Once again, McQuinton paused and smoked while Rostnikov translated and Ivanov responded.
'The man who approached you?' Rostnikov prodded.
'Woman,' corrected McQuinton. 'About forty, plain, dark suit. In the lobby when we got to the hotel here. Haven't seen her since. She said she had been sent to see me by St. John the Baptist. That was it. She gave me a name and a phone number and said I should tell the guys I hired that the hit might have notes or a book. They were to bring the notes to me. Woman said the money would be in my room under the bed. It was. You saw the two I hired. Fifth-rate. Amateurs, and bad ones at that. That's the story.'
McQuinton finished his cigarette, crushed the butt in an ashtray on the table near the bed, and said, 'Got to remember to clean that before Andy shows up.'
Misha Ivanov heard the rest of McQuinton's tale from Rostnikov and rubbed the tip of his nose gently.
'It's a ridiculous story,' Ivanov said, looking at the American. 'Why would anyone go through the trouble of hiring an American to do this? Why not do it themselves? It makes no sense.'
'You think he is lying?' asked Rostnikov.
'No,' said Ivanov. 'Conclusion?'
'He's a scapegoat,' said Rostnikov. 'If this were discovered, as it has been, someone wanted an American blamed. I think Lester McQuinton is fortunate that we got to him before he conveniently had an accident.'
'Or conveniently committed suicide,' said Ivanov.
There was no knock at the door. It came open, and Misha Ivanov turned toward it, gun in hand.
Andy McQuinton was in the middle of a laugh when she saw the gun. Behind her, Sarah Rostnikov, who had not seen the weapon, was still laughing, but when Andy went silent, she knew something was wrong.
Ivanov put the gun away and moved to close the door behind Sarah as she and Andy stepped in.
'Lester?' the frail woman asked, looking at her husband, who had definitely changed quite a bit in the few hours since she had gone out.
Lester sat up at the edge of the bed.
'Cop talk,' said Lester. 'Man here's a KGB officer. Showing me his weapon.'
'I am sorry,' said Misha Ivanov in English with a smile.
Sarah looked at Porfiry Petrovich and knew, not the details, but she knew that something was very wrong in this room. Andy McQuinton was carrying a small package. She put it on the bed and moved to her husband, who took her hand and gave her a false wink of confidence. The frail woman's nose crinkled, and she looked at the dirty ashtray.
'Lester?' she repeated gently, afraid.
'Later, Andy,' he said softly.
'Let us go, Misha,' said Rostnikov. 'The McQuintons have packing to do. There is a plane for Paris in two hours. Perhaps we can all drive them to the airport and sit with them till they leave.'
Ivanov looked at the Americans and shook his head a few times before heading for the door. Sarah moved to Andy's side and put her hand on the little woman's shoulder. Without looking back at her, Andy McQuinton touched Sarah's hand. The strong man on the bed was now quite weak, and the weak woman who stood before him had found within her a great strength.
When they had gone into the hall and left the Americans to their packing, Ivanov turned to Rostnikov. Sarah took her husband's hand.
'All right,' said Ivanov. 'We get them on the plane and then…'
'I fly to Moscow and give this book to my division commander,' said Rostnikov.
'And he will believe you?' ' 'He will believe me,' said Rostnikov, looking at his wife, who was quite pale.
'And he will act?'
'I do not know,' said Rostnikov.
'Porfiry Petrovich, I think we have stepped into something deep and very dirty.
I'll arrange for a flight for you tonight. Get ready. I'll wait here till the Americans are prepared to go.'
Sarah had not said a word, and she did not do so even when they were back in their room.
'Sarah,' he said. 'I won't even pack. I'll change clothes at home in Moscow and be back here tomorrow, the next day at the latest.'
Sarah Rostnikov was sitting on the chair in the corner.
'Are you all right?' he asked, moving to her side. 'Do you have a headache? You want your medication?'
'It follows you wherever you go, Porfiry Petrovich,' she said, looking at him.
'Yes, 'he admitted.
'It is not an accident, is it?'
He was not sure what she meant, but he answered what he understood.
'I do not think so.'
'I like the American woman,' said Sarah.
'So do I,' said Rostnikov.
ELEVEN
They drove in silence.Karpo explained nothing, and Tkach asked nothing. Neither man was uncomfortable with the situation, though Emil Karpo noted the lack of curiosity in his colleague, the wound on his forehead, and the semidrugged look in his eyes. And these made Emil Karpo wonder why Rostnikov had told him to pick up Sasha Tkach before he went in search of Jerold and Yakov.
He had called Rostnikov about twenty minutes before he went to Tkach's house.
Rostnikov had told him three things. The first was quite clear, that Zelach had been injured and that Tkach felt responsible. The second was quite cryptic, that Rostnikov had run into Karpo's Uncle Vetz, the uncle they had last seen where they caught the car thief. Third, Rostnikov said that Sarah had not been feeling well and was taking naps every morning at nine. Karpo had expressed concern and hung up understanding that Inspector Rostnikov had reason to believe their conversation was listened to and that Karpo was to be at a specific place at nine the next morning, the place where he and Rostnikov had caught a car thief named Vetz.
None of this he told to Sasha Tkach. It was only when they had driven more than thirty miles and were turning into the road that led to the house that Karpo spoke. He began the history of Yakov and Jerold and the death of Carla. Tkach nodded to show that he understood, but he looked straight ahead. Karpo pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the ignition.
'Tkach,' he said, 'it is essential that you understand and are attentive. The people we seek are quite dangerous.'
Sasha looked out the window and then turned to face Karpo.
'I will not fail you, Emil Karpo,' he said.
Karpo opened the car door and got out. So did Tkach, who checked his gun as soon as he closed the car door. They moved off the road and walked forward along the line of trees. Around a curve, about fifty yards from their car, they saw the house, a modest house before which sat a black automobile with a dented left fender scratched with the white paint of the car it had hit after Jerold had fled with Yakov from the Kalinin Prospekt in front of the cafe.
The policemen moved into the cover of the trees and made their way to the side of the house so they would not be seen approaching. There was an open space of dirt and stone about fifteen yards from the trees to the house. One window faced the two men as they crossed quickly to the wall.
'Front door,' Karpo said, so softly that Sasha was not sure he heard him.
Before Karpo could say another word, Tkach moved around the building to the front and strode past the parked black car to the door of the house. Karpo, who had drawn no weapon, stepped out after him as Tkach reached over to knock.
'Tkach,' said Karpo, walking to join the younger man. 'I did not mean for you to walk up to the door and knock.'
'I'm sorry,' Tkach said.
