'I can,' said Rostnikov. 'I may or may not be believed. I may or may not be allowed to live long enough to air my suspicions. My credibility as an investigator is secure, but my relationship to the KGB, which would have jurisdiction, is weak, and I am not sure which elements of the KGB might be involved. I am being frank with you.'
'I appreciate that,' said McQuinton, getting off the bed and starting to pace around the room. 'But, hell. I'm on vacation with a sick wife. I'm not sure I can risk getting caught with this thing.'
'I appreciate your concern,' said Rostnikov. 'If you would rather not, I fully understand.'
'Hold it. I didn't say I wouldn't. Okay.' The sigh was enormous, as if the American were about to take on the responsibilities of the world. He held out his hand for the book.
'You should know that the man who wrote this notebook is dead,' said Rostnikov.
'I'm in,' said McQuinton, shaking his head.
'Would you like to know who killed him?' Rostnikov asked.
'Yes, it might help cover my ass.'
'You killed him,' said Rostnikov.
McQuinton's hand wavered inches away from the notebook that Rostnikov held out.
Several possibilities went through Lester McQuinton's mind. All were evident in a series of looks that quickly crossed his face. He considered a smile, an assertion that the idea was absurd. He considered violence, a grab for the book and an attempt to overpower and possibly kill Porfiry Petrovich. He may even have considered the possibility of simply running, for Rostnikov could certainly not follow, but where would he run, and besides…
Rostnikov had moved to the door, which he opened. Misha Ivanov was standing in the hall, his hands folded in front of him. He stepped into the room, and Rostnikov closed the door.
McQuinton shook his head and sat heavily on the bed.
'Andy really likes your wife,' McQuinton said, looking up at Rostnikov. 'Hell, what difference does that make, right?'
'Sarah likes your wife also,' said Rostnikov. 'She is not…?'
'No,' said the American. 'As far as she knows, we're just here on a vacation. I saved the money, and here we are.'
'My English is terrible, Rostnikov,' Misha Ivanov said in Russian. 'Ask him.'
'Are you an American?' Rostnikov asked, moving back to lean against the low wooden cabinet.
'I'm an American. I'm a cop. No lies. That's about all you get from me unless we deal,' said McQuinton.
Rostnikov translated for Ivanov, who said, 'Tell him we make no deals.'
'Gentlemen,' said McQuinton, 'I'm an American tourist. I don't know what you've got or think you've got on me, but accusing an American of killing Soviet citizens isn't going to do relations between our countries very much good.'
'We both heard Yuri identify you as the man who hired him and Pato to kill Georgi Vasilievich,' said Rostnikov. 'He and the man called Pato are quite willing to confess both to the murder itself and your responsibility.'
'Come on. No motive, no evidence,' said McQuinton, but he did not say it with confidence.
'Motive?' asked Rostnikov.
'Reason to want your Vasilievich killed. Did I pronounce the name right?'
'What is he saying?' asked Misha Ivanov impatiently.
'We have no motive, no evidence,' Porfiry Petrovich said.
'Tell him I'll shoot him in the face if he doesn't talk,' said Ivanov, opening his jacket and pulling out his gun.
Lester McQuinton looked at it but showed no sign of being frightened.
'No, I have a better idea,' Misha Ivanov said brightly. 'Tell him I will shoot his wife and then I will shoot him.' ' 'Ivanov,*' Rostnikov said softly, looking at the KGB man, but Rostnikov could see in the man's gentle grin that he meant what he said.
'Tell him,' Ivanov insisted.
'He's threatening Andy, isn't he?' McQuinton said.
'Yes,' Rostnikov confirmed. 'But I would not let him do that.'
'You might not be able to stop him,' McQuinton said with a sigh. 'Good guys, and bad guys. Hell. Let's work a deal here. I tell you what I know, you let me get on the plane tonight and go home with my wife. If you think I'm holding back or lying, you arrest me, shoot my ass, or whatever you guys do.'
'You would trust us?' asked Rostnikov.
Lester McQuinton ran his thick right hand through his white hair. 'I got a choice?'
'Rostnikov, I grow weary,' said Ivanov.
Rostnikov explained what McQuinton had said.
'Make the agreement, Porfiry Petrovich,' said Misha.
'We honor it,' Rostnikov said.
'And we decide if he should be arrested when he is finished,' Ivanov said.
Rostnikov nodded at McQuinton.
'I want this done one way or the other before Andy and your wife get back.'
'Then speak quickly,' said Rostnikov.
'I go to this bar back home,' said McQuinton. 'Place on Fiftieth Street called On the Way Home.'
'I don't…' Rostnikov began.
'Bars back home sometimes have these cute names. Idea is that you can call your wife and say you're On the Way Home.'
'And that is humorous?'
'Some think so,' said McQuinton. 'I could use a drink now. Just a beer. Beer in your country stinks.'
'I thought you wanted to get this told quickly,' said Rostnikov.
And McQuinton changed modes. He spoke quickly and clearly. He was suddenly a policeman, and he gave a policeman's report.
'Guy in this bar got friendly with me, other cops,' he said. 'Asked questions, said he used to be a cop in Russia. Accent was right, but he didn't look like a cop, not a cop like me or you two. I thought he was full of shit, but he bought drinks. Long story short. One night I told this guy, said his name was Oleg, that Andy was sick and I was broke and getting close to retirement, that I hadn't saved anything and that the pension wouldn't cover… You know. Cop grousing.'
' Yes,'' said Rostnikov. He translated the essence to Misha and nodded for McQuinton to go on.
'Oleg says, 'What if?' You know. What if someone handed me fifty thousand dollars. Cash. Tax-free. Plus a free trip to Russia. What would I do for that? I still thought he was full of shit. I said I'd kill for it. Few nights later Oleg came back with the same thing. I said I didn't find it funny anymore. He handed me a package. I figured it was a setup, Internal Affairs. I gave it back and told him to follow me into the John.'
'John?'
'Toilet. I checked him out for wires. None. I checked the John. Clear. I told him to open the envelope. He did. It was full of bills. I still wasn't buying it, but I wanted to. I made him take out the bills, wipe 'em clean with his handkerchief, and lay 'em on the sink. When he reached ten thousand dollars, he had my interest. You know what's crazy? I stopped smoking twenty years ago. It'd kill me if I started again, but I need a cigarette now.
Crazy.'
Rostnikov translated. Misha nodded and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, which he handed to McQuinton, who took one, accepted a light from Ivanov, and inhaled deeply.
'Tastes like I never stopped,' McQuinton said, and then he coughed, a terrible cough. He looked at the cigarette as the coughing subsided and continued to smoke as he talked.
'Oleg told me I could take what he had with him and get the rest before we left the States. He would trust me. And he said it was possible I might get to keep the money and not do anything for it. But if anyone approached me and gave me the right word, I was to do what he told me. Oleg said I wouldn't have to kill anyone myself, just call a number and some guys would come. And I'd give these guys the name of the guy to hit. Like I said before, sounded like bullshit, but the money was real, and Andy ain't well, and it wouldn't be the first crap I pulled. Thirty years a cop is a long time.'
