was limping away from the television woman.
Peotor had been hiding for eight hours now, and he had decided to come down from the tower. He did not intend to give himself up, because he wasn’t absolutely certain the two policemen were looking for him. However, given what he had been told, there was little doubt that he was the prime suspect in the murder of Sister Nina and his father. So he would simply climb down and go about his business. If they wanted him, they could come find him.
Peotor ate his last unwashed radish. As a boy, he had hidden in this tower hundreds of times among the musty books and furniture parts in storage until they might be rediscovered and thrown away.
Peotor needed a toilet. He needed a shave. He could think of nowhere to run. Panic had overtaken him. But the panic had eased and he had come to the conclusion that he had to bluff it out. Through the thin, dirty window he could hear the voices on the street. It was growing cold, but they were out there, carrion birds waiting to feed on the corpses, to pluck out the eye of a story or the tooth of a rumor.
Peotor was not sure what time it was. He had no watch. But he felt certain it was nearly noon. His legs were cramped but not badly. He tried to think, to make up a story, but his mind just kept going back to the mutilated body of the nun. He had stood over what was left of her in the room that had been his father’s. He had stood over her and looked at the blood on his hands and then he had run.
When his legs felt strong enough, he moved to the trapdoor in the floor of the tower and opened it. Below him was a face. He staggered back.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
The man climbed up and closed the trapdoor behind him. “Looking for you,” he said.
“I’m coming down.”
“Why did you run?” The man wiped the window with his sleeve and looked down.
“Why did I run? They think I killed him. When they find out about what he did, they’ll be sure,” said Peotor.
“How will they find out?” the man asked.
“How? Who knows? Sonia maybe. I don’t even know if Alex knows,” said Peotor, rubbing his bristly chin. “I hated him, but you know I wouldn’t kill him. I should have, but it isn’t in me. I rant and complain. You know that. Everyone knows that. But it isn’t in me to kill.”
“No,” agreed the man, turning to him. “It is not.”
“Maybe they’ll catch whoever killed them. Then I will-”
“No,” said the man. “They cannot catch him. If they catch him, they will know our secrets. Do you want them to know?”
“No, but what makes you think the murderer would know that he-no one would believe that a priest, an old priest, would try to seduce his own daughter-in-law.”
“Many would believe,” said the man. “I believe. People have believed far worse stories about priests for more than seventy years. I have believed such stories.”
Peotor shook his head. “Still, the murderer almost certainly could not know about you.”
“He knows.”
Peotor looked at him, and when their eyes met, he knew what he did not want to know. “You killed them,” he said.
“You knew I killed them.”
“I didn’t.”
“You knew. And if the policeman with the bad leg asked you, you would tell him.”
“No,” said Peotor.
“Yes, you would. You know it. I know it. You would tell him.”
The list of those who would have to die was growing longer, but there was no choice. If he stopped killing now, Sister Nina would have died for nothing. At least her death meant the keeping of the secret.
“So”-Peotor sighed, looking around the room-“I must run.”
“No,” said the man. His voice wavered. “You must die.”
Leonid Dovnik sat in the straight-backed chair waiting to die.
He had no doubt about what awaited him. His hands were tied painfully behind him. Of course, given the opportunity, he would try to escape, though these Arabs were clearly skilled in this sort of thing and would allow him very little room to act. Even if he were given no opportunity, he would at least try. To passively let them kill him was beneath his dignity.
The room was small. He had half expected that they would take him to the Syrian embassy, and half hoped that there would be some kind of offer made. They had traveled no more than twenty minutes in silence when Leonid reached the conclusion that he was to be killed.
Before they did this, however, they wanted something from him. He knew this was so simply because he was still alive. He was not foolish enough to think that he could negotiate for the information, whatever it was, but it was keeping him alive for now.
He looked around the room. It had a single floor-to-ceiling window. If he judged correctly from the view of the house across the street, they were at least one flight up, perhaps two. The room was furnished with four straight-backed wooden chairs, including the one in which he was trussed. A wooden table, once firm and solid, was now shaky on at least one of its three curved legs. A single lamp with a yellow shade stood in the corner. Nothing on the walls. No rug on the concrete floor. He had been sitting alone in this room for at least an hour before the door opened and a dark, well-dressed man stepped in.
“Leonid Dovnik,” the man said. This did not surprise Leonid, since they had taken his wallet.
“Yes,” he said. “And you?”
“My name is Durahaman. I am the oil emissary from the government of Syria. What does that tell you?”
“That you are the father of Amira Durahaman and that you intend to kill me,” said Dovnik.
“I do not deny either statement,” said the man. “But there are many ways to kill. There are artists and butchers. You are a butcher. I have men who are artists and will gladly give you a lesson you will never be able to use.”
Leonid tried to move his hands, which were tied behind him. The circulation was almost gone in his fingers. They had little feeling besides a gentle electric tingle. “What do you want from me?”
“You killed Zalinsky,” the man said.
Dovnik did not answer.
“You may speak,” said the man. “It really doesn’t matter if this is recorded or not as far as you are concerned.”
“I killed him,” Leonid admitted.
“For money?”
“For money,” Leonid agreed. “I am a professional. I don’t kill for fun. I am not some sick terrorist or gang member.”
“Admirable,” said the man, standing over him. “The woman who paid you is named Tatyana. She ran the Nikolai Café.”
“Ran?” asked Leonid.
“She is missing,” said Durahaman. “I think she will not be found. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Leonid.
“There was an accident,” said the man. “She joined the missing before she could tell us. You like trees? The sight of a new automobile? The feel of a woman?”
“What difference does it make?”
“None,” said the man. “I’ll make a bargain. You get two more days of life, an evening with a woman, if you sign a confession that you and you alone are responsible for the murders of Zalinsky and Tatyana.”
“I do not care for women. Or for men.”
“Then one last question. Were you also paid to kill my daughter?”
“No,” said Leonid. “Though it made no difference to me.”
“You do not value your life, Russian.”
“Not much,” Leonid agreed. “It is dangerous in my business to value anyone’s life.”
