“Go back to sleep,” he whispered, moving toward the door, a large piece of bread in his hand. “There is school to attend, and I will be needing my plumber’s apprentice to be well rested for emergencies.”
She giggled again and put her head on the pillow.
There was a car waiting at the curb for Rostnikov. It was a small white Lada. The driver was a woman in full uniform and cap. Rostnikov climbed into the backseat and closed the door. The car pulled away into the gentle hint of sunrise.
“Have you eaten?” asked Rostnikov.
“Yes, Chief Inspector,” she said. “I am on the night shift.”
Rostnikov nodded and sat back to finish his bread, tearing off little pieces to make it last longer. He had drunk the cold coffee too quickly. Each bump in the street-there were many small and not-so-small holes-upset his stomach.
With the small amount of traffic so early in the morning, they reached the hospital in ten minutes.
“You may go,” Rostnikov said, getting out of the car with the usual difficulty.
“I am on duty till nine,” the driver said. “I have been assigned to you directly by order of Colonel Snitkonoy.”
“Then,” said Rostnikov, “I shall be down shortly.”
He made his way to the desk. He knew several of the day-and night-shift people at the hospital. He had many occasions to come here, but the man on the desk this morning looked up without recognition. Rostnikov took out his identification card and said, “Tkach, what room?”
The man in white behind the desk looked up the room number. Rostnikov thanked him and moved down the hall to the elevator. There was a sign on it that read OUT OF ORDER.
Rostnikov sighed, found a stairway, and made his way painfully to the third floor. A nurse at the station at the end of the corridor looked up as he hobbled toward her. As softly as possible, to keep from waking the sleeping patients, he said, “Tkach.”
She was very young, very thin, and very plain, with big glasses and a uniform at least a size too large. She gave him the room number and suggested he not stay long.
He smiled at her, found Tkach’s room, and went in. It was a double room, a luxury in a Moscow hospital. Even Sarah, when they were not sure if she would survive her tumor, had been in a room with three other women, one of whom moaned throughout the night.
Standing next to the first bed, the dawn now truly coming through the window, stood Colonel Snitkonoy, nearly at attention, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked impeccably clean, well pressed, and not the least bit tired, though he couldn’t have gotten to bed much before Rostnikov.
“Colonel,” Rostnikov said, softly moving to the opposite side of the bed and looking down at the sleeping Tkach. Sasha’s head was covered with a turbanlike white bandage that showed a large red blotch of blood.
“Chief Inspector,” said the Wolfhound quietly. “He has suffered a severe concussion and a thin crack in his skull. No blood appears to have leaked through the crack and there is no apparent brain damage. He has a jagged cut on his back that required forty-two stitches. The doctor, whom I know, assures me that he should be up and in pain within a day or two. He will probably be quite dizzy.”
“What happened?” asked Rostnikov.
“The boys he was attempting to find found him. Officer Zelach apparently saved Inspector Tkach’s life and apprehended the boys. In better days I would recommend Zelach for a medal. Now …” The Wolfhound looked down at the medals on his uniform. “I will give him a certificate of merit, framed and enclosed in glass.”
“He will appreciate that,” said Rostnikov. “Does Tkach’s family know? His wife and mother?”
The colonel looked at his watch.
“When I was told that he would survive, I thought they should have a peaceful night of sleep. I will go to his home now and inform them,” said the colonel, touching a stray hair just behind his left ear. “I will also inform them that you have already been here.”
Although he was wearing his boots, the colonel managed to walk lightly and quietly out the door.
“Is he gone?” whispered Tkach, eyes still closed.
“Yes,” Rostnikov answered.
“Good,” Tkach said, opening his eyes.
He looked in the general direction of Rostnikov, found him, tried to turn his head, felt a swift pain, and closed his eyes again. “I didn’t know what to say to him,” said Tkach. “I couldn’t carry on a conversation.”
“That is understandable,” said Rostnikov.
Tkach’s arms were lying at his sides over the thin orange blanket that covered him. One hand moved toward his head. There was pain in Tkach’s face. Rostnikov intercepted the hand and put it back at his side.
“My head,” said Tkach.
“I’ll ask a doctor to give you something for the pain,” said Rostnikov, realizing that he was still holding the young man’s hand.
“That would be welcome,” said Tkach, eyes still closed. “Zelach just left. He saved my life.”
“The colonel just told me.”
Tkach tried to shake his head but found it impossibly painful, so he simply slumped back and licked his lips. “I think I should sleep now,” he said. “I had little sleep last night.”
“I’ll be back later,” said Rostnikov.
“No need,” said Tkach dreamily.
“I’ll be back,” said Rostnikov, and then he left.
At the desk in the corridor he told the plain-looking nurse with the glasses that Tkach needed something for his pain. She said she would find a doctor.
It was dawn when Rostnikov hit the street. It was definitely cold, not as cold as it would be in a month, but it was certainly
He got in the car and checked his watch. It was a little after six, a very unreasonable hour for a social call. He gave the driver the address of the Porvinovich apartment building and leaned back to get a few minutes of rest as she pulled into the early-morning traffic.
Emil Karpo recognized the building on Vozdvishenka, the Street of the Exaltation of the Cross, which, along with the Noviy Arbat, New Arbat, was still called by most Muscovites Kalinin Prospekt, in honor of Mikhail Kalinin, one of the few old Bolsheviks to survive the purges of Stalin and die an honored old man in 1946. The apartment building, a one-block walk from the Praga Restaurant, dated back to the turn of the century and therefore was much sturdier and well built than the skyscrapers that had come after the war against the Nazis. It had originally, though briefly, housed large apartments for those in the czar’s ministries. Then, until recently, it had housed members of the president’s cabinet and high-ranking members of the politburo, along with a sprinkling of bankers. Now it housed the newly rich and influential, men such as Igor Kuzen.
Hamilton had admired the building as they walked toward it from the FBI agent’s dark Ford, which was parked quite illegally with the flap down, indicating that he was there on police business.
It was a few minutes after six in the morning.
There was a man on guard at the locked door. He was dressed in a dark suit and tie, and his battered face looked formidable. Karpo showed his identification card. Hamilton took out his FBI photo ID. The man with the battered face reluctantly opened the door.
“Igor Kuzen,” said Hamilton.
The man was not accustomed to black men, particularly those who showed cards and acted with such confidence. The policeman with him was as chilling a pale specimen of humanity as he had ever seen, and he had seen a great many in his life.
“He is probably not yet up,” the man said. “He seldom rises before eight or nine.”
“Unfortunately,” said Hamilton, “we will have to disturb his routine. His room number?”
The man with the battered face was confused. He looked back into the lobby, from which a large man emerged. The large man wore black pants and shoes and a white long-sleeved turtleneck shirt under his jacket. He was completely bald.
“Is there a problem, Georgi?” the man in the turtleneck asked.
He was big, very big, and Karpo could see that the backs of both his hands were tattooed.
