'He must be able to function,' Jerold said, eyes still closed.
The woman did not answer. She opened the cabinet and removed a bottle, which she opened. The capsules she poured into her palm were red and white. She handed them to Yakov, who gulped them down dry.
Before he could stop himself, Yakov said, 'Thank you.'
But his mother did not answer.
The call from Emil Karpo came in the afternoon, when Rostnikov and McQuinton, the American, were seated in the lobby of the Lermontov, reading. Rostnikov was reading his badly battered copy of Ed McBain's Ax for the seventh time, and the American. Lester McQuinton, was reading the copy of Lawrence Block's When the Sacred Ginmill Closes that Porfiry Petrovich had lent him.
Rostnikov had spent almost two hours getting to the weight room at the hospital, working out and making his way back. McQuinton had been standing in the lobby, waiting for lunch to be served, when he returned.
'I can't get used to eating lunch at two,' he said. 'Women aren't back. Want to join me?'
Rostnikov had accepted, and they had eaten the communal mound of an unidentified rice creation with pieces of meat that was heaped upon their plates and served with a vegetable on the side that looked something like okra.
They spoke English at lunch, and Rostnikov had suggested an afternoon of reading while they waited for their wives to return. McQuinton had readily agreed.
'Andy thinks we should be doing, seeing something all the time,' he said. 'She wants to cram everything in. She thinks it's a waste to relax here when we can relax at home. You know your friend from last night is watching you again?''
Rostnikov had nodded and sat in a chair near the window. Though he was not the least bit chilled, Rostnikov had also brought a sweater from the room, which he wore buttoned to the neck. He had handed McQuinton the Block book he had brought down from his room after noting that his room had been gently, professionally, searched. Misha Ivanov was seated across the lobby, a newspaper in hand, making no effort to conceal the fact that he was performing his duty. He was watching Rostnikov. Rostnikov had been right. Ivanov had not been relieved of his assignment in spite of his direct contact with Rostnikov.
For Rostnikov, it was an afternoon of waiting. There was nothing to be done until Ivanov approached him. Nothing to be done until Karpo called. Nothing to be done till Sarah and the American woman returned. And, as always, doing nothing was the most difficult job of all for a policeman. It was the task that took the greatest toll, that started the policeman thinking about the pettiness of his superiors, the unfairness of his lot, the boredom that often resulted in failure and waste and guilt for having wasted time. Doing nothing, though it was essential, was the greatest threat to a policeman's stability and sanity.
When the call came from Karpo, Rostnikov excused himself to McQuinton, coaxed his left leg into near cooperation, and moved across the lobby to the booth, knowing Misha Ivanov was watching him across the room.
'Emil Karpo,' he said when Karpo identified himself. 'Have you had a busy day?'
Karpo recounted his encounter with Jerold and paused while Rostnikov digested the tale.
'Politics and ideology,' said Rostnikov. 'Passionate murder, drugs, even madness, are so much easier. In America, the police hardly ever deal with politics and ideology.'
'The people in America shoot each other for nothing,' said Karpo. 'For stepping on gymnasium shoes.' ' 'I didn't say it was better, just easier,'' Rostnikov replied.
'I have seen the list of investigative officers from all branches who are now on vacation. It was far too long to print out without being questioned, and it is not an unusual number for this time of year. There is an upward- percentage variation of only two percent. I have also noted those who are on vacation in the Yalta region. That, too, is not an unusual number, an upward variation over the past six years of five percent. What is unusual is the rank and profile of those on vacation.'
'Enlighten me, Emil Karpo,' he said, looking through the little round glass door of the phone booth at Misha Ivanov, who was looking directly back at him.
'An unusually high number of senior investigators in all branches are now on vacation,' he said. 'Normally, the vacations of senior investigators are staggered. The statistical variation is off by more than eighty percent.'' 'Do you like computers, Emil Karpo?'
'I find them useful,' he said.
'You speak to them well,' said Rostnikov.
'I do not speak to them,' corrected Karpo. 'They provide data based upon programs properly established to retrieve information. The computers at Petrovka, if the individual has proper access coding, are capable of retrieving a great deal of interest.'
'It has been said,' Rostnikov replied, 'that Lenin loved telephones, loved them so much that he covered the desks of his apartment with them and actually had the central Moscow switchboard operator located right outside the office in his apartment.'
'Lenin did not love telephones as objects,' said Karpo.
'He wished to control communication during the postrevolutionary period. It was essential.' ' 'And he could listen to any call in Moscow if he wished,'' said Rostnikov.
'He could,' said Karpo.
'I think we shall speak no more on the telephone,' said Rostnikov.
'As you think best, Inspector.'
'Be cautious, Emil Karpo.'
They hung up, and Rostnikov emerged from the booth, picked up two cups of hot tea, and went back to the chair where the American sat reading, a pair of half glasses perched on his nose.
'I'm going to take a walk,' said Rostnikov, handing McQuinton one cup of tea and placing the other on the table near the chair in which Rostnikov had left his book. He took off his sweater and placed it next to the book.
'I'll go with you,' said McQuinton, closing the book.
'No, please,' countered Rostnikov. 'The wives should be returning soon. You can greet them. I won't be long.'
'Okay with me,' McQuinton said, settling back again.
Rostnikov did not enjoy walking. The stress on his leg was great, and though he had a distance he felt it essential to walk each day for his health, he had passed that mark hours ago.
He began his journey by going to the men's room just off the lobby. Misha Ivanov watched him but did not leave his chair. Rostnikov had intentionally taken the cup of tea for himself and left both his sweater and his open book on the chair next to the American. He wished to give the impression that he was going to the rest room and would be right back.
The rest room was in an alcove next to a door that led to the kitchens. The door was seldom used and probably kept locked, but it was a simple door designed to deter. Rostnikov opened it with his pocketknife and went through it, pushing it closed behind him. Misha Ivanov had no reason to think anything was out of the ordinary. It would take him at least three minutes to become professionally concerned enough to check on Rostnikov.
The kitchen was empty, at least there was no one Rostnikov could see, but a woman somewhere sang a folk song in a quite beautiful voice. It struck Rostnikov that the hotel would be better served having the woman with this voice singing in the dining room than the dreaded concertina lady.
In spite of his reluctant leg, Rostnikov was outside the Lermontov in less than a minute. He did not expect much from his excursion, but it was essential if he were to be able to go on to other things. There were times when he found a song playing in his head or saw the face of a minor movie actor or remembered a book and desperately needed to place the author. At these times he found it almost impossible to function efficiently unless that little piece of unnecessary information could be supplied, preferably by his own recollection.
He had carefully searched Georgi Vasilievich's belongings, his room, and had discovered that the dead GRU man had had no friends in the sanitarium and knew no one but Rostnikov in the town. Vasilievich's room had been searched by whoever killed him, and it did not seem that they had found what they were looking for. What was it? Where, if it existed, had Vasilievich put it?
Rostnikov knew the route Georgi had taken each night back to the sanitarium. If Vasilievich knew he was being followed, might he not hide the treasure? Probably not, but possibly so. Rostnikov followed the route.
