think that every item in your home, every painting, every table is an antique of great worth, and it is only the cheap, everyday furniture you have destroyed.”
Natalya said nothing.
“The jewelry, books, paintings, that’s a different story,” said Rostnikov. “Would you like to tell us what you did with them?”
“I burned them.”
“No,” Rostnikov repeated softly.
Natalya said nothing.
“They will cheat you, Natalya Dokorova,” said Rostnikov.
“No one will cheat me,” she said firmly.
“You mean if someone cheated you, you would simply tell us who it was or threaten to do so,” said Rostnikov. “If I were your accomplice and I were a criminal, I would offer you very little, far less than you expected but enough so that you would take it. I would be sure that you had no choice but to accept my offer.”
Natalya was silent again, twirling the stem of the flower between her fingers.
“But you see, Natalya,” Rostnikov went on, “we think that whoever might make you such an offer would be greatly miscalculating your determination, your belief in your entitlement. I believe you would turn him or her in.”
The old woman looked at the chief inspector with clear determination.
“Put the flower in cool water by a window facing east if possible,” said Rostnikov. “It will last longer.”
“You are finished with me?” Natalya said with some confusion.
Rostnikov nodded, and she stood up, clutching the stem of her flower in her right fist. Elena also stood and moved to the door.
Rostnikov, in English, asked the FBI man something about a man named Ed McBain. What it was he asked was beyond Natalya’s limited English. Elena opened the door leading into the reception room and found herself looking at four men. For an instant she didn’t recognize them. They wore casual clothes, not the uniforms they had worn the other night.
They all looked at her, but she did not let her eyes meet any of theirs.
Elena closed the door and turned to Rostnikov and Hamilton, who stopped speaking and listened as she said, “Orlov and Terhekin.”
“They were …?” Rostnikov asked. “Back door,” said Elena. “May I ask a question?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov, trying to move his leg into a more tolerable position.
“Why did you give her the flower?”
“Because she needed it,” said Rostnikov.
EIGHT
“It is beyond my comprehension,” said the tall, well-built young man.
His name was Sergei Orlov. He was a sergeant in the tax police. He had a small blond mustache that did nothing to hide his extremely boyish looks. He sat with his back straight in the chair before Rostnikov, Hamilton, and Elena Timofeyeva. His eyes met those of whoever questioned him, and he answered in a voice that was controlled and a bit high.
At his side sat Officer Konstantin Terhekin, a member of the District 9 police department. He looked even younger than Orlov and not nearly as confident. His light blue eyes strayed from those questioning him. He was a bit on the portly side and sat not quite as rigidly as Orlov.
“Then you and Officer Terhekin did not allow the items to be removed through the back door of the Dokorov house?” asked Rostnikov.
“Absolutely not,” said Orlov.
“Terhekin?”
“Absolutely not,” Terhekin answered without looking directly at anyone across the table.
“And you had not met each other till the night of this incident?” Rostnikov continued.
“No,” said Orlov.
Terhekin nodded his agreement.
“What did you talk about that long night?”
“Talk about?” Orlov repeated.
“Yes.”
“We did very little talking,” said Orlov. “I did mention that I had a brother who had been captured by the Chechens a few months ago, and he said something about being in Afghanistan.”
“That would take a minute or two,” said Rostnikov. “The rest of the night you just stood quietly. Is that right, Officer Terhekin?”
“
“And in the silence of the night you heard nothing inside the house. No movement. Nothing.”
“We heard the old woman moving around,” said Orlov. “Then we smelled something burning.”
“Burning? And you didn’t rush in to see what it might be?” asked Rostnikov.
“It was a cold night,” said Orlov. “We assumed …”
“Do you believe in magic?” asked Rostnikov.
“No,” said both men.
“In miracles?”
“No,” said both men.
“I confess,” said Rostnikov, shifting his chair back in the hope of restoring minimal feeling to his left leg, “I believe in something like magic. I’ve seen it performed by a shaman in Siberia. But in this case I agree with you. No miracles. Officer Timofeyeva?”
Elena sat up just a bit straighter and looked down at her notes. Both men would normally be expected to look at the pretty, full-figured young woman across the table, but Orlov’s eyes were now riveted on the face of Chief Inspector Rostnikov.
“Were you aware that the guards on the front door, Officers Skitishvili and Romanov, were under observation all night by a series of military police officers?” asked Elena.
“No,” said Orlov.
Terhekin shook his head no as well.
“Are you married?” she asked.
Both men answered yes.
“Children?”
“One boy, two years old,” said Orlov.
“Girl, six months,” said Terhekin.
“Do you have photographs?” Rostnikov suddenly asked.
Both officers fished their wallets out of their pockets and handed them to Rostnikov, who showed the photos to Hamilton and Elena Timofeyeva. Then Rostnikov nudged Hamilton, who pulled out his wallet, removed a photograph, and handed it to the officers across the table. The men nodded in approval. Terhekin gave a pained smile. Wallets and photos were returned. Rostnikov nodded at Elena to continue.
“In return for a full confession,” she said, “including details on where the stolen items can now be found, we are prepared to recommend that you both be given letters of commendation for helping to relocate and protect treasures of great value to the state. Perhaps you both had a drink of something warm offered to you and you passed out. Perhaps you noticed some small detail that helped us trace the truck.
“If you refuse to cooperate,” Elena went on, “you will be charged with conspiracy to defraud the Russian people and the theft of government property of extremely high value. You will be dishonorably dismissed from your
