sofa, and waited. From the open window behind him, he could hear the sounds of traffic.
Other than this it was quiet.
After a minute or so, the elevator bell clanged in the hallway.
He felt his muscles tense, aware of the cool outside air at the back of his neck. There were voices in the hallway, men and women speaking, but he could not tell what they were saying. A woman laughed loudly, like the shriek of a bird. A door slammed, and it was quiet again. But he did not relax on the chance the KGB had gotten off the elevator with the revelers. He wondered if they would take the stairs instead. No, both. Men on the stairs, he hoped above the sixth floor, and men on the elevator. His only problem would be if there were men on the stairs between the second and sixth floor.
On the second floor, he had hidden a waiter’s jacket behind a fire extinguisher outside the door to the stairwell. Once on the second floor, he would put on the jacket, go through the restaurant’s kitchen and out the back, where there was a metal stairway down to the alley. He would avoid the lobby and front entrance. The plan depended on a clear stairwell between the sixth and second floors.
If not, he might have to kill again.
Although it seemed an inappropriate time, Lazlo could not help thinking about the man he killed today. He remembered the man’s face when he raised his gun and pointed out the car window. The man’s face held a look of panic, of not knowing what to do next.
The reason Lazlo had fired first was because in the past he’d seen criminals with the same look on their faces. He’d also seen this look years earlier, when the deserter who’d shot Viktor turned the gun on him slowly, so slowly.
Today, with the partner weeping and even admitting he had not radioed for help, Lazlo theorized that two amateurs had been purposely assigned. This afternoon in the park, his theory of a setup was proven correct when Tamara said she had not sent the message saying Juli was in danger. The only message Tamara had sent through the poet was the one after her interrogation.
Lovely Tamara in the park on a spring afternoon, joining him behind thick bushes along the bank of the river, speaking softly as the water trickled and lapped the shore. Lovely Tamara promis-ing to help, then telling him about a woman who ran a market in the mountain village of Yasinya near the Romanian and Hungarian frontiers. Tamara saying it was a way out. Tamara kissing him before running along the bank so she could resume her walk beyond the concealment of the bushes as if no one had been there. He wondered if he would ever see Tamara again.
The elevator bell clanged in the hallway. He could hear the doors slide open, stay open a few seconds, slide closed again. Enough time to let off very quiet passengers who did not speak or clomp about or push a key loudly into a lock and slam a door. He knew it was them.
Room 702, registered for one night by Mr. and Mrs. Yuri Antonov, was not far from the elevator. Komarov passed the door quietly and took a position with Brovko at the turn in the hall. Two of Brovko’s men stood on either side of the door with Stechkin machine pistols ready. When the men released the safeties, Brovko held his hand up for the men to wait. Komarov withdrew his own pistol from his shoulder holster.
Perhaps it would end here for Detective Horvath, thought Komarov as he imagined Stechkins unloading their clips at full automatic, causing the Gypsy Moth to dance his last dance. And what about the woman? Would she have one of the pistols taken from Pavel and Nikolai?
It did not matter to Komarov. In this game, he had all possibilities covered. One of his men had been killed. If Horvath or Popovics survived, he had the authority to become witness to confessions of conspiracy and have the conspirators put away forever. The path to his chairmanship, and to his recognition by the Presidium and the Council of Ministers, were behind the door to room 702.
While waiting with Brovko for the men coming up the stairs, Komarov imagined living in Moscow. He’d have an office in the Lubyanka. He’d salute Lenin’s Tomb each day. He’d attend operas at the Bolshoi. His wife would enjoy Moscow. Dmitry would remain in Kiev with his friends. On the other hand, perhaps his wife would not want to go to Moscow, and he would meet other women.
He imagined it. An opera at the Bolshoi, dinner at a quiet restaurant, then back to his Moscow apartment. He tried to visualize a woman with him, a woman beneath him in bed while the music from Prince Igor or The Duma rings in his ears. The woman he pictured beneath him was Tamara Petrov. Komarov reached inside his jacket and touched his knife, felt reassured by the good fortune it had brought him in the past.
The stairwell door at the far end of the hall opened, and two men holding pistols stepped out, one of them shaking his head from side to side. Brovko nodded and turned to one of the men near the door, who raised his Stechkin with one hand and reached out to knock with the other.
Lazlo stood to the side of the door opposite Lenin.
“Who is it?”
Silence. He waited, but not so long they would decide to break in the door.
“Who’s there?”
“I’m from housekeeping. Please open the door. Something needs checking in the room.”
“Come back later!”
More silence, followed by a very loud knock.
“Detective Horvath! Unlock the door and step five paces straight back into the room with your hands over your head! If you don’t do this immediately, we’ll begin shooting!”
He heard a door slam, probably someone looking out and seeing the men with guns.
“Detective Horvath!”
“Very well! I’ll unlock the door now and step back as you said!”
After unlocking the door, Lazlo stepped back more than five paces. He stood at the side of the sofa with his hands above his head.
The doorknob twisted slowly, then the door was propelled open, banging into Lenin. For a second all he saw was the opposite wall of the hallway. Eventually two machine pistols appeared, followed by two men peeking around the edge of the door frame. Both men stared at him for a moment, and finally one stepped into the room, aiming his machine pistol two-handed at Lazlo. The second man quickly stepped in, glanced at the gun on the bed, stepped around the door, and was confronted by Lenin. When the machine pistol began unloading, the man watching Lazlo dropped to the floor and also turned his pistol on Lenin.
The move behind the sofa and out the window went as quickly as it had when he’d practiced it. What he hadn’t practiced was the drop to the scaffold. He fell in a crouched position, experiencing the horrible sensation of the fall in his abdomen. When he hit the scaffold, he lurched sideways but held on with his arms. His legs hung over the edge and his ankle burned with pain, but he managed to clamber up onto the scaffold. He stood up quickly, took out his pistol, held it as high as he could beneath the open window, held his breath, and listened.
When the firing in the room finally ceased, gun smoke billowed out the doorway, a few shells rolled into the hallway, and Komarov ran into the room with Brovko.
Their two men were prone on the floor, their machine pistols aimed at a sofa against a window. Bits of what looked like plaster were scattered about the men’s feet. One man on the floor pointed to the sofa, the other pointed back behind the door. The men from the stairwell joined them, crowding into the room. Brovko aimed his pistol behind the door before shaking his head sadly and turning to the sofa.
Behind the door Komarov saw a statue with a pistol fastened to its hand. On the bed was another pistol in a shoulder holster. He aimed his own pistol at the sofa with the others.
“Come out, Horvath!”
When a shot exploded from behind the sofa, Komarov, along with the others, opened fire.
The firing continued at least five seconds. When it stopped, the sofa was smoking, tufts of stuffing floating above it.
Brovko approached the sofa carefully, aiming his pistol. Once behind and to the side of the sofa, he looked back to Komarov.
“There’s nobody here.”
“What?”
“But he jumped back there,” said one of the men on the floor.
Brovko shoved the sofa out into the room.
“The window!” screamed Komarov.
“We’re on the seventh floor,” said one of the men.
