Karpo had lost himself to Communism and the Revolution. He had believed in it religiously, recognized the faults of those given the task of making it a success, sought to cleanse society of those who would break the law or try to erode the Revolution. That was all gone now. Mathilde was gone. There was no foundation. There was only unfinished business.
“Elena,” Rostnikov said, turning his eyes from those of Karpo. Whether or not Emil Karpo was going to break would be impossible to determine. Karpo’s expression never changed. It always amazed Rostnikov that children loved Karpo; they ran to him and took his hand. Pulcharia Tkach always jumped into his arms, and he held her firmly and spoke to her as an adult, which may well have been where the child picked up her precocious vocabulary.
Mathilde Verson had begun, after more than five years, to bring a sense of life to Karpo, had managed to keep him from falling apart when the Soviet Union fractured. Now she was gone.
“Elena?” Rostnikov repeated. “The electrician’s treasure?”
Elena looked at Hamilton, who had finished his tea and was attempting to eat one of the wafers.
“It all disappeared,” she said. “Every piece. During the night. Natalya Dokorova claims to have burned everything-books, paintings, furniture. There were guards at both doors of the Dokorov house who confirmed that she had a fire going all night.”
“Guards?” asked Rostnikov.
“Teams from different units,” said Elena. “Even so, I checked. No hidden rooms, no secret level below the floor.”
“Walls?” said Hamilton.
“Checked them,” Elena said. “And the roof. Getting them up to the roof would have been more than Natalya Dokorova could have done, and landing a helicopter without being heard or seen would have been impossible.”
“And the old woman claims to have burned everything?” asked Rostnikov.
“Everything. She stayed up all night determined that if she could not keep what her brother had left her, she would not let the government take it.”
“She destroyed everything?” said Rostnikov. “Did you find ashes?”
“Some,” said Elena.
“Many of the items in the collection could not be burned,” said Karpo. “And I do not believe, given the magnitude of the collection, that she could have burned it all in one night.”
The little finger of Karpo’s left hand was splinted and taped. Everyone was curious. No one asked.
“That is what she told me,” Elena answered, glancing at the American.
“And you believe her?” asked Tkach.
“I … no. But if she’ll talk, I think it will be to me. She seems to like talking to me.”
“Do you like her?” asked Rostnikov.
“Yes.”
“Perhaps I’ll talk to her later in the office,” said Rostnikov. “Perhaps if I can get our colonel to pull some strings, I will talk to the guards on both doors.”
“Tomorrow?” asked Elena, making a note.
“Today, five, no … six for your Natalya Dokorova. Same time for the guards, if it can be arranged,” said Rostnikov. “Emil.”
“We may be dealing with a mafia that is stealing nuclear weaponry or the means of making it,” said Karpo.
All heads turned to him.
“The members of the mafia are all former convicts,” Karpo went on. “Each bears the prison tattoo of an eagle clutching a large bomb. The tattoos are generally on their buttocks or back. Two of these men were killed in the street battle this morning. I found another convict with a tattoo and interviewed him. In spite of my most zealous interrogation and persuasion, I was unable to get him to reveal more about his gang than that they are called the
There had been a message on Rostnikov’s desk when he and Hamilton had stopped by the office. He had called the major in charge of the district station where Karpo had interrogated the giant, Stanislav Voshenko. The major was an old acquaintance of Rostnikov’s. The major thought it would be nice to have Rostnikov owe him a favor. Rostnikov made the call and discovered that Karpo had broken both of the prisoner’s thumbs and was methodically twisting Voshenko’s ear, which was beginning to tear, when the policeman in charge of the lockup had finally responded to Voshenko’s shouts of pain and anger.
“I will report this possible breach of national security to Colonel Snitkonoy,” said Rostnikov. “However, until we have some evidence that these people actually have nuclear weapons or access to them, we shall continue our investigation. Do you have a plan?”
“Yes,” said Karpo.
“Would you like to share it with us?”
It was clear that Karpo wanted to say no, but he answered, “I will interview members of Voshenko’s family and continue the search for others with the tattoo,” he said.
“You wish assistance?” asked Rostnikov.
“Alone,” said Karpo.
Rostnikov nodded.
“Sasha?”
“There are desperate people in Moscow living like animals,” said Sasha as he brushed aside his hair and caught the eyes of Elena Timofeyeva, who was paying particular attention. “There are small children murdering people for a few kopecks.”
They knew all this, and Sasha was quite aware that they did, but no one stopped him or spoke.
“Progress?” asked Rostnikov.
“Several possibilities,” said Sasha. “I don’t think it will take more than a few days to find our children who murder.”
“In Buenos Aires,” said Zelach softly, “there are policemen who go out and murder the homeless children. I read it in the newspapers.”
“In the United States?” asked Rostnikov.
“There are children who commit crimes,” Hamilton said slowly. “As yet there are no bands of homeless children murdering in the street, at least not on a statistically meaningful level.”
“Statistically meaningful level?” Sasha asked, looking at the American.
“I have children,” said Hamilton calmly in precise Russian. “I have a family. I have seen murdered children and children who have murdered. I deal in kidnappings and serial killings. Like you I can still see the faces of the killers of babies and the babies who kill. Statistics are not the enemy. They are a means of determining where we should put our efforts.”
Sasha folded his hands.
“So,” said Rostnikov, looking down at the tea leaves in his empty cup. “Agent Hamilton and I hope to free a kidnap victim, Alexei Porvinovich, shortly and take his kidnappers into custody. Anyone need anything, want anything, have anything else to say?”
All eyes with the exception of Zelach’s met those of Rostnikov. Rostnikov assumed the slouching man with his mouth partly open was pondering some passage from the playwright Saroyan or the philosophy of Camus. The effort seemed to be straining the poor man’s brain. He would have to ask Hamilton, given his limited exposure to the members of Rostnikov’s team, which one he felt most likely to crack. It was a near certainty in a world gone mad that the police who dealt with the madness would also go mad. Rostnikov would vote for Zelach. He would have bet an extra dozen seventy-five-pound curls tonight that everyone else around the table would vote for Karpo.
“Then I do,” said Rostnikov, nodding at the waiter, who was only too glad to cooperate with the police.
The waiter brought a tray of wineglasses and a bottle of red wine. He poured the wine and handed the glasses to the people around the table. When he had finished, Rostnikov raised his glass and said, “To the memory of Mathilde Verson. Her laugh will be remembered. Phrases, words, and the touch of her hand will be upon us when we least expect them. We drink to her with love.”
