Tkach and Karpo, already under suspicion because of their loyalty to Rostnikov, had been given the opportunity to join him. The opportunity had no alternatives, and Tkach had accepted it gladly, though at moments like this he longed for a good murder.
“You’re married?” Tkach said. “Your ring is very interesting.”
Elena Vostoyavek did not answer.
“We know a little about you,” he said, patting the sheet of paper that had been handed to him just before he entered the room with the woman.
“Your husband died several years ago after a prolonged illness. Is that correct?”
Tkach knew it was correct. The woman did not answer.
“You have a son, Yuri, who is … nineteen years old. He works at the Central Telegraph Office. Is that correct?”
No response.
“Elena, I’ll be honest with you. I need your help here. I have a lot of paperwork to do, and I’m expected to get a statement from you. If I don’t, my superiors will consider me incompetent. It will count against me. I have a wife, a child. You don’t want that to happen? You have a son. My mother would be broken if I lost my position here. You understand what I’m saying?”
No response. Sasha sighed and threw back his head to clear his eyes. There was a challenge here, and he was not meeting it. The woman was not just being stubborn. He could sense that. She had something to say, but something was keeping her from it. He needed the key that would open her mouth.
“All right,” he said, standing, suddenly louder than he had been. “I’ve been patient with you, but my patience has ended. We are busy here. I am busy, and you are taking valuable time from my investigative schedule. According to the law, you can now be tried for interference with police procedure. I am prepared, if I must, to bring such charges against you. You have five more of my minutes before I call an end to this and make a criminal charge.”
A tear formed in the corner of Elena Vostoyavek’s right eye. Sasha sighed and handed her the handkerchief Maya had ironed for him that morning even as they had fought. The silent woman took the handkerchief, touched it to her eye, and delicately blew her nose before handing the handkerchief back.
Sasha stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket, folded his arms across his chest, and sat back against the table behind him. The woman sniffled several times but didn’t seem to notice as Sasha announced the passage of each minute.
“Five,” he said, standing. “It is time to place charges against you.”
He had no intention of placing charges. He would usher her to the front door, inform the guard that she was not to be allowed back into the building, and then go back to his desk and write a report on the encounter. He looked forward to that report.
It was clear the woman would not speak. She wanted magic, a miracle, for him to know what she wanted without her having to say it. At that moment, the door to the interrogation room opened and a tall figure entered. The door was at Sasha’s back, but he could tell from the silent woman’s eyes who had entered. Elena’s eyes raised to take in the figure, and then the eyes widened and the mouth opened. She composed herself almost before the door had closed, but the look on her face was familiar to Tkach.
Emil Karpo stepped forward next to Sasha. Karpo was over six feet tall, lean, with dark, thinning hair and pale skin that contrasted with the black suit he wore. He looked corpselike, and his dark eyes were cold and unblinking. When he spoke, his voice was an emotionless monotone. He had been known in his early police career as the Tatar, but twenty years of fanatical pursuit of enemies of the state had earned him the nickname of the Vampire among his colleagues. The name seemed particularly appropriate when a peculiar look crept into Karpo’s eyes, and at those moments even those who had worked with him for years avoided him. Only Rostnikov knew that the look was caused by severe migraine headaches, headaches that Emil Karpo never acknowledged. There was also a peculiar lilt of Karpo’s body as he moved forward, a lilt caused by a vulnerable left arm that had been repeatedly damaged in the line of duty and only recently repaired by surgery.
“She won’t speak,” Sasha said with a sigh without looking at his pale companion.
Karpo nodded, his eyes fixed on the face of the woman who was doing her best not to be afraid of this new presence. But her best was far from good enough. Karpo picked up the information sheet from the table, read it quickly, and shifted his eyes to the face of the woman in the chair, who failed to avert her eyes in time and found them locked on those of the Vampire.
“Why are you here, Elena Vostoyavek?” he said.
“My-my-my son,” she answered dryly.
Sasha put his hand to his forehead and shook his head.
“What about your son?” Karpo went on insistently.
“I think,” she said, pulling her coat more tightly around her in spite of the heat of the room, “I think he is planning to do something very bad. I heard him talking to someone-a girl, I think-on the phone.”
“Something bad?” Karpo prompted.
“Something bad,” she repeated.
“And what is this bad thing?” asked Karpo patiently.
The woman looked at the two policemen and then at the wall.
“What is this thing?” Karpo repeated with less patience.
“Kidnapping,” she said softly. “I think he is planning to kidnap Andrei Morchov or worse. He mentioned Comrade Morchov several times.”
“The Politburo member?” asked Sasha.
The woman nodded her head and looked down at the floor.
“Why are you telling us?” asked Sasha, certain now that he would not be getting to his paperwork and thoughts this day.
“To stop him,” she said. “If you tell him you know what he is planning, thinking, he won’t be able to do it, don’t you see? No crime will have been committed. It’s just a crazy … Yuri is not a bad boy. He just gets … well, he’s not really a boy anymore, not really. But a mother-you understand? You have children?”
“No,” said Karpo.
The word conspiracy came into Sasha’s thoughts. If her son were guilty of planning a kidnapping, especially the kidnapping of an important member of the Politburo, that was a crime whether he succeeded or not, even if the plan were only something he mentioned once and never planned to carry out.
“You’ll talk to him, stop him, frighten him,” she said, looking directly at Karpo and reaching out to touch his hand. Karpo withdrew his hand before the contact was made and stood erect. “I’m sure you could frighten him.”
“We will stop him,” said Karpo.
Bus number 43, driven by Boris Trush on the 75 route, pulled over in front of Sokolniki Recreation Park at eleven-twelve in the morning. Boris announced the stop and opened the doors. Four of his passengers got off, leaving only a half-asleep man with a cap pulled over his eyes and an old couple arguing in the rear.
Boris had a hangover. He wanted to be home in the dark or immersed in warm water. Before all this reform, this perestroika, economic restructuring, and glasnost, openness, all this change, a man could have a hangover, a man could get drunk, a man had reason to drink. Now there were signs posted all over the city saying drinking was subversive, that drinking undercut the very fabric of the revolution. First they had raised the drinking age to twenty-one. That had been a good idea. Then Gorbachev had increased the price of vodka from four and a half rubles to ten rubles a liter. That had been a bad idea. And there were more bad ideas. Cutting the hours of State stores that sold alcohol was one.
Soon, Boris Trush thought, they will be making us embarrassed about smoking the way they are in the United States. What will be left when they take away the minor vices of the overweight and the middle-aged? Boris was, clearly, in a very dark mood when the two men climbed onto the bus, dropped their five kopecks in the box, and tore off their tickets.