see people scrambling in confusion. One person had fallen.
'He was about to shoot President Gorbachev,' said Jerold. 'May I put my hands down? I'm feeling quite weak.'
'No,' said Sasha, and Jerold could see that as much as his arms ached and his knees threatened to quit beneath him, it would be best to remain exactly as he was.
Karpo quickly examined the dead Yakov Krivonos and turned to Jerold.
'My pocket,' Jerold said. 'Rear. Take out my wallet. I'm a KGB officer.'
Karpo moved toward him quickly. The room would soon be filled with armed soldiers from the street, soldiers who would have to be stopped before they entered the room and began firing.
'Sasha,' Karpo said. 'Go down the stairs. Tell them who you are, that everything is all right.''
Tkach put his gun away, looking at the dead young man near the window, and felt a sudden chill through the open window as he moved through the door.
'My name is Alexandrov,' said Jerold, his American accent suddenly gone. 'I was trying to locate and identify all of the members of an extended extortion and drug gang. Yakov was my link. He thought I was an American drug dealer.'
Karpo turned the pale man around and removed the wallet from his back pocket. He found the secret compartment and removed the KGB identity card with Jerold's photograph.
'It is authentic,' said Jerold.
Below them they could both hear boots hurrying upward through the building.
'I am sure it is,' said Karpo.
'You almost killed me this morning, Inspector Karpo,' he said, putting his hands down and sinking into the chair.
'And you almost killed me,' said Karpo.
'Had to make it look good for Yakov. I am sorry.'
Karpo nodded.
'You understand?' Jerold went on as they heard Tkach's voice below, though his words were unclear.
'Not completely,' said Karpo.
'But you believe me?' said Jerold, looking up, his shirt drenched with sweat.
'No,' said Karpo.
' 'It would be best for you to believe me, Inspector Karpo,'' Jerold said. 'I'm about to make us heroes.'
With that, a major, his brown uniform dark and heavy with rain, his cap pulled down, came rushing into the room. His gun was drawn but at his side, indicating that Sasha had been reasonably convincing.
'Major,' Jerold said, 'I am Lieutenant Vasili Alexandrov, KGB Security Division.
The man at the window is Yakov Krivonos. He was about to kill President Gorbachev. Inspector Karpo arrived just as I prevented him from doing so.'
The major looked at the two men, trying to decide which one was more pale. The scene was unnatural, a moment frozen from some half-remembered play, and the major, who had witnessed many deaths in Afghanistan, felt a cold chill and knew this moment would haunt him till he died.
THIRTEEN
The next morning, the sun shone on Moscow.
Shortly before nine, under that shining sun, tourists from both within the Soviet Union and beyond its formerly formidable borders boarded the excursion boats at the Kiev pier. There weren't many sightseers this early in the morning.
Among those boarding, however, though not together, were a tall, quite pale man whom everyone avoided as best they could and a block of a man with a limp who was ignored by the people scrambling ahead of him to get the best seats.
Porfiry Petrovich did not want the best seat, and Emil Karpo did not care.
Before the ship had pulled away from the pier, Rostnikov was seated along the port rail in a chair with its view partly obstructed by a thick metal pole.
Almost all the other passengers were in front of the ship with their guidebooks out. Rostnikov was very much alone when Karpo joined him as they pulled away from the pier and the ship began its journey.
'Have you ever taken this ride before, Emil Karpo?'
'I have not.'
'Over there,' said Rostnikov, pointing to the bank. 'The fortress walls of the old Novo-Devichy Convent. See the belfry?'
'I see it,' said Karpo.
'In the convent cathedral, Boris Godunov was proclaimed czar in 1597,' said Rostnikov.
'It was 1598,' Karpo corrected.
Rostnikov smiled.
'You knew that,' said Karpo, looking at him.
'Perhaps,' and Rostnikov, still looking at the bank. 'The wife and sister of Peter the Great were imprisoned in the convent for plotting against Peter. Many famous people are buried inside those walls. I know you know this, Emil Karpo, but it gives me some small pleasure to say it aloud, so please indulge me while we wait. Sarah and I made this trip with Iosef when he was a boy.''
Karpo looked at his colleague and saw a weariness he had never seen before.
'You are ill,' he said.
'I am tired,' Porfiry Petrovich corrected.
'What is it that we are waiting for?' asked Karpo.
'An answer,' said Rostnikov.
The ship passed the sports complex of Luzhniki, and over the cabin of the boat Karpo could see the Lenin Hills coming down to the edge of the water and, high on top, against the skyline, the massive main building of Moscow University, its tower lost for the moment in a low cloud.
'Beautiful,' said Rostnikov with a sigh.
Karpo said nothing as they went under the double-level bridge.
'Yes,' said Karpo, though the mystery of beauty had either eluded him or, as he thought more likely, existed only as a bourgeois fantasy.
Karpo was aware of the man approaching them well before he turned to face him.
The man was in his mid-forties, thin, balding, and dark, dressed in a blue suit with a matching striped tie.
'Colonel Zhenya,' Rostnikov said, looking up and shielding his eyes against the sun with his hand in what might have been taken for a mock salute.
The KGB colonel was known to both Karpo and Rostnikov. He stood erect and played with a ring on his right hand as he spoke.
'I do not believe I have ever seen you out of uniform before,' Rostnikov said.
Zhenya looked at Karpo and then at Rostnikov without moving his head.
'My presence doesn't surprise you, does it, Rostnikov?' he said.
'I am completely surprised,' said Rostnikov with what might well be taken for surprise.
'You are tired from your flight, and you have not slept for almost two days,' said Zhenya. 'That, I assume, is why you are engaging in pallid irony.'
'You are certainly right, Colonel,' Rostnikov said, shifting his leg as he remembered why it was that he had not taken this river ride or any other for many years. The dampness cramped his leg in wet, relentless fingers.
'You were well aware that your conversations were monitored and that someone listening, someone who knew your background, would probably understand your little code,'' said Zhenya.
'I was counting on it, Colonel,' said Rostnikov. 'There, see, you are right. I should never say anything like that to a KGB colonel, especially to you.'
