The sky was clear, with a tangy breeze from the sea. The sweater he had left on the chair would have been welcome. He wended his way down the path from the hotel, across the road, and into the woods. There were trees, just trees, nothing but trees. If Vasilievich had hidden his treasure in a tree, there was little chance of it being found. He would, Rostnikov was sure, hide it someplace protected from the animals and weather, someplace he could retrieve it quickly.
Porfiry Petrovich's eyes scanned the path as he walked. Far ahead of him he heard the laughter of a man and woman, but he did not see them. From time to time, he paused at a promising tree, a formation of stones. Nothing.
The path turned to the sea, and he followed.
In front of him the sound of the man and woman moved farther away. He came to a clearing on his right, an outcrop of rocks and a rotunda offering a view of both the sea and the castlelike sanitarium in the distance. Rostnikov moved cautiously onto the rotunda platform and stood for a moment watching the waves and a quartet of distant birds hovering over the water. One of the birds suddenly plunged into a wave and disappeared. Rostnikov watched till the bird reappeared on the surface of the water, shook itself, and took off again to join the other three.
It was difficult for Rostnikov to kneel. His leg protested and made the process not only awkward but painful, but he did kneel at the edge of the platform and reach under it, his finger probing, exploring. He felt nothing and moved a bit farther along. Getting up would not be easy. His fingers touched something under the boards, something soft and alive that scuttled away. He had covered less than half the possible undersurface when his fingers caught the edge of something on the rocks. He had almost missed it. Vasilievich's arms and fingers had been longer than those of Rostnikov. It was something pliable. He strained and grasped the prize as well as he could with two fingers and then coaxed it toward him until he could get a more solid grip on it. And then it was out.
Porfiry Petrovich didn't get a good look at what he had found till he raised himself from the platform slowly, his leg paying the price, with the help of the handrail and fence that ringed the little platform. Only when he was standing did he fully understand that he held a clear plastic zippered pouch inside of which there rested a red plastic-covered notebook about the size of a wallet. He removed the notebook, put it in his back pocket, then folded the plastic pouch into a neat rectangle and plunged it into his front right pocket.
Now it was time to get back. He could examine the book later. Misha Ivanov would know that he had gone somewhere, but there was little he could do about it.
Besides, if the book contained what Rostnikov assumed it would contain, he would soon be sharing its contents with the KGB man.
Going back proved to be much more difficult than coming. The primary problems were two. First, there was a slight uphill incline out of the woods. Second, the strain on his leg had taken a great toll. Rostnikov was in need of a warm bath or shower. Most of all, he was in need of a chair in which he could sit.
He continued to move, though he was forced every minute or so to pause, apologize to his aching leg, and promise it better treatment in the future. His leg, old enemy that it was, was not listening.
The woods around him were not silent. Birds fluttered, and the sea waves echoed under the canopy of thickly leaved trees. It was a place he would, given rest, like to take Sarah.
That was the thought on his mind when he became quite suddenly aware that he was not alone on the path. He knew it even before he made the turn. It was not magic. Perhaps it was a flurry of leaves or a lessening of sound or a vibration on the path that he sensed and didn't turn into sensations, but he knew. There was no turning back and no possibility of running. It could be innocent, a stroller in the afternoon. It could be and might be, but Rostnikov doubted that it was.
He considered quickly hiding the notebook or even throwing it off the trail next to a tree or rock he might recognize later, but the chances of his being able to retrieve it would be slight. Instead, he moved forward slowly and made the turn in the path.
Standing about five yards in front of Porfiry Petrovich, blocking his way, were the two men he had seen in the lobby of the Lermontov, a little man with one eye that looked quite mad and another eye that was definitely made of glass. Behind the little man was the other man, an enormous young man with the body of a large refrigerator.
NINE
Sasha tkach brushed his hair from his eyes, gripped his gun firmly in his right hand, and knocked on the door with his left. A man's voice answered wearily,
'Who is it?'
'District water inspection,' replied Tkach. 'You have a leak. Water is running into the apartment below.'
Behind the door, voices, lowered voices, jousted.
Tkach knocked again.
'We're going to have a flood if I don't get to your pipes,' he called.
'Adnoo'meenoo'too. Wait a minute,' came the man's voice coming closer to the door.
There were many possibilities, all with the same conclusion, Tkach decided. When the door opened and the man saw who stood before him with a gun, realized what was in store, he might reach for a weapon, if he had one. Tkach would then shoot him, and the other man, if he were there. If the man did not reach for a weapon, Tkach would provoke him, frighten him, until he made a move.
Locks clicked and clattered inside the apartment, and the door began to open.
Tkach was looking straight ahead. The first thing he wanted the man to see was his eyes.
The door pulled open, and Tkach found himself facing not another man but a window across the room. His weapon came up, ready, expecting that the man had sensed a trap, had gone to the floor, but even as he raised the gun, he lowered his eyes and saw the child before him.
The girl who had opened the door could not have been more than five, though her wide brown eyes looked much older. She was holding a stuffed white rabbit and looked quite frightened at the sight of the man before her.
'At'e'ts. Father,' she cried, looking at Sasha's drawn weapon and bloody face.
Behind her, near the window across the room, sat a yellow-bearded man with long hair, one of the two men Tkach had seen the night before, one of the two men who, he was sure, had humiliated him, taken his honor and self-respect, and beaten Zelach. The man wore dark pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The shirt was not tucked in, and the man wore no shoes or sox. He dropped the newspaper he was reading and stood up as the little girl hurried to him and buried her face against his leg.
'Who are you? What do you want?' the man asked indignantly, but Sasha could see that the man recognized him.
Tkach aimed the gun at the man's chest and looked around the crowded room. There were two beds in it and, against one wall, a crib.
'Tamara sent me,' Sasha said.
The child was sobbing now and holding both her father's leg and the rabbit crushed against her chest.
'I don't know what you're talking about,' said the man, patting the head of the little girl gently. 'You're frightening Alanya. Put the gun away.'
'I'm a police officer,' said Tkach, moving into the room and kicking the door shut behind him.
He scanned the room, his gun in front of him. Satisfied that only the three of them were there, he leveled the barrel once again at the bearded man.
'I've done nothing that-' the man began.
'No lies,' said Tkach, holding up the palm of his left hand to stop him as the child wept on. 'If you lie, even a small lie, I will shoot you dead before your child.'
Even as he said it, Tkach knew that his moment had passed, that he could not kill the man while his daughter clung to him, could probably not even do it if she released him and went running out of the apartment. The child had changed things, brought confusion where mere had been such simplicity.
