Which, Rostnikov knew, meant, did he think this was a safe phone line, one that was not regularly monitored? There was no way of knowing. In fact, it was very likely that the hotel phone was monitored by the KGB. However, it was either no conversation, try to get back to Moscow, or risk the call. Rostnikov decided to take the chance.
'Georgi Vasilievich is dead,' said Rostnikov. 'He was murdered here yesterday in the morning. An attempt was made to make it look like natural death, a rather unprofessional attempt.'
Karpo said nothing. Rostnikov had expected no response. He went on.
'Misha Ivanov, you know him?'
'KGB, recently transferred from Odessa,' said Karpo.
' 'Emil, I doubt if any other member of the MVD in Moscow would know that,' said Rostnikov.
'Perhaps,' said Karpo.
'He is here, in Yalta,' said Rostnikov. 'I am wondering how many other KGB, MVD, and GRU investigators are here. Perhaps we could gather for a convention, a dinner.'
'You want me to make some inquiries?'
'Do you have the time?' ' 'I will make the time,'' said Karpo.' 'I have been ordered to go on vacation by tomorrow morning.'
'To Yalta?' asked Rostnikov.
'No,' said Karpo. 'Kiev.'
'Tell me things, Emil Karpo. Tell me what is going on. Tell me what you are working on.'
And Emil Karpo spoke. Concisely, clearly, without interpretation, he told of Carla's death, Yakov Krivonos, and Jerold.
'Conclusions, Emil?' he asked.
'You went on vacation when we were both working on the Bittermunder murder,'
Karpo said. 'Now, as I move close to finding his killer, I am ordered to go on vacation.'
'You think someone in authority is protecting this killer with spiked hair?' asked Rostnikov.
'Yes,' said Karpo.
'It is possible,' Rostnikov agreed. 'Perhaps it is a conspiracy of criminals.
Investigators from all over are being sent on vacation to keep them from catching criminals?'' 'It does not make sense,' said Karpo.
'Indeed it does not,' said Rostnikov. 'Where are you?'
'A phone near a club, the Billy Joel on Gorky Street. It is owned by a man named Yuri Blin with black market connections, drug connections. Carla Wasboniak came here. So did Yakov.'
'A waiter told me last night that the name of Gorky Street has been changed.'
'It is my understanding,' said Karpo.
'Things are changing quickly. Move softly, Emil Karpo, so that these things do not come loose beneath your feet. Call me when you can.'
'I will do so.'
Rostnikov had hung up the phone. That had been more than two hours ago.
Now Rostnikov watched as Ivanov ate wordlessly, with massive movements of jaw and sounds that would have offended even the patrons of all but the least savory cafes on what had been Gorky Street.
Anton placed two glasses on the table, each containing a spoon. From the steaming gray pot that he carried in a towel he poured hot water, letting it run down the spoon to keep the water from cracking the glass. The two seated men watched solemnly and continued to eat while Anton put the pot down on the table and, with a flourish, produced a stainless-steel tea holder that he carefully dunked into the two glasses till the liquid in each glass turned a tepid brown.
It wasn't until Anton was safely out of earshot and heading back to the hotel with his cradled pot of water that Rostnikov spoke.
'Are you a reading man, Ivanov?' he asked, reaching for the glass of tea.
Ivanov spoke around the mouthful of sandwich. 'I have a passion for English romantics, 'he said. 'And Gothics. Have you heard of Monk Lewis?''
Ivanov's eyes moved to Rostnikov, but the response was a disappointment.
'No,' said Porfiry Petrovich.
'Nightmares of the soul,' said Ivanov with a movement at the corners of his lips that might have been a smile.
'I will attempt to find a book by Monk Lewis,' said Rostnikov.
'I have one with me you can borrow,' said Ivanov. 'It's in English.'
Rostnikov nodded. It did not surprise him that the KGB man knew he read English, nor did it surprise him when Ivanov went on.
'And I will be happy to read one of your American detective romances if you would be kind enough to let me borrow one for a night. I read quickly and with abandon, though I should savor. It is a weakness in me.'
A car passed below them on the road, and both men watched it till it was out of sight on its way to town. Then Rostnikov spoke.
'There were many reasons the KGB might follow me.'
Ivanov grunted and continued to eat. There was little left of his sandwich, which, apparently, he devoured with the same zeal he displayed with books.
'But,' Rostnikov went on, 'they are in the past. Do you like sports, Ivanov?'
Misha Ivanov's sandwich was gone. He brushed his mouth with his left hand and then folded both hands before him on the little table.
'From time to time, particularly hockey, but they are not a passion.'
'Do you know why you are watching me?' asked Rostnikov.
'To observe and report,' Ivanov said, finding a crumb on the table, picking it up and popping it into his mouth. 'Though I would expect to be relieved today.
This is not proper behavior for the two of us.'
'And yet…?' Rostnikov urged gently.
'What is it the Americans say? Fuck-shit?' asked Ivanov, now convinced that there were no more crumbs to conquer and sitting back in the chair. 'Do you know why I am following you?'
'No,' said Porfiry Petrovich. He rolled his glass of rapidly cooling tea between the palms of his thick hands.
'It makes little sense,' said Ivanov, unfolding his hands and looking around as if something or someone might suddenly appear and explain the situation to him.
'An agent here could have done the job. Between us, we are tripping over each other. One minute I'm arranging security for a visiting delegation from Moscow, and the next minute I'm…'
Misha Ivanov looked around and went on. 'I do not like the sea air, Rostnikov. I do not see why a ranking officer should be sent a thousand miles to do what any field agent could do. I think glasnost is driving men mad.'
'Don't you think it a bit dangerous to be saying this to me, Ivanov?' asked Rostnikov, beginning to sense the finest hairs in the tail of an idea.
Misha Ivanov laughed, but there was no mirth in the laughter.
'Even within the KGB there is a new openness,' he said, leaning forward and speaking in a whisper that was louder than his voice. 'So, do you have an idea?'
'What if,' Rostnikov responded, 'you were not sent here to watch me?'
'But I was,' said Ivanov.
'Perhaps,' replied Rostnikov, and for an instant Misha Ivanov considered that he might have been sent to watch a man who was quite possibly going mad.
'And what has this to do with what you said last night? Georgi Vasilievich's death?'
'Murder,' Rostnikov amended.
'Murder, then,' said Ivanov.
Rostnikov stood. His leg had not only begun the slight electrical tingling that warned him of pain but had gone just a bit beyond. He rose, hoping that he could coax it back to life, make peace with it. He had almost lost himself
