Blood and Rubles

“Porvinovich, now, uninjured,” said Rostnikov.

“I didn’t kidnap him,” Artiom cried. He clasped his hands together and said, “As God is my judge, I have kidnapped no one.”

“How long have you believed in God?” asked Rostnikov.

Artiom shrugged again. “All my life,” he said. “What’s God got to-”

“We are leaving,” said Rostnikov. “You will deliver Alexei Porvinovich before this day ends.”

“I. …” Artiom began, but saw that nothing he could say would convince these two. “It has come to my attention from a source I cannot reveal that this Alexei Porvinovich has been engaged in illegal activities.”

“I thought you couldn’t remember him?” asked Hamilton, who was following Rostnikov toward the door of the garage.

“I didn’t want to get involved in anything,” Artiom said, now sweating profusely and not trying to hide it. “But if someone were to find this Porvinovich and turn him loose and they had information about important criminal activities by this Porvinovich …?”

“It would be interesting,” said Rostnikov, limping toward the door. “We might be appreciative of such information.”

“How appreciative?” asked Artiom.

“That would depend on the information,” said Rostnikov. “And the evidence. Call Petrovka, ask for me. Let us say in four hours.”

Rostnikov pulled out his pad of paper, wrote down his own name and phone number, and handed it to Artiom, who took it and followed the two men through the door into the chilly gray day.

“I don’t know anything,” he said.

“Four hours,” Rostnikov repeated, continuing to walk away, his back to Artiom Solovyov. “That should be plenty of time.”

Artiom gave up, went back into the garage, and slammed the door. Rostnikov continued to walk toward the dark car parked at the end of the street.

“We were lucky,” said Hamilton softly.

“He is an amateur in love with a professional,” said Rostnikov. “An affair made in hell.”

“She would have had Porvinovich killed,” said Hamilton.

“I’m certain.”

“So am I,” said Hamilton. “You think he’ll let Porvinovich go and give you something dirty on him?”

“Yes,” said Rostnikov, opening the front passenger door of the car. “He has heard tales of Russian prisons.” He sat and closed the door while Hamilton went around the car and got into the driver’s seat.

“Should we call someone to follow him?” asked Hamilton, starting the engine.

“It will take too long,” said Rostnikov.

“We could follow him ourselves,” Hamilton suggested.

“I have a bad leg and you have a black face,” said Rostnikov. “He would have to be an even bigger fool than he is not to spot us. I think he will give us our kidnap victim if he is still alive.”

SEVEN

Flowers

They sat, as they had planned to, inside the Saint Petersburg Café, formerly the Café of the October Revolution. Normally they would have met at a café less than a half mile away, but that was where Mathilde Verson had been killed.

They had pulled two rectangular wooden tables together. Rostnikov sat at one end of the improvised table, Craig Hamilton at the other. Rostnikov always sat where he could see everyone’s faces without any painful movement of his leg. On his left were Sasha Tkach and Zelach. On his right were Emil Karpo and Elena Timofeyeva. In front of each person was a cup of coffee or tea and two thin wafers that the management called imported biscotti but that Tkach described as sugar-plaster sandwiches.

Several months earlier they had begun meeting informally at a café. There were two major reasons for this. First, the Gray Wolfhound, Pankov, and Major Gregorovich were not present. Second, it was unlikely that anyone had bugged the café, whereas it was highly likely that the Wolfhound’s office was bugged and almost certain that Major Gregorovich was passing information on to people who might be appreciative when the proper time came.

“Pulcharia said what?” Elena asked.

“‘Grandmother gives me a gahlahvnahya bol,’ a headache,” answered Tkach, looking, with a proud smile, around the table. “Three years old, not even three.”

He shook his head. The others were appreciatively silent.

“‘Gahlahvnahya bol,’” Tkach repeated almost to himself.

“And how is your aunt?” Rostnikov asked.

“Anna Timofeyeva has good days and bad,” said Elena, a bit self-consciously.

“She is a bad cook, a stubborn woman, and was the best procurator in all of Russia,” Rostnikov said.

“‘No foundation up and down the line,’” Zelach said.

Everyone looked at him. Zelach did not attend all of these sessions, and when he did, he seldom spoke unless directly addressed.

“William Saroyan,” said Hamilton.

All heads turned to him except for that of Emil Karpo. They had not wanted to be so rude as to examine the black FBI agent who spoke perfect Russian and sat erect in an impeccably pressed blue suit.

“A play, The Time of Your Life,” explained Hamilton. “It’s a favorite of mine. One of the characters keeps repeating that line.”

“Arkady Sergeyevich Zelach,” Rostnikov said with deep interest. “You read American plays?”

Zelach shrugged and didn’t meet Rostnikov’s eyes.

“When I was recovering, I read what was in the apartment,” he said. “My father’s old books.”

Sasha Tkach took some tea. It was strong but not particularly good. Zelach had spent a long convalescence after he had been shot, a near-fatal shooting that, with good reason, Sasha felt responsible for. Zelach had many months of reading behind him.

“We will speak freely in front of Agent Hamilton,” said Rostnikov, looking around the table. “First we all wish to extend our sympathy to and support for Emil Karpo for the loss of Mathilde Verson, a loss that is also ours.”

Karpo said nothing. His head moved slightly to acknowledge the words of condolence.

Later, when he could get Karpo alone, Porfiry Petrovich would invite him for dinner as Sarah had suggested. If necessary, he would order him to come for dinner. Sarah might get him to talk or at least to listen. And normally Karpo appeared to like the company and questions of the girls. But that would be later. Sarah would want a gathering soon of the entire group so that there could be some kind of formal toast, a farewell to Mathilde.

“If there will be a funeral …?” Rostnikov began.

“I’ve spoken to her sister,” said Karpo. “When the autopsy is complete, her body will be cremated and her ashes taken to the sea. I would prefer that this end the discussion.”

With Karpo it was difficult to determine if he was showing signs of cracking. The blank look remained the same as always. When Tkach had suffered a breakdown, it had been easy to spot-increasing irritability, abnormal defensiveness, and a self-pity that easily turned to anger. But Karpo displayed nothing.

“First order of business,” Rostnikov went on. “Does anyone know what this is?”

He grunted and pulled his drawing of the bush in the Petrovka yard from his pocket and passed it around. When it came back to Rostnikov, Karpo said, “It is a vinarium, also called a sure bush or a Russian angel.”

“It endures,” said Rostnikov, looking at Karpo, who met his eyes.

“‘No foundation up and down the line,’” Karpo said. “‘Nothing endures.’”