They all touched glasses. Karpo showed no emotion but drank deeply from the glass though he had never been known to drink anything alcoholic.
They finished their drinks, and all except Rostnikov and Hamilton left the café after stopping to pay for whatever they had consumed.
“The slouching one,” Hamilton asked before Rostnikov could ask his question.
Rostnikov smiled.
“What about him?” asked Rostnikov.
“Most likely to crack,” said Hamilton. “That’s what you were going to ask me, I think. I watched your eyes, your body language.”
“Body language?” Rostnikov repeated.
“Am I wrong?” asked Hamilton.
“No,” said Rostnikov. “And you, you were thinking about your children, worrying about them, wondering how quickly you could get to a phone without appearing to be concerned. Am I right?”
It was Hamilton’s turn to smile.
“Body language?” he asked.
“No,” said Rostnikov. “You are the very model of perfect posture and professionalism. But your eyes fell most frequently on Sasha, and it was that in part that made him respond. Ironic that your empathy with Sasha should be misread by him as cold indifference.”
“Perhaps he has a lot to learn,” said Hamilton in English.
“He is young,” said Rostnikov, also in English. “I should read this Saroyan?”
“He is quirky and haunting,” said Hamilton.
“An Armenian,” said Rostnikov. “As a people they are quirky and haunting.”
“Allow me to pay for your tea and wafers,” said Hamilton, rising.
Rostnikov nodded his acceptance of the offer and slowly, painfully, rose from his chair and silently spoke to his twisted leg to soothe it.
“And now?” asked Hamilton.
“I get the Wolfhound to pull those strings we discussed. Perhaps we will pay an unexpected visit on the wife and brother of Alexei Porvinovich.”
It was early afternoon when they left the café. The sky was gray. A chill wind was blowing.
“I like Moscow like this,” Rostnikov said, hands plunged into his coat pocket, old fur hat pulled down on his forehead.
“Reminds me of Chicago,” said Hamilton.
“You are from Chicago?” asked Rostnikov.
“Yes,” said Hamilton. “West Side.”
“A difficult neighborhood?” asked Rostnikov in English.
“A very difficult neighborhood. I didn’t like weather like this. It made people irritable knowing the hard winter was coming.”
“Odd,” said Rostnikov as they walked. “Almost all Russians love the winter. We long for the snow, the clean cold.”
Hamilton shrugged and went back to Russian. “Shall we pull some strings and save the world?”
“I’ll consider the day well spent if we save a life,” responded Rostnikov.
Hamilton looked at the limping man at his side and knew that he was telling the truth.
“You are the sister of Stanislav Voshenko?” Karpo asked the woman who sat at a table in McDonald’s on Pushkin Square eating some meat on a bun.
The woman was young, no more than twenty-five. Her face was plain but clean and the McDonald’s uniform she wore, complete with little cap that covered most of her short, dark hair, gave her an aura of neatness she shared with the other two similarly uniformed young women at her table. The place was crowded, and people with trays jostled one another. Outside, there was only a short line to get in. It was nearly three in the afternoon. It should have been busier.
“I am Katerina Voshenko,” the young woman said.
Karpo showed his identification card.
One of the uniformed girls with Katerina stood up, gobbled down the last of whatever she was eating, and left quickly, making her way through the crowd. Someone jostled Karpo and said something in a foreign language.
Karpo sat in the vacant seat. He was, as always, in black. He wore a jacket, no coat, and a look of unblinking determination that made the young woman think this policeman might be more than a bit mad.
“Most of the people who come here are tourists or visiting businessmen,” Katerina Voshenko said, picking up a long, limp french fry.
Karpo looked at the other young woman at the table, a pretty blond girl with good teeth. She tried to avoid his eyes but failed. Her right cheek was filled with whatever she was eating.
“Back to work,” the blonde said through a mouthful of food.
The girl gathered her food and a plastic cup with a straw in it and plunged into the crowd of people carrying food trays and looking for tables.
“Smells like another country,” Karpo said.
Katerina Voshenko shrugged and said, “America. I’m used to it. Ever have a burger?”
“I came here once.”
The woman looked at the pale, straight-backed man before her and wondered what would bring a man like this to stand in line to buy a Big Mac and fries.
“Alone?”
“With a friend,” he said.
“A woman?” asked Katerina as she downed a fry and selected another.
A lone man in a dark business suit spotted the empty seat at their table, took two steps toward it, hesitated when his eyes met Karpo’s, and lost the spot to a very big young man in a leather jacket and an almost shaved head.
“You are Stanislav Voshenko’s sister?” Karpo repeated.
“No,” the young woman said, chewing on a french fry. “I’m his daughter. He had one sister, my aunt, who raised me. I do not see my father often. He denies that he has a child.”
The girl looked at the young man with the nearly shaved head. He looked back, his mouth turning just a bit in what was probably his best attempt at a smile.
“Your father is in prison,” said Karpo, his voice penetrating the noise of the crowd.
“I’m not surprised,” she said. “He hurts people. He kills people. He killed my mother. Beat her. She was small. I watched sometimes. And then …” She shrugged and stuffed another fry in her mouth. “One day she was dead. I’m not surprised.”
“When did you last see him?” asked Karpo.
“
“Go away,” said Karpo, turning to the young man.
“What?”
“Go away now,” said Karpo.
The young man grinned, avoided the eyes of the gaunt vampire, and went on eating. Karpo reached over, took the sandwich from the young man, and placed it on the tray. The man started to rise. A few people were looking. Most of those nearby managed to ignore the confrontation or pretended to do so. The young man stood to his full height and looked down at Karpo with both fists clenched.
“Your food grows cold,” Karpo said. “Take it elsewhere, or you will find yourself humiliated.”
The man cocked his shaved head to one side like a parrot and saw determination and maybe even madness in the eyes of the lean ghost. He had friends to meet, cars to steal. He gathered his food and stalked into the crowd, bruising ribs and arms and even sending a tray flying.
