sufficient pressure from the British government.
“That is a reasonable position to take,” Willery finally said with a dry throat, not feeling at all cunning.
“Enough,” said Tkach. “You know what I need and want. We do not want any more dead people.”
“Meaning me?” Willery said, touching his thin chest.
Tkach nodded in sad agreement.
“I have nothing to do with World Liberation,” Willery said with a laugh. “This is absurd. I make films. No one is going to kill a filmmaker, an artist.”
“I hope not,” said Tkach, putting his notebook into his pocket. “I should hate to be the one to have to examine your body, especially if it looked anything like that of Monique Freneau. She had been…but you do not need to know about that. I’ve taken enough of your time. I thank you for the tickets.”
Tkach walked slowly to the door. Behind him, Willery said, “Wait.”
Tkach turned and faced the man who still sat in the chair, his long jean-covered legs outstretched, his bespectacled eyes searching the ceiling for help.
“Yes?” asked Tkach, feigning boredom and looking at his watch.
“What makes you think I’m involved with these World Liberation people?” Willery got out, but Tkach felt sure that was not why the Englishman had called him back.
Tkach smiled sympathetically and shook his head as if at the ignorance of a foreigner who did not realize the extent of the resources of the MVD.
“A friend of yours, or someone you thought was a friend, told us everything. The meetings. Everything.”
A professional or even a calm, intelligent amateur would realize that a policeman would never give away such information if it was true, but Willery, while intelligent, was far from calm, and he was clearly not a professional. This struck Tkach. Willery was no terrorist, though they might use him. Tkach was convinced that he was essentially harmless.
Tkach would discover that he was quite wrong.
“Anything else you wish to say?” he asked Willery.
The Englishman’s answer was a wordless shake of the head that suggested there was much to be told. Tkach told Willery that someone would be back to talk to him at greater length. Then he left, closing the door behind him.
In the hall, Alexander Platnov stood waiting to get back into his room. He scowled at the detective, who paused eye to eye with the student. Tkach looked down at the young man’s shirt and sweater, his dark trousers, and assessed him as earnest and slightly belligerent.
“How long have you known the Englishman?” he said.
Platnov shrugged indifferently, indicating he could not remember. Tkach responded by telling Platnov to put his books in his room and accompany the detective to Petrovka where he might be more inclined to cooperate. Tkach had no intention of taking the student back to Petrovka. The threat was usually enough to get people to speak. Platnov was no exception.
“I’ve known him four days,” he said quietly, turning away from Tkach as if bored, trying to retain his dignity in defeat.
“Why is he staying with you?”
A pair of young men passed by on the stairway, glancing at them. Tkach looked squarely at them, and they went on.
“I am interested in film, and I read a piece about him in a British journal. I wrote to him and invited him to stay with me when I heard his film was to be shown at the festival.”
“And?” Tkach said, closing the space between them to a narrow gap. “Whom has he talked to? Who has called him? What does he talk of?”
“I don’t know,” Platnov almost whined, trying to avoid Tkach’s eyes. “He is a bore. I don’t understand him most of the time, and he keeps talking about expanded structures, vibrating spaces, collapses of time and space. He eats too much and won’t let me study. He wants attention all the time.”
“So you’ve met none of his friends?”
“He doesn’t know anyone here,” Platnov said. “He was interviewed by some American journalist. I was glad to have him out of my life for a few hours. He talked only to the people on the festival committee, a few of the students here, and the woman.”
“Woman? Who was she?” Tkach said, trying to hide his excitement.
“Who knows?” Platnov answered. “A foreigner, I think. They went for a short walk a few days ago. I don’t think he was happy to see her.”
“What did she look like?” Tkach asked, looking back at the closed door and trying to decide if he should make another assault on Willery with this new information or take it to Rostnikov.
“A woman,” sighed Platnov. “She wasn’t ugly, but not pretty either. Too old for me, too intense, too. I don’t know. Dark woman with dark eyes. Much too serious. She did manage to shut up the Englishman for a few hours.”
“Go,” said Tkach, “but do not tell Willery we have spoken. You understand?”
“I’m going to go back in there and put my head in my books,” said Platnov, easing past the detective. “I want no further conversations with him.”
Tkach let the young man pass. He would not confront Willery now, but would meet with Rostnikov. He had learned a great deal, but he was not at all sure what it might mean.
Once in the street, he removed the three tickets from his pocket, checked his watch, and hoped that Rostnikov would not keep him working on the case so long that he would miss the movie. He walked slowly down Karl Marx Prospekt, splurged by buying ice cream from a street vendor, and headed for Petrovka.
NINE
“So,” Rostnikov began after vigorously wiping his nose with a large gray handkerchief, “what have we?” He looked across his desk at Karpo and Tkach, not caring who spoke first.
Tkach began by reviewing his meeting with Willery. Rostnikov told him to stay with Willery, pursue the matter, and assign a watch on him.
They devoted fifteen minutes to discussing the murder of Monique Freneau.
“Foreigners are dying at an alarming rate in Moscow,” Rostnikov observed. “It is an embarrassment, and we must put an end to it. Catching a murderer is very satisfying.” His right eyebrow went up. “But you would not know of this satisfaction yet, Sasha and Emil.”
Neither junior spoke.
“So, Emil Karpo,” Rostnikov finally said after rubbing his callused fingers over the scratch on his desk. “What do we have on this dark-eyed woman of mystery?”
“She exists,” Karpo said.
“Yes,” agreed Rostnikov. “We both saw her at the Metropole, but where is she now and what is she up to? Does she have anyone helping her? How can she hide? Where?”
“I think,” said Karpo, passing Rostnikov a folder, “she means to plant bombs in key places in Moscow, if she has not already done so.”
Karpo was at the apartment on Kalinin Street less than one hour after the KGB attacked it. Had he been ten minutes earlier he might have spotted the dark-eyed woman across the street. Granted she was well disguised, but Karpo was a man obsessed, and disguises are often insufficient in the face of obsession.
There were two uniformed MVD men at the door of the building with orders to keep everyone out. Their orders did not apply to an inspector, however, particularly not to Inspector Karpo, the Vampire, who was familiar to them. Neither uniformed man could even formulate a challenge in his mind let alone voice it to Karpo, who showed his identification and marched past them.
The KGB investigators were going through the rubble, turning over tables, examining cupboards. There were three of them. A dour man with graying temples, who wore a light gray suit and looked like a movie star, was
