely guilty and he knew that he could not put the feeling of guilt away. Not even if they had found the one who had done this.
He looked up at Ahakn, who was staring at him.
“Well, should I make a written invitation for you? Or do you think you could find the hotel by yourself?”
Ahakn made a face in response and turned.
He knew better than to speak now. Kulak was angry, really mad; Ahakn could never understand why the death scenes affected him this way. Fortunately for himself, he never thought to ask Kulak either.
Devereaux sat on the far side of the square-shaped bar off the lobby of the Presidentti. There were no windows here and no sense of the winter beyond the walls. The bar was nearly empty except for the man in a gray suit who had taken up a place across from Devereaux a half-hour before and had been watching him when not pretending to be reading a day-old copy of the Times.
Contact was inevitable. Devereaux knew all the signs. He wondered what story the other man would tell him — whether it would be plausible on the face of it or so ridiculous that the deceit would barely have any credence.
It was four days since he had seen Tartakoff. Nothing had happened and yet he had a sense that he was at the dead calm center of a great storm building somewhere over the defection.
The name Tomas Crohan had been met with utter silence in Washington, a silence so frozen and complete that it was a profound answer in itself, like the silence that follows prayers.
Hanley and the Section had not responded; Tartakoff had not sent any signal.
Devereaux picked up his glass of vodka and tasted it again. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other man rise.
Devereaux waited while the other man held his gaze and came around the bar with the drink in his hand. Like an American, Devereaux noted; but he did not resemble an American. His face was thin. His clothes too fussy in their evening neatness. He dressed formally, which was odd to Devereaux, considering the late hour of the afternoon and the deserted place they found themselves in. It was as though the other man hoped to make a good impression.
“Beg pardon. I’ve seen you in here before. American? My name is Sims.”
Devereaux did not speak. He stared at the other man in a silence that seemed as calm as an ice field.
“Do you mind if I sit down?”
“No.”
“Sims. With British-Suomi Exports. I’m here on my annual winter holiday.”
“So am I,” Devereaux said.
The thin man frowned. What had he expected, Devereaux thought.
“Didn’t mean to intrude,” Sims said.
“No. Are you staying at the hotel?”
“Actually, I am this time. That’s why I saw you. Talk to bloody Finns all day, I was looking for someone of my own kind.”
“American,” Devereaux said.
“Well, so. Cousins under the skin,” Sims said, moving quickly as though the threads of the conversation might be recalled at any moment. “Are you here on business?”
“Pleasure.”
Sims stared at him and then managed a smile. “Scant pleasures in winter in Helsinki.”
“I like cold weather.”
“Ski?”
“No. Just the cold. It makes it easy to get ice for the vodka.”
“I see.” The smile faded.
“What do you export?”
“Arabia dinnerware, glasses. Marimekko cloth. Quite a market, a nice little enterprise.”
“You have an office here?”
“No. Actually, we deal directly with the makers. Offices in Kensington Mews in London. Do you know London?”
“From time to time.”
“You’re in business?”
“Everyone is in business.”
The faintest frown. “Didn’t mean to pry.”
“Of course you did.”
“Beg your pardon.”
“You followed me from the hotel this morning when I went to the train station. I took a walk to Upsala and you were behind me.”
The other man darkened suddenly. His color might have meant danger but Devereaux did not stir as he talked. He did not look at Sims. He stared at the glass of Finlandia vodka on the wooden bar top in front of him.
“You’re not very good,” Devereaux said at last.
“What do you mean?”
“This. The shadow this morning. You’re not very good. They must not consider this very important if they sent you. Unless you’re supposed to be bad. At the job, I mean.”
“Yanks have a gift for giving insult,” Sims said.
“And the English have the gift for coming back again and again for more of the same,” Devereaux said.
Sims rose abruptly but Devereaux held his sleeve. The bartender, wiping glasses at the far end, turned to observe.
“Just being here has told me more,” Devereaux said. “I never saw you before yesterday.”
“Not terribly observant of you then,” Sims hissed. “I’ve had you watched for a week.”
“Why?”
“Because we know who you are.”
“Who am I?”
“Amnesia? Or merely perplexed.”