identification.'
'Do you know he is dead?' Rostnikov asked.
'Yes,' Ivanov answered evenly, continuing to eat.
'Did you kill him?' Rostnikov asked.
'No,' said Ivanov.
The man was not impressive looking, but he was, Rostnikov had decided, both formidable and professional, which meant it was almost impossible to tell when he was lying.
'He was murdered,' Rostnikov said as Ivanov finished his tart and wiped his chin.
'So it would seem,' said Ivanov, shaking his head, not for the death of Georgi Vasilievich but the poor quality of the tart, for which he had apparently had great expectations.
For the first time since Rostnikov had sat at the table, Ivanov turned to face him. The bald man's face was white, with red cheeks. There was something of the potential clown in Misha Ivanov, but Rostnikov did not make the mistake of giving in to the facade. Rostnikov had learned that in his professional life there was very little room for mistakes.
'The woman plays the concertina very badly. Perhaps we should meet in the morning,' said Ivanov. 'For breakfast. The table outside, if weather permits.'
'Are you sure you don't want a less observable meeting? The possibility exists that someone is also watching you, Comrade Ivanov.'' 'A definite possibility,' Ivanov said. 'I would say a likelihood. If so, I have already been compromised by your sitting here, but I'm sure you have already considered this and come to the same conclusion. May I rise now?'
Rostnikov folded his hands on the table in front of him, and Ivanov rose.
'Tomorrow,' said Ivanov. 'Shall we say nine?'
'Tomorrow,' agreed Rostnikov, rising. 'Nine.'
The two men did not shake hands. Accompanied by the whine of the concertina, Misha Ivanov left the dining room, and Rostnikov limped back to his table. He decided he would try to reach Emil Karpo early the next morning.
It was just after three when Sasha Tkach awoke in Tamara's bed. He was not sure what woke him, Tamara's snoring, guilt, the uncomfortable lumps in the mattress, but wake he did, and rise he did. Tamara stirred and stopped snoring.
'My little Jew,' she moaned sleepily, her eyes closed.
'I must go,' he said, finding his underwear and pants.
'No,' she groaned, turning on her side. And then: 'Later. Tonight.'
'Yes,' he said. 'Tonight,' he said, but he meant, No. Never.
She was snoring again before he finished dressing and went for the door. The small apartment smelled sweet, too sweet. If he stayed much longer, he would be ill. Perhaps that was what had awakened him. It was a smell he remembered, associated with someone, a woman from his childhood. It didn't matter. Sasha had no trouble leaving puzzles unfinished.
He went out as quietly as he could into the hall, took a deep breath of the stale but unsweetened air, and found that he had to lean back against the door.
His legs were trembling. Stupid, he had been stupid. He should sort out what he did, why he had done it. He knew he would try later and that something within him would distract him.
In a few moments his legs felt a bit stronger, so he took a few steps and touched his face. He would need a shave, a clean shirt, before he packed up the computer and went back to the subway and made his way to the work cubicle of Yon Mandelstem. He dreaded going back to that cubicle. He dreaded going on with his masquerade as computer expert and Jew. And now he would need a lie for Zelach.
Since it was Zelach, it would not be difficult.
On the darkened stairwell he could hear the sound of foot steps echoing off the walls. He moved up slowly and almost bumped into a young man in a suit carrying a briefcase and with a cautious look in his dark eyes.
They almost collided, and the man let out a sudden 'Uhh' of surprise.
'Prastee't'e. I'm sorry,' the young man said, clutching his case suddenly to his chest and trying to move past Tkach. One of those unintentional games began.
Sasha tried to get out of the man's way by moving left, but the man moved right and was in front of him. Sasha and the man moved in the opposite direction, and a look of panic filled the man's eyes.
It was not that Sasha looked formidable, though it was early, he did need a shave, and his clothes were rumpled. There was certainly a look of anguish on the face of the detective that may well have been taken for something else.
'I have nothing,' the young man said in panic, assuming robbery. 'Look in my case. Nothing. Just papers.'
'No,' said Tkach, putting out a hand to touch the man's arm, to reassure him, short of confessing, that he was a policeman.
The man opened the case and held it out for Sasha to see. He was having trouble catching his breath.
'See, nothing,' he said with a trace of a sob. 'This can't keep happening. I have nowhere to go.'
'I'm not a robber,' said Tkach. 'I live upstairs. I just want to get to my apartment and change for work.'
Without another word, the young man closed his briefcase and hurried past Tkach and down the stairwell.
He would shower when he got to the room. It was early, before dawn. Maybe there would be warm water left. It should take no more than a minute or two to give Zelach a story. He would begin by calling him Arkady. No one called Zelach Arkady. Then he would say, 'I was followed last night and had to hide.' Or, 'I followed a suspicious pair of men. Turned out to be nothing.'
He was almost at the door when he caught the slightest odor of Tamara's sweetness. It was probably on his clothing. The clothes would have to be cleaned. He didn't want to wear the same clothes when he went home to Maya and the baby. He should throw them away, wanted to throw them away, but he couldn't afford to. He reached for the door to the apartment and decided that if Tamara insisted on pursuing their relationship, he would have to alter the persona he had developed for Yon. Yon would now suggest violence and the possibility that he was more than a little mad, a person to be avoided.
Sasha reached into his pocket for his key but couldn't find it. No, no, no. He had probably dropped it on the floor of Tamara's apartment when she took off his clothes. And that thought reminded him of his glasses, which were also missing.
What if she looked through them, saw they were plain glass? He would have to see her, to get the glasses back, to get his key. He had planned to knock gently, identify himself to Zelach and unlock the door. Now he would simply have to knock on the door. He raised his hand to do so and realized that the door was not fully closed.
Thoughts came quickly. Was it possible that he had simply forgotten to close the door completely when he left? No. Zelach had gone out, perhaps to look for him, and accidentally left the door slightly ajar either when he went out or came back. Those were hopes rather than likelihoods. Sasha had no gun, no weapon, or he would have taken it out now as he pushed open the door.
The lights were on.
'Zelach,' Tkach said softly, leaving the door open behind him.
The first thing he noticed was that the table across the room was empty, that the computer was missing. He stepped into the room cautiously, being certain no one was behind the door, and then he saw the trail of blood across the linoleum.
His eyes followed the trail to Zelach's body, on the floor, halfway into the little bedroom. Zelach was on his stomach, the back of his shirt dark with blood.
And then there was no thought, only action, and Tkach's awareness that he was making sounds, perhaps even speaking but not knowing what he said as he moved quickly to Zelach, knelt at his side, and turned him over. Zelach's left eye was an almost closed purple balloon from which blood curled down his cheek and chin.
The chin was split across as if someone had tried to carve a second mouth in the wrong place. The cut was still wet. A thick, almost circular cake of blood with one pod pointing down his forehead lay in Zelach's hair like a recently dead amoeba. Sasha's hands moved quickly from Zelach's neck down, searching for bullet wounds front
