come. If you cannot, let us terminate this conversation.'
'I'll be down in three minutes,' Sasha said, and hung up the phone.
Maya looked at him. She was framed against the window. She looked soft, round, and her voice was gentle, with that slight touch of Georgia that always stirred him.
'You are in no condition to do anything or go anywhere, Sasha,' she said. But she spoke knowing that he was going, even considering that it might be best for him to go rather
than say what he planned to say, for surely now, though he felt the need to speak, she did not feel the need to hear.
'I… it will be. I'll be back as soon as I can,' he said.
She stepped forward and put her arms around him, her belly against his, and he felt or imagined he felt the baby kick.
'Have you eaten anything today?' she asked, stepping back to look at his face.
'No,' he said.
Maya went to the cabinet and took a piece of bread from the enamel bread box with the little flowers, a wedding gift from her mother.
'Thank you,' he said, holding the bread in two hands as if it were a precious gift.
' 'Sasha, it's just a piece of bread.'' 'I'll stop and see Arkady before I come home,' he said, moving to the door.
For a moment she didn't know who her husband was talking about, but then she realized it must be Zelach. She had never before heard his first name.
It was the city of Chekhov, so Rostnikov decided to stage the scene as if it were the end of the second act of one of the master's plays. Misha Ivanov had arranged for the quiet removal from the woods of the bodies of both Pato and Yuri and, after they examined the contents of the notebook Rostnikov had removed from under the rotunda, had agreed to Rostnikov's proposal to stage the scene.
The notebook had contained a list of names and notations. Some of the names had lines through them, others had notes after them, and neatly penned speculations were at the bottom of almost every sheet.
'How many do you count?' Ivanov had said as they sat on a bench near the entrance to the woods. From the bench they could watch the nearby traffic on the road and look up the hill toward the Lermontov Hotel. A gray van was parked
no more than ten feet from them, partly blocking their view of the road toward town.
'In Yalta?' Rostnikov answered. 'Seventeen. That includes both you, me, and Georgi himself.'
'Conspiracy?' asked Ivanov, pulling his jacket around him, though Rostnikov felt no surge of cold air.
'That was clearly Vasilievich's belief,' said Rostnikov.
'Confirmed by his death and the interest of those two to obtain this book,' said Ivanov.
As he said 'those two,' the body of Pato was being carried past them on a stretcher by two men, who strained under the weight.
'Something is going to happen in Moscow,' said Rostnikov.
Ivanov sighed deeply in answer.
'If Vasilievich was correct, the senior investigators from all branches, KGB, MVD, GRU, who would be most likely to uncover and disrupt this thing, were sent on vacation away from Moscow at the same time.'
'Or,' added Ivanov, 'sent on the pretext of watching one of the investigators.
And who knows how many were sent places other than Yalta. When will it happen?'
Rostnikov looked at the notebook.
'Soon, very soon. According to Vasilievich, five of these vacations end the day after tomorrow.'
'All right,' said Ivanov, standing and brushing fallen leaves from his lap. 'The American.'
'Yes,' said Rostnikov, also rising as the two men took their now empty stretcher back into the woods for the second body.
And that had led them to the scene that Porfiry Petrovich was now playing out with the American. Rostnikov had gone to his room and knocked, and McQuinton had answered, a book in his hand, fully dressed. His white hair was brushed back, but he needed a shave. Little white bristles caught the dim light of the hall.
' 'Have the women returned?'' Rostnikov said.
'Haven't seen them,' said McQuinton. 'You all right? You look a little-'
'I am, a bit, what is the word? Is it 'disgruntled'?'
'Probably not,' said McQuinton. 'You want to come in?'
'Yes, thank you.'
McQuinton stepped back. Rostnikov entered, and the American closed the door behind him.
'Not much room,' said McQuinton, looking at the bed, wooden cabinet, and single straight-backed chair. ' 'Take the chair. Mind if I shave?'
'Thank you,' said Rostnikov, 'but I would prefer to stand. My leg is misbehaving a bit.'
'Suit yourself,' said McQuinton, moving to the washroom.
Rostnikov followed him and watched from outside the door. There wasn't enough room inside for two people.
McQuinton ran the water and found his razors in a leather case.
'Damned water never gets warm,' he said, wrapping a towel around his neck and patting his face.
'What are those?' asked Rostnikov.
'Disposable razors. Here, take a couple. I brought plenty from the States.'
He handed three blue-handled plastic razors to Rostnikov, who put them in his jacket pocket.
'Thank you,' he said. 'And I have something for you, but it is less in the form of a gift than a burden.''
McQuinton was examining himself in the small mirror over the sink as he shaved.
Rostnikov removed Vasilievich's notebook from his pocket and held it up where McQuinton could see it in the mirror. The American's hand did not waver. The stroke from neck to chin was smooth.
'What is it?' he asked.
'A notebook,' said Rostnikov.
'What do you want me to do with this burden?' asked McQuinton, turning his head to one side to inspect the progress of his effort. He seemed satisfied.
'Take it with you,' said Rostnikov. 'Turn it over to the CIA when your plane refuels in Paris.'
McQuinton removed the towel from his neck, wiped the remaining soap from his face with it, examined himself in the mirror once more, and turned to face Rostnikov.
'What is it?'
'It contains a list of names of senior Soviet investigators,' ' said Rostnikov.'
'It documents their ordered departure from Moscow and includes speculation by the senior investigator who compiled the list that all of these men were ordered to take vacations at the same time. It was his belief that something was about to take place in Moscow, something that some high-ranking figures do not want to be stopped by anyone who might be capable of determining what was taking place.'
McQuinton looked at Rostnikov and the book and moved out of the small bathroom and to the bed, where he propped up the two pillows and sat against them.
'I don't follow,' said the American.
'If something does take place within that period,' Rostnikov went on, facing the lounging but attentive American, 'this notebook will be evidence that a conspiracy exists.'
'And you want me to smuggle the notebook out of the country and turn it over to the CIA? Why?'
'You are leaving. It is possible the CIA will be able to use channels to stop the event, to expose it. If not, they can reveal that the event, which might be made to look like an individual-'
'Rostnikov,' said the American. 'Spit it out.'
'I don't-' ' 'What's going on?'' 'I think an attempt will be made to kill Mikhail Gorbachev within the next two days,' said Rostnikov, looking at the notebook. 'I think it will be made to look not like a coup from within but a random mad act, probably from a foreigner.'
'Holy Christ,' said McQuinton, sitting up. 'You're not kidding.'
'I am not kidding,' said Rostnikov.
'Why can't you just take this book to Moscow?'
