“Nothing,” said Chenko.
“Nothing,” said Shatalov.
“Emil, tell them the name of the killer of their men.”
Karpo did as he was told.
“I don’t know this person,” said Shatalov.
“I don’t either,” said Chenko.
“Yes, you do,” said Rostnikov. “I will tell you and convince you, and you will stop your war before it begins. I have no illusions. At some time, you will start killing each other again, and though it may make no difference to either of you, if one more innocent person dies, I will see to it that you are both brought to justice. This I promise you and myself.”
“Talk,” said Shatalov, looking at his watch. “I told my men I would be in here no more than ten minutes.”
“I told my men five minutes,” said Chenko. “And those minutes are almost up.”
And so Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov pushed his plate away and explained. They listened. There was not much to tell. When he was done, Chenko rose immediately.
“You are both convinced?” asked Rostnikov.
Neither man spoke. Both nodded that they were convinced.
“There is a condition to my telling you this truth,” Rostnikov went on, pulling the plate of food back so he could reach it. “You are not to seek out or harm the one who did this.”
“That cannot be,” said Chenko.
“It cannot,” said Shatalov.
“An eye for an eye. Five gangsters for one child,” said Rostnikov, his hand still in his lap. “I want your word.”
“You will accept our word?” asked Shatalov.
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
“No more killings?” said Shatalov, looking at Chenko.
“Not from the person I have just named,” said Rostnikov.
“You have my word,” said Chenko.
“You have mine,” said Shatalov.
“I arrived first,” said Chenko. “I leave first.”
Shatalov opened his mouth to speak, but Rostnikov stopped him. “Go,” Porfiry Petrovich said, and the one- eyed man left.
When he had entered the car with tinted windows, followed by the young man he had posted at the door, Rostnikov nodded at Shatalov that he could leave. The white-haired gangster rose and departed. Rostnikov eased his weapon into the pocket of the ugly slacks of Leon’s dead father-in-law.
When Shatalov was no longer visible outside the door, Rostnikov said thank you to Peto, who took down the “closed” sign, hurried to the table, and asked no questions about what had just happened in his restaurant, though he was pulsing with curiosity.
“Another tomato sandwich?” asked Cashierovsky.
“Why not? Another roll and tea for you, Emil Karpo?”
Karpo shook his head.
“I’ll wrap the food you didn’t eat to take home,” said the restaurant owner.
“That would be very nice,” said Rostnikov.
The pudgy restaurant owner hurried off to make another sandwich for Rostnikov.
“Were you genuinely angry when you struck the table, Porfiry Petrovich?” asked Karpo. “It was very unlike you, but most effective.”
“I was genuinely angry, Emil,” said Rostnikov. “I have a family crisis. Elena Timofeyeva has been injured and I am wearing a jacket and pants that would befit a clown across the street. I have a bad feeling. I was angry, but perhaps not as angry as I appeared.”
A bag containing the uneaten food and a second tomato sandwich appeared in front of Rostnikov. On the plate next to it was a firm peach.
“You remembered,” said Rostnikov.
“I remembered your love of peaches,” Cashierovsky said.
“Enjoy.”
“He’s back,” Ivan Pleshkov said to Iosef over the phone.
“Does your father know you are calling me?” asked Iosef, sitting at the desk in his cubicle. He had been about to go out the door and head for the home and office of Leon the doctor. Porfiry Petrovich had left a message for his son telling him where Elena was, that she had been injured but that she was fine.
Iosef had wanted to see for himself, to be with her, but the phone had rung and Yevgeny Pleshkov’s son was on the line.
“Is he planning to leave?”
“I don’t think so,” said the son. “He looks tired. He looks like cat vomit.”
“Has he said anything to you or your mother about where he has been, what he has done?”
“He doesn’t have to,” said Ivan. “He’s been whoring, drinking, gambling, behaving like a fool. The great potential leader of the people is a buffoon, but what is new about that?”
“Can you keep him there?” asked Iosef.
“I can’t keep him anywhere,” said Ivan. “He goes where he wishes, does what he pleases, helps the masses and abuses individuals. But from the look of him he is at least content to be home for the immediate future. My mother has asked no questions. She will, though, and he will give her stupid lies. She will pretend to believe them. It is over. He is back till next time. Good-bye.”
Ivan hung up the phone and so did Iosef.
The proper thing to do at this point was to tell everything to the chief inspector, his father, but Porfiry Petrovich was out somewhere with Karpo and it was possible that Yevgeny Pleshkov might run off again. He either had to act on his own or talk to Director Yaklovev, which he preferred not to do. But he had little choice.
Instead of calling, he walked to the director’s office and asked if the Yak was in. The dwarfish Pankov began to sweat almost immediately. He had been given a specific list by Director Yaklovev. Except in an emergency, no one else was to be admitted to his office.
Porfiry Petrovich was on the list. No other member of the Office of Special Investigation was.
“Is this an emergency?” asked Pankov, looking at the director’s office door.
“It is,” said Iosef. “And we are wasting time.”
“What is the emergency?”
“Something for the ears of the director only.”
“I can ask him,” Pankov almost pleaded. “But I must have some idea. .”
“Tell him it is about Yevgeny Pleshkov,” said Iosef. “Tell him it is urgent. Tell him. .”
The director’s door opened and Yaklovev, spire-straight, said,
“Come in, Rostnikov.”
Oh, by my mother’s saints, thought Pankov, he can hear everything that is said out here. He has wired my space.
This was terrifying news to the little man, who now searched his memory, frantically wondering, fearing, that he had said something in the last months, something that would eventually mean his ruin.
I should have known, Pankov thought. I should have suspected.
Oh, god. He doesn’t care if I know. He is planning to replace me, to drive me into a breakdown and replace me.
The door closed behind the two men.
Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov had many things on his mind when he returned to his office. He wanted the day to be over so he could talk to and be with Sarah. He wanted to bring in the killer of the Chechins and Tatars. He wanted quite a few things, but he did not want to find Lydia Tkach sitting in front of his desk with her arms folded
