generic native costume. Her face was round, overly made up, her mouth
fixed in a huge smile, in contrast with her eyes, which looked pained.
'She's not bad,' said Lester's wife, looking for support from Sarah and Rostnikov.
'She is trying,' said Rostnikov.
'It's damn painful,' said Lester. 'This is the nightly entertainment they promised us? Every night that poor creature comes in playing the same songs and ending with the national anthem of the day. If she tries 'The Star- Spangled Banner' tonight, I'm walking the hell out. The woman is depressing. Every night I've been here I've gone to bed depressed.'
'Tomorrow we go to the Nikitsky Botanical Garden,' said the wife, trying to change the subject.
Sarah nodded politely, though she was having great difficulty picking up enough of the English to truly understand.
'Our son lives in St. Louis, two blocks from one of the biggest botanical gardens in the United States,' said the man. 'We go to St. Louis every year, and we haven't had the slightest interest in seeing the botanical gardens once in eleven years. Now I go five thousand miles to see the same trees and flowers I could have seen at home.'
The concertina lady stopped. While she engaged in her nightly ritual of trying to get some of the disgruntled diners to dance, Lester leaned over the table and held out his hand.
'Lester McQuinton,' he said.
'Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov,' Rostnikov said, taking the huge hand.
Rostnikov was not surprised by the strength of the man's grip. In spite of the fat, Lester McQuinton's arms were solid, his chest large. It was clear, however, that Lester McQuinton was surprised by the grip of the compact man across from him.
'My wife's Andrea. We call her Andy,' said Lester, nodding at his wife but keeping his eyes on Rostnikov, for whom he had developed a sudden respect.
'My wife is Sarah,' said Rostnikov. 'She speaks very little English.'
'Sorry about that, but hell, I don't speak any Russian. Never had any call to.
This is the only time we've been out of the States.'
'We have never left the Soviet Union,' said Rostnikov.
'I'm a police officer,' said Lester McQuinton. 'New York Police Department.'
'I, too, am a police officer,' said Rostnikov. 'Moscow.'
'I could tell. You've got the look. I see it in the mirror every morning. You people having a convention here or something?' asked Lester as the concertina started again.
'I'm sorry?' said Rostnikov.
' 'Ran into one of you guys on the hotel bus yesterday in the morning,' said Lester. 'Lonely-looking guy. Introduced myself and Andy. He was surprised I knew he was a cop but, like I said, I can spot one whether he's named Ivan or Al. You know what I mean?'
'We were coming back from the Marble Palace, where Stalin, Roosevelt, and Churchill met after the war,' Andy added, addressing Sarah directly. 'Beautiful collection of modern art.'' 'I'm not keen on modern art,' McQuinton said, considering another try at his food and deciding against it.
'I, too, am not filled with affection for modern art,' said Rostnikov, 'but my wife admires it.'
'Maybe we could do something together tomorrow, go into town? I understand there's an art museum,' Andy McQuinton said, looking at Sarah.
Rostnikov started to translate for Sarah, but she stopped him and said she understood. Sarah smiled at Andy, who smiled back.
'My wife says she would be happy to do something with you. Do you remember his name, the policeman on the bus?'' Rostnikov asked. 'Was it Vasilievich, Georgi Vasilievich? '
He was not sure how much of the conversation Sarah understood, but she looked up from her food when she heard her husband say,
'Vasilievich, Georgi Vasilievich?' ' 'Don't remember the name,'' said Lester.' 'You, Andy?'' 'No,' she said, working on her tomatoes.
'I don't think it was Vaslich or anything like that,' said Lester. 'I'm not coming here for dinner tomorrow night. There must be someplace better to eat. I don't care if it is part of the damn tour package.'
'A man of almost seventy,' Rostnikov tried. 'Thin, knuckles with arthritis, and-'
Lester was shaking his head no. Rostnikov stopped.
'No offense, but I think you people may have nothing better to do than watch each other. Over by the pillar behind you,' said Lester. 'The bald guy sitting alone. The cop from the bus.'
Rostnikov decided at that moment that Lester McQuinton was probably a very good policeman. The American's eyes had not betrayed his knowledge of the bald man, had not looked in his direction. Porfiry Petrovich was well aware that behind him in a far corner, sitting alone, was a pear of a man with very little hair remaining on his head. The man had a large nose, a vodka nose. His eyes, Rostnikov had observed, were quite large. And even though the man was doing a very good job of not looking directly at him, Rostnikov had observed his reflection fleetingly, though carefully, in both the dusty glass that covered a fading seascape on the lobby wall and in the large, uneven mirror just inside the door of the dining room as he had entered with Sarah.
The man had been both observing and following Rostnikov for the past two days.
It was not the first time he had been followed in his career, nor was it a surprise. Rostnikov assumed that it was the KGB again. He had run afoul of them more often than it was safe to do so, and from time to time, to remind him that his past indiscretions were not forgotten, a KGB agent would follow him for a few days and take no particular pains to remain unseen.
Rostnikov had assumed this was one of those times, but since the death of Vasilievich and his preliminary investigation, he was no longer sure.
'You knew he was there, didn't you?' asked Lester McQuinton with a grin. 'You didn't bat an eye, turn your head, or twitch.'
'I was aware of his presence, yes,' said Rostnikov, reaching for his glass of wine and taking a drink that finished the glass. 'Please excuse me. I will be back shortly.'
He touched Sarah gently on the back as he rose.
As Rostnikov headed in the general direction of the rest rooms and the woman with the accordion made a fool out of a fat American she had coaxed out to dance, McQuinton nibbled at his food, chewed on his bread, and pretended to listen to Andy and the Russian cop's wife trying to carry on a conversation. He watched the Russian cop make his way through the crowd and the bald guy pretend not to watch him.
The Russian cop was interesting. He was the only truly interesting thing he had encountered since he left New York. The doctors hadn't fooled him, and they hadn't fooled Andy. Lester and Andy didn't believe their words of hope because the doctors themselves didn't and weren't street smart enough to fool a thirty-year detective who spent too much of his time dealing with lies. Andy had half a year, maybe a little more or less. And she had wanted this trip, less because she wanted to travel than that she wanted the distraction and because she couldn't bear staying in New York and watching him observe her. She had accepted it eagerly when he suggested it.
He had complained since the beginning, for he wanted this to be a perfect trip for her. He complained because he was angry. He complained because it was normal to do so and he didn't want Andy to feel that he was doing anything but being normal. None of it had worked. Until now.
He could tell from the eyes of the Russian cop's wife that she sensed something of what Andy and he were going through. Well, maybe not everything, but enough. For the moment, the burden of being responsible for his wife's happiness had eased, and the game the Russian cop with the bad leg was playing focused his attention on something besides Andy.
A cackling laugh came from a woman to McQuinton's right. The laughter turned to choking, and someone, a man, he thought, began to scold the choking woman in Russian. The woman managed to control herself and the accordion squealed into a tune that may have been 'Fascination.'
McQuinton admired the way Rostnikov weaved through the crowd and made the turn around the corner toward the rest rooms. The bald guy didn't follow, didn't move. Why should he? The cop had left his wife at the table. The cop with the bad leg was obviously going to the toilet. The man watching was good. He didn't let up. He ate, drank, kept his head down, and let his eyes take in the entire room. But the cop with the bad leg was better.
