arm but immediately drove forward and locked his arms around the man's midsection in a bear hug.
Pato struggled to free himself, grunting, churning, cursing, but Rostnikov held tight, lifted him once again from the ground, and squeezed. When he had stopped struggling, Rostnikov let loose, and the huge man fell backward to the ground, his head striking the ground with a thud.
'I would not have thought you could do that,' Misha Ivanov said, stepping out of the trees, a pistol aimed at the little man, who had dropped his gun. The deep red light of the sun through the trees glinted on Ivanov's bald head. 'I mean, I know you lift weights. You won the Sokolniki Recreation Championship last year.''
' 'The year before,'' Rostnikov corrected, once more helping the fallen Pato to his feet. The fight was definitely out of the huge man.
'So,' said Misha Ivanov with a shrug, 'once again the records of the KGB are less than perfect. But in Odessa, in all of the Ukraine for that matter, we do not have priority and our computer network-'
'Pato, I have disdain for you,' said the one-eyed man, but Pato was too dazed to register the criticism.
'Do you know who these two are?' asked Misha Ivanov.
'They are the ones who killed Georgi Vasilievich,' said Rostnikov, guiding Pato to the little man's side.
'Did you?' Misha Ivanov asked, casually glancing at the little man.
'No,' said the little man. 'We don't even know who you are talking about. We were just out for a walk when this man attacked us and-'
The bullet from Ivanov's gun made a loud noise, a deep, echoing belch that woke the huge man from his daze and sent the little wild-eyed man spinning.
'You shot me,' cried the little man, reaching up to his bleeding shoulder. 'You might have killed me.' ' 'I tried to kill you,'' said Misha, shaking his head.' 'I haven't had much practice. Our ration of bullets is pitiful. You'd think the KGB had an endless supply. Maybe in Moscow, but in Odessa, Tbilisi? No. I'm sorry. I won't miss this time.'
He raised his weapon. The little man looked at Pato for help, but there was none coming from him or from Rostnikov, who knew better than to interfere.
'You want to answer questions, either of you?' asked Ivanov.
'No,' said Pato.
Ivanov's gun was now aimed squarely at the little man's chest.
'Yes,' cried the little man.
'Be quiet, Yuri,' Pato said.
'I'm going to shoot you now,' said Ivanov. 'I am a very impatient man.'
'We killed him,' the little man said. 'We were told to kill him. We were hired.
Actually it was Pato who-'
'Yuri,' Pato warned.
'Shut up, bear,' Misha said. 'Let the man speak and live. Who hired you?'
'My arm is bleeding,' bleated Yuri, removing his hand from his arm to show the flow of blood.
'Thank you for informing me,' said Misha, stepping forward. 'Talk or die.'
'This is not fair,' cried the little man. 'Why aren't you threatening Pato? Why does everyone think I'm the weak one? Is this fair? I lost an eye. I lost a finger. Look. See. Here. They sewed it back on. I can't bend it. Why shoot me?'
'Who hired you?' asked Ivanov.
'The man at the hotel,' said Yuri. 'At the Lermontov.'
Before either Rostnikov or Ivanov could react, the huge man had grabbed the neck of the wild-eyed little man and twisted it with a terrible crack. Ivanov fired three times. The first bullet hit Pato in the neck. The second tore into the right side of his forehead as he spun around, and the third hit him low in the stomach. He dropped the little man, pitched forward on his face silently, and died.
Ivanov and Rostnikov moved forward to the fallen little man, who looked very much like a scrawny dying bird as he lay on his back.
Ivanov kicked the dead Pato once and lifted his head to be sure he was dead.
Rostnikov knelt at the side of the little man.
'Don't move,' said Rostnikov.
'Can't move,' the man whispered, a trail of blood coming out of the corner of his mouth. 'Can't feel.'
'Who hired you, Yuri?' said Rostnikov gently.
Ivanov, who had joined Rostnikov, hovered over the dying man, his weapon leveled at Yuri's head.
'Answer the man,' he said.
'Shoot me,' whispered Yuri, his voice fluttering.
'Pato has killed you, Yuri,' said Rostnikov. 'He has betrayed you.'
'Pato was always my friend till he killed me,' Yuri breathed, his eyes closing.
'Was it the waiter?' asked Ivanov. 'Anton, the waiter?'
'No,' said Rostnikov. 'It was McQuinton.'
'The American. Yes,' said Yuri, opening his eyes. The good one found Rostnikov.
The glass one looked into forever, and Yuri died.
TEN
There had been no time to confess to Maya.
When they reached the apartment, she had put Pulcharia in her crib for a nap and then helped Sasha cleanse the wound on his head.
'You should go to the clinic,' she said. 'I think it needs stitches.'
But she made it a suggestion, not a demand. There was something more important going on than concern over a physical scar.
'Zelach is in the hospital,'' he said as she cut away a small patch of his hair so she could close and tape the wound. 'He may lose an eye.'
'I'm sorry,' Maya said with more concern for her husband's anguish than for what had happened to his partner. Maya had met Zelach only twice, and both times very briefly. What little her husband had said about the man had not been particularly complimentary, but the effect of what had happened was clear in the vacant pain in her husband's face. For the first time since she had met him, he looked every day of his age and perhaps even more.
'I must tell you, Maya,' he said. 'It was my fault.'
Maya considered asking him to take his clothes off and get into bed with her.
Pulcharia was sleeping. He obviously had some time, and they had not been together for days. Maya was in her fourth month, and the roundness of her tummy was just beginning. When she was carrying Pulcharia, she and Sasha had made love right to the final month, the few times they were able, when Sasha's mother was not in the next room.
Now that they had their own apartment they made love about as frequently as they had when Lydia was around, but they did it with a sense of freedom. But Maya was certain that if she suggested that they now take off their clothes and get in bed, he would reject the idea.
The phone rang. There were two small rooms in the apartment. One was the bedroom with their bed and Pulcharia's. The other was the combination living room and kitchen in which they now sat near the small sink. In the next room the baby stirred, and Maya dashed across the room to answer the phone before it rang again.
Something in her dash, the swish of her dress, stirred a memory within Sasha and made him want to weep.
'It's Karpo,' Maya said, holding out the phone to him.
Sasha's knees felt weak beneath him, but he rose and took the phone.
'Yes,' said Sasha, looking at Maya, who had crossed back to the sink to clean up.
' 'Can you be in front of your apartment in three minutes?'' 'Three… but…'
'I am unable to call anyone else,' said Karpo. 'I am not supposed to be in Moscow. I will explain if you can
