partial glow of a tunnel light that Karpo could see the hammer in his hand, bloody claw up.
“You and I will be the last,” said Odom.
Karpo reached back for his weapon, disconcerted by his pounding head. He had his gun in hand and halfway up when he knew that there would not be enough time. He might shoot the man but the hammer would still descend. This was faster than thought. The creature over him in the motorman’s uniform was not the man he had followed into the tunnel. This was a wide-eyed caricature moving like a wolf.
Then the shot clattered, followed by another and another, and the hammer did come down, missing Karpo and clanging to the track. Karpo backed against the cool tunnel wall and watched the Metro man’s body convulse and roll back. More shots and the body danced in a dim glow. The noise tore through Karpo’s head but the detective had his gun up now. He turned and aimed it down the tunnel.
“Stop,” he called.
One more defiant shot tore into the dead Yevgeny Odom.
Karpo blinked. Anatoli Xeromen walked forward, an AK-47 in his hand.
“Hand me the weapon,” Karpo said. Anatoli threw the gun down as he stepped past Karpo and advanced on the body.
“We’ve got to leave the tunnel,” said Karpo. “I can hear a train.”
Anatoli kicked the dead man in the face.
“You hear me?” asked Karpo.
“I hear,” Anatoli said. “There’s no hurry. One of my gang will stop the train when it gets to the station. He has a gun even bigger than the Ah-Kay.”
Karpo picked up the weapon and moved to the body. He was in no condition to move the dead man by himself, and he doubted if he could get Anatoli Xeromen’s help.
“Let’s go,” said Karpo, moving down the track.
“I’ll be a hero, you know,” said the young man.
“You had an illegal weapon,” said Karpo.
“And you are going to turn me in?”
They were walking side by side, their own voices coming back at them.
Karpo didn’t answer.
“We’re partners,” said Anatoli. “Partners and heroes.”
Emil Karpo heard them and heard them and felt the pain.
The house to which Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov and Elena Timofeyeva were taken was large. It looked like someone’s dream of Old Spain.
It was on a hill between two other houses from the same dream.
The two cars had parked before the house. Three of the men who had taken them stepped out and flanked them as they moved forward to be greeted by two more men and a woman. Just inside the doorway, in a cool anteroom, both Rostnikov and Elena were thoroughly searched.
“This way,” said the man who spoke Russian.
They followed him through a door in front of which stood a pair of men in fatigue uniforms. Both men had automatic weapons held at the ready.
“The lady will come with me,” said the man.
Elena looked at Rostnikov, who nodded. The door opened. The door closed and Rostnikov was alone in a bright room filled with familiar-looking heavy Russian furniture.
“The previous owner was a Russian general,” came a voice in English from across the room near a window.
The window was draped, and Rostnikov could now see the outline of a figure.
“He departed, like so many of you, leaving behind promises and trash to be picked up by the real revolutionaries.”
The man who stepped out from behind the curtains held his hands behind his back. He had a full-flowing curly gray beard, and wore a perfectly pressed and slightly faded fatigue uniform.
“Sit,” said Fidel Castro. “You have a war wound. Sit.”
Castro moved to an overstuffed chair and sat, his hands resting on both arms. There was a similar seat across from him. Rostnikov took it, and Castro immediately stood again and began pacing the room.
“You do not seem surprised to see me,” said Castro, his eyes turning suddenly on Rostnikov.
“It was a good entrance,” said Rostnikov. “But the fanfare was too loud for it to be anyone but you.”
Castro nodded, fidgeted with a large ring on his right hand, and cocked his head to one side like a curious bird trying to decide whether the creature in front of it was edible. Then he paced again, pausing to straighten a picture here, move a vase there.
“Would you like coffee?” he asked.
“I would like to catch a plane to Moscow,” Porfiry Petrovich answered.
“One question honestly answered and you may leave,” said Castro, stepping quickly in front of Rostnikov and leaning forward as he rubbed his palms together.
“You are the host,” said Rostnikov.
“Why are you in such a hurry to leave Cuba?”
“I think you know,” said Rostnikov.
Castro nodded and scratched his right ear nervously.
“Yes. Yes. Yes. I know, but let us play a game. Humor me. There are those who believe I have lost my mind, so treat me like a dangerous madman. I’m beginning to think a man who displays the hostility you are showing me may also be considered a madman by some. So, one madman to another …”
Rostnikov hesitated for a moment and then said, “Igor Shemenkov murdered Maria Fernandez. I was brought in to find witnesses and clues that would convince me that he was innocent. I was to discover a
Castro played with the curls at the bottom of his beard.
“Who would want that?” he asked.
“I can but guess,” said Rostnikov.
Castro folded his arms across his chest and waited.
“He was an agent for your people working in the embassy,” said Rostnikov. “He gave you codes, messages. His conviction as a murderer might result in embarrassing things coming to light. As a man exonerated of a crime he did not commit, he can go back to Russia and continue to work for you knowing that if he does not, he will face exposure as a spy. I would guess that there are still friends of Cuba in the Kremlin who were more than willing to go along with your request that a Russian investigator be sent to Havana, an investigator who would discover that Shemenkov was framed by the
“Close,” said Castro, sitting in front of Rostnikov and drumming his hands on his knees. “Usually, I do not trouble myself personally with such situations, you understand. But I was informed of what you had done. Why did you hit him? You could have left without our thinking you knew anything.”
“I could not stop myself,” said Rostnikov. “Igor Shemenkov is a traitor, a murderer, and probably many other things.”
“You are always like this?” asked Castro, leaning forward.
“No,” said Rostnikov with a sigh. “Usually, I look for a way to survive and do as much of my duty as I can. Maybe I’m not accustomed to tropical weather.”
Castro nodded and rubbed his eyes.
“But treason and murder were more than you could stand,” said Castro almost to himself.
Rostnikov did not answer.
“What am I to do with you, Russian? You and your assistant could have an accident. I can threaten you, tell you that I can have you killed any time, anywhere, even in Moscow. But you’ve heard such threats before.”
“I have already passed the information on,” said Rostnikov.
