studied art briefly.”
“And Karpo was …?”
“It is my hope that her death does not destroy him. As long as he is seeking her killers, he will function. Later, who knows.” Rostnikov looked over at the American. “Real coffee,” he asked, “or decaffeinated?”
“Real,” said Hamilton. “And black.”
“You know Dinah Washington?” asked Rostnikov.
“Personally? No. I think she’s dead.”
“Pity,” said Rostnikov, setting the small table. “She makes me weep. ‘Nothing Ever Changes My Love for You.’ Wonderful song.”
“I’m not terribly familiar with her work,” Hamilton admitted.
Rostnikov paused, a jar of herring in one hand, a half loaf of bread in the other.
“She is the most famous singer in America,” Rostnikov said.
“No,” Hamilton corrected. “She is not even well known.”
Rostnikov pondered this for a moment, shook his head, and continued serving. When the water had boiled, he made the instant coffee.
“Black,” said Rostnikov, setting the cup in front of Hamilton.
“For me, sugar, cream, anything,” said Rostnikov, sitting awkwardly. “I don’t like this fake coffee.”
Hamilton nodded. He had a grinder at home in his apartment in Bethesda. His selection of coffee beans was large, and ranged from the standard to the exotic, all purchased from a nearby shop that dealt exclusively in coffee and coffee products. Craig Hamilton was an early riser. He always had coffee ready for his wife and breakfast plates set out before he woke her and his daughters.
“We are settled now?” Rostnikov asked, adjusting his leg and cutting off a thick slice of dark bread for his guest.
Hamilton nodded.
“Then,” said Rostnikov, “tell me what it was that you put under the coffee table in the Porvinovich apartment.”
Hamilton had been sure no one had seen him make the move.
“Voice-activated recorder,” he said. “Six-hour capacity. When we go back, we can retrieve it.”
“And you were going to tell me about this?” asked Rostnikov, carefully making a lopsided herring sandwich.
“If there was anything on the tape that would either implicate or clear them,” said Hamilton, drinking his coffee.
“So small.” Rostnikov shook his head. “It was so small. We have nothing like that. I mean the police. Internal Security has. They have devices that can hear through walls, as I am sure you do. I do have a recorder taping all phone calls to the Porvinovich apartment, however.”
Hamilton hungrily chewed the rough bread.
“It is possible that in six hours of tape we will be lucky,” said Rostnikov. “On the other hand, we may hear conversations about Madame Porvinovich’s wardrobe.”
Hamilton smiled, and Rostnikov rose, still working on his herring sandwich. The phone was across the room, on a shelf of the bookcase. He checked his notebook and called the Porvinovich apartment. Yevgeniy answered with a tentative “Yes?”
“Is Mrs. Porvinovich there? This is Inspector Rostnikov.”
“Yes …” He paused.
Rostnikov could tell he was putting his hand over the speaker. Rostnikov knew that he was asking her what to do.
“This is Anna Porvinovich,” she said with irritation.
“This is Inspector Rostnikov. I have good news. We have a definite lead on the people who kidnapped your husband. We expect even better news, possibly his very location, within the hour. As soon as we know just a bit more, we will come and see you.”
“Very good,” she said evenly.
“That is how we view it,” said Rostnikov. “Ah, my other phone is ringing. It may be that information about your husband. Please excuse me.”
With that, Rostnikov hung up and started back to the table.
“Now she will either discuss the situation with the brother,” he said, “or …”
“She will call the kidnappers,” Hamilton said, wondering whether it was polite to ask for more bread and jam.
Rostnikov recognized the signs of the FBI agent’s unsatisfied appetite and sliced another piece of bread, then pushed the jam in his direction. He would, as soon as possible, make a stop to see Luba Lasuria, an old woman from Armenia whom he had once kept out of jail. Luba lived a short walk away on Garibaldi Street, a few doors from the Ceremuski Cinema. Luba was an extremely successful dealer in black-market food. She never revealed her source, but it was said to be three nephews who regularly crossed over into France and Germany by paying bribes to border guards. The three nephews would return with suitcases full of food that could be sold for ten times what they’d paid for it.
When they had finished the meal and cleaned up the dishes, Rostnikov returned to the phone and made a call while Hamilton openly examined the books that lined the wall. There were books on art and music, a few on Russian history, a great many well-worn mystery paperbacks by Ed McBain, Susan Dunlap, John Lutz, Lawrence Block, Marcia Muller, Bill Pronzini, and many others. A far smaller number of books-in both Russian and English- dealt with plumbing.
“Report,” Rostnikov said to the person on the phone. Then he listened, watching the American move to the small assortment of dumbbells and metal weights in the corner of the bookcase. Still listening to the person on the other end, Rostnikov opened the lower shelf of the bookcase to reveal far more weights, lifting bars, seventy- pound dumbbells, and a portable weight bench with a well-worn gray plastic covering.
“Good,” Rostnikov finally said, and hung up the phone. “You lift weights?”
“Machines,” Hamilton said.
“You lift machines?”
“I use weight machines, and I run on a track.”
“I’ve seen those weight machines,” Rostnikov said. “In the Olympic gym where the great ones train. I think I prefer the old iron. Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” asked Hamilton.
“To an automobile repair shop,” said Rostnikov. “Anna Porvinovich just placed a call to an automobile repair shop and asked for an Artiom Solovyov. Between us, we will soon have all her secrets, including the answer to the question ‘Why does the woman whose husband has been kidnapped call an automobile repairman moments after being told that the criminals are on the verge of being caught?’”
“I can think of many reasons,” said Hamilton, following Rostnikov to the front door. “But only one of them particularly appeals to me.”
“Come, let us have a pleasant talk with this Artiom Solovyov,” said Rostnikov.
They were almost out of the door when Hamilton could not resist asking, “Why do you have all those plumbing books?”
“Do you meditate?” Rostnikov asked, stepping into the hall.
“No,” said Hamilton.
“Do you do anything to take brief vacations from reality?” Rostnikov closed the door to the apartment.
“Jigsaw puzzles,” Hamilton confessed. “All black, all white, three-dimensional, thousands of pieces.”
“Your meditation,” Rostnikov said. “Plumbing is mine.”
The old man held up his cane, pointed it at the two detectives like a gun, and said, “Boom, boom, boom.” Then he tucked the cane back under his arm and smiled with satisfaction.
“You are saying that Oleg Makmunov was shot and killed in the doorway across the street?” asked Sasha.
The old man nodded sagely and said, “Tall man, loud gun. All the rest around here will be afraid to tell you, but I saw it all.”
