strong and probably foreign cigarettes. The play was quiet, and their fairly formal dress gave the impression of a serious tournament. The night before, Ivanovich had given him an overview of the play, which struck Hannibal as a simplified form of bridge. Having grown up playing spades and hearts, Hannibal figured he could sit in without much training. But he didn’t expect to that afternoon. The faces he was scanning for were missing.
“I don’t see Dr. Sidorov,” he told his guide.
“That is because he is not here,” a female voice said behind him. Hannibal turned to see a stately woman in a black, strapless formal gown — the kind of gown Hannibal didn’t think anyone wore before dinnertime. She was perched on a bar stool and offering him a half smile. Her dark hair was up in a chignon, accentuating her height. Her thin eyebrows and long ascetic nose seemed at odds with full, red lips. He thought she was blessed or cursed with a cold beauty, the kind men love to admire from a distance but are afraid to touch.
“Good morning. My name is Hannibal Jones and I was to meet Dr. Sidorov here.”
“He’ll be back,” she said. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “I am Anastasiya Sidorov. His wife.”
Hannibal did not allow his surprise to show as he held his hand out. “A pleasure to meet you. Now that I look more closely, I do recognize you.”
She touched her fingertips to his, and he was glad he was wearing gloves. Women don’t become this cold without reason, he thought.
“Have we met before?” One eyebrow arched in disbelief.
“No, ma’am,” Hannibal said, reaching into his jacket. “I have an old photo of your husband, and I think you are in it too.”
This was too easy, he thought. He placed the photo on the bar. Anastasiya looked down, sipped her vodka, and smiled. He thought the smile was not so much for the picture as for the past it called up.
“This was taken right here,” she said. She was standing beside Yakov in the photo. Gana stood to Yakov’s left, behind the mystery man and Queenie. On the other side of them, Nikita Petrova was just close enough to be in the picture.
“Yes,” Hannibal said, “taken right here. And whoever took it managed to get two lovely ladies in the photo. You and…”
“Renata.” Anastasiya said in her light, musical tone.
“Renata?”
“Renata Tolstaya,” she said with a heavy sigh. “You are interested in her?”
“Not really. But I did want to talk with your husband about some of the other people in the photo.”
Anastasiya looked Hannibal up and down. Then she turned away toward the bartender. “You need a drink,” she said over her shoulder. “Misha, please bring this fellow with the colorful name some vodka. He will have…” she looked at Hannibal as if measuring him anew, and then returned to the bartender, “He will have some Jewel of Russia to start. On Yakov’s bill.”
“Is that a good brand?” Hannibal asked, sliding onto the barstool beside her. She had apparently decided to have a real conversation with him. “I will admit to being pretty ignorant about vodka, although lately I seem to have developed a taste for it.”
She turned back to him and gave a full smile, resting her chin on her palm. “It is a true Russian vodka and one of my favorites. They have about fifty different vodkas here and there is only one way to know which you like most.”
Hannibal lifted his glass and sipped, just to be polite. Then he sipped again. It was an entirely different taste from the vodka he had shared with Ivanovich, not nearly so harsh, but it still flamed on its way down his throat. “I didn’t know it was supposed to be chilled. Much better. And this is really, really smooth.”
“I see you have been drinking cheap vodka,” Anastasiya said. “No one should drink cheap vodka.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Do you know when your husband will be back? I wouldn’t want these folks to get the wrong idea.” Hannibal smiled, knowing that the card players were ignoring them completely.
Anastasiya’s smile faded, and she fished in a small clutch purse to pull out a cigarette. “You needn’t worry. And Yakov should be back very soon, unless of course he decides to stop over. He went to drive Raisa home.” Her tone told Hannibal where the coldness came from.
“I see. I thought she came to play cards too, but I guess she doesn’t like to stay as long as you do.”
Anastasiya made a show of fitting the short cigarette into a holder. Hannibal spotted a heavy porcelain lighter on the bar and held its flame forward. She blew out a thank you with her first puff of smoke.
“You are a gentleman. A vanishing breed in this country. Your woman is very fortunate.” Hannibal neither confirmed nor denied the existence of a woman in his life. She looked as if this was a disappointment. “Raisa didn’t come to gamble. That was her husband. She came today so she could ask Yakov for money in person.”
“Money?”
“They are close,” she said. “You need more to drink. Misha, do you have some of that Kremlyovskaya chocolate in the freezer? This one needs his horizons broadened.”
Hannibal sat quiet until his second drink arrived, planning to nurse it until he left the building. A two-ounce shot was plenty of alcohol for him right after lunch, and that was the way they seemed to pour in this place. But he was curious enough to pick up the new glass. It looked the same, but the smell was a startling difference. He tasted slowly, his eyes widening behind his glasses.
“It really is chocolate,” Hannibal said. “Chocolate vodka. I’ll be damned.”
“Life is full of surprises,” Anastasiya said. She looked happy to have pleased a man. He wanted to give her another chance.
“So, Raisa Petrova asked your husband for money.”
“Ten thousand dollars,” she said, making the words sound like profanities.
“Whoa. They must be very close indeed.”
Behind Hannibal, a familiar voice said, “We are very old friends, and I promised Nikita that I would take care of her.”
Hannibal spun on his stool and stood to shake Yakov’s hand. “Sir, I’ve been waiting for you. I was hoping to learn a bit more about some of your old friends. I hope Mrs. Petrova told you…”
“Look at this photo,” Anastasiya said, interrupting Hannibal by thrusting the picture between the two men. “Do you remember those times?”
Yakov leaned back to focus on the picture. “Oh my. Look at that. There’s Boris and Renata Tolstaya. I haven’t thought of them in years.”
“You loved me then,” Anastasiya said. She stood quickly, but lost her balance and fell forward into her husband’s arms.
“Sir, if I could have just a couple of minutes,” Hannibal began.
“Did you give it to her?” Anastasiya asked. “Was she worth so much?”
“I think you started a little early today,” Yakov said. Then to Hannibal, “I’m sorry young man, but I think I need to get my wife home now. Raisa seemed to have more to tell you, though. Perhaps you should speak with her again. I will be happy to meet with you another time.”
“You could probably find him at her house,” Anastasiya said as Yakov began easing her toward the staircase. “But you would not. You are a gentleman.”
16
Hannibal let the Black Beauty wander the Dupont Circle area for a while before he set a solid course for the Petrova house. He knew he wanted to talk to Raisa, but was not sure what he wanted to ask her about. It seemed clear now that she knew more about Dani Gana than she was telling, and the truth about Gana was his primary objective. On the other hand, the mystery surrounding Nikita Petrova’s death was calling to him. His first impression was that Nikita was universally respected and liked within his little criminal universe. But the deeper Hannibal dug, the more people turned out to have a motive for killing Nikita, including Raisa if Mrs. Sidorov’s suspicions were accurate.
He parked across the street from Raisa’s house and got out of his car with one thought at the top of his
