He began to cry and he sobbed silently, turning his back to the crowd. Finally he controlled the tears, dabbed his face and inhaled deeply.
Then a thought came to him; he remembered something else about the killer. The man had had that attaché case. An old-fashioned one, the sort you didn’t see very much anymore. He had been carrying it as he walked into the front room from the workshop when he saw Vimal. The case, he now reflected, might be the reason he was still alive. The robber had been carrying it in his right hand. He’d had to drop it and pull his gun from his pocket, which gave Vimal a moment — purely a reaction — to turn and raise his hands. When the man fired, the bullet had struck the rocks, not his chest.
A man with a briefcase would be distinctive. Vimal would call 911 once more and let them know. Officers throughout Midtown could look for him.
He rose and walked toward a pay phone. He knew that as soon as he called, somebody in the NYPD would radio officers here — there were a half dozen that he could see — and report that somebody who knew about the crime was in the Port Authority. He’d have to leave immediately after he hung up.
It was then that he felt, more than saw, somebody approaching.
He turned and observed a man of about thirty-five in a dark raincoat, walking toward him and looking from right to left as he made his way through the foot traffic flowing through the Port Authority hallways. Same height and build as the killer. Somber-faced.
The killer had been in a jacket, hadn’t he?
This man had no briefcase.
But a smart thief would have ditched the clothes he wore at the scene of the crime.
Or, hell! What if there were two of them? This was... what did they say? The backup.
In any event, this guy was definitely coming his way. He held something small and dark in his hand. It wouldn’t be the gun; he wouldn’t dare shoot here. It would be the knife he’d used to slash that couple and Mr. Patel to death.
Vimal looked for the police. The closest were about two hundred feet away and the man was between them and Vimal.
Besides, the police were the last thing he wanted.
Go! Get away!
He turned and moved fast down the nearest corridor, which was lined with luggage lockers. The pain in his chest and side swelled but he ignored it and kept moving fast.
A T-shaped intersection of passageways was ahead. Left or right? More light from the right one. He slipped around the corner.
Mistake. It was a dead end, continuing for only ten feet and ending at a door on which was stenciled: Electrical. Maintenance Only. No Entry.
Try it!
Locked. He saw the shadow of the man as he approached.
I’m going to die, he thought.
Into his mind came not the image of his mother’s face, or his brother’s. Not the six-carat marquis-cut diamond that he’d completed last week and that Mr. Patel had pronounced as “quite acceptable” — his highest praise.
No, in what was likely to be his last moment on earth Vimal thought of a piece of granite sitting in his studio: a four-sided pyramid. Rich green, with striations of black and just a hint of gold. He pictured every centimeter of it.
The man paused in the intersection and squinted toward him.
Then Vimal thought: No. He took a deep breath and walked forward, standing as tall as he could. He wasn’t going to cower. He was going to fight.
Vimal wasn’t a large man but his passion was stone and rock; he hefted it and he cut and cracked and smoothed it. His tools were heavy. Sometimes he held a large stone at arm’s length, willing the piece to tell him what its soul was so that he could set it free.
These ample muscles now grew taut and he withdrew from his pocket a weapon of his own: the largest rock, the January bird, that had been in the bag when this man — or his associate — had shot him. He kept it hidden behind his back.
Vimal nearly smiled, with grim humor, thinking about the game he’d played with his brother Sunny when they were younger: rock-paper-scissors.
Scissors cut paper.
Paper covers rock.
And rock breaks scissors.
He gripped the stone firmly.
Oh, yes, he’d fight... hit the man hard, dodge the knife as best he could, and flee.
From him. And from the police.
The man walked closer. Then he smiled. “Hey, young man. I was waving at you.”
Vimal stopped, saying nothing, just kneaded the stone. The man’s grin was just a trick to get his guard down.
“You left this on the bench. In the waiting room.”
He held up not a knife but a mobile phone. Vimal squinted and patted his pockets. Yes, it was his. Each walked toward the other and the man handed it over. “You okay, son?” He frowned.
“Yeah. I... just, busy day. Stupid of me. Sorry.” He slipped the rock back into his pocket; the man didn’t seem to notice.
“Hey, happens. I left a new iPhone at the playground when my wife and I took the boys to the park. When I realized it, after we got home, I called the number. A kid — like, a ten-year-old — answered. I said it was my phone and all he said was could he have the password for the App Store?”
The Samaritan laughed and Vimal forced himself to do so too.
“Thanks.” The word was shaky.
The man nodded and walked off toward a queue for a bus going to New Jersey.
Vimal returned to the pay phone. He stood with his head down, breathing slowly, calming. He called 911 again. When he said he was calling about the robbery on 47th Street, the woman tried to keep him on the line but he said simply, “The man with the gun had a black attaché case. Like businessmen carry.”
He hung up and walked quickly to the exit, casting a last look at the departure board, filled with so many destinations. They all beckoned.
But first things first. Head down, Vimal plunged into the crowds on the sidewalk and turned south, walking as quickly as the pain allowed.
Chapter 7
Two tiny kur to find.
Two tiny hens to cut up and boil...
Two tiny kur who knew too much.
Who should have died earlier. But who got away.
Sad, sad, sad. But not everything goes the way it fucking ought to.
Aromatic with tarry cigarette smoke and Old Spice aftershave, Vladimir Rostov now spotted someone who might help him track down his kur.
He was in the Diamond District, about a hundred yards from the building that housed Jatin Patel’s store, where police stood and yellow tape fluttered. He was, of course, keeping his distance. It was now dusk, closing time in the district, and Rostov was watching his target — either the owner or the manager of a small jewelry store — operate the motor that closed the security gate. He appeared to be South Asian and, Rostov was hoping, would probably know Patel; the diamond community in New York was not as big as you might think.
The man fitted two serious locks into hasps on the door and, with a third, locked the electronic panel that controlled the motor.
The man was slight and looked about, nervously. Ah, good. Rostov loved timid kur. They were always so eager to help.
The Russian blended in. New York was the city of dark outer garments, as he was wearing. The city of no eye contact, the city of head down, the city of never respond. Blending in... There was little distinctive about him, this compact forty-four-year-old. More muscle than fat, with a long angular, equine face. Former military, he had a military bearing and a military physique, though he did not have — nor had he ever had — a military frame of mind, which meant discipline and the will to follow orders.
Looking normal, but he worked to keep his eyes from zipping a bit too manically around the street. He tried not to mutter to himself. And to anyone nearby. That wouldn’t, of course, be a good idea. He was well aware that he was a bit different.