“These men want to see Mr. Kuzen,” the battered man said. “They are from the police.”
This information did not appear to impress the big man.
“You will have to come back later,” the man said. “Mr. Kuzen is not up yet. Give me your names and numbers and I will ask him to call you when he gets up.”
“We would like to see him now,” Hamilton said.
“Out of the question,” said the big man, now standing directly in front of Hamilton.
“I’ll have to ask you to step out of our way or be arrested for obstructing a criminal investigation,” said Hamilton, meeting the man’s eyes.
The big man smiled.
Hamilton’s left leg shot out and came back behind the left knee of the big man, who started to crumple to the ground as he reached under his jacket. Hamilton’s right hand brought the reaching hand backward, fingers almost touching the man’s wrist. With his other hand Hamilton reached under the now-kneeling man’s jacket and came up with a pistol, which he handed to Karpo, who stood watching without emotion.
“What room is Mr. Kuzen in?” Hamilton asked, releasing the fallen man’s hand and straightening his tie.
The man with the battered face looked at the kneeling man, who gave him no help. The kneeling man was nursing a very sore knee and a very numb right hand.
“Sixty-three,” said the battered man.
The big man in the white turtleneck with no gun tried to stand, but his left leg wouldn’t cooperate.
“Impressive,” said Karpo as the two men went to the open elevator, and the man with the battered face went to help the fallen giant.
“Thank you,” said Hamilton, not knowing whether Karpo was capable of sarcasm. “What would you have done?”
“Sudden, quick palm to the bridge of his nose,” Karpo said, getting on the elevator.
“You might have driven the broken bone into his brain,” said Hamilton.
“It would be a possibility,” Karpo agreed as the elevator doors closed.
The door to room 63 was opening just as they arrived. The man with the battered face had undoubtedly alerted Kuzen to the arrival of the unwanted visitors.
“It’s early,” said the drowsy man, standing in the doorway.
He was around fifty, a small man with a bit of a belly and thinning gray hair, which looked a bit morning- wild. He wore thick glasses and green pajamas, which were probably silk. He stepped back from the open door and invited the two men in.
“Georgi tells me you’ve hurt Karono,” he said, closing the door.
Neither Hamilton nor Karpo said anything.
They were in a reception room with white walls and gold baseboards along the floor. A painting stood over an antique telephone table.
“This way,” the man said, scratching his head and moving down the corridor to a room on his right. “You want coffee? Tea? Something to eat?”
“No,” said Hamilton.
They followed the man into a huge room with a broad window looking out toward the city. The sun had risen over the roofs of the clearly visible towers of Saint Basil’s.
The room was furnished with delicate, turn-of-the-century furniture that looked quite authentic to Karpo.
“I started coffee when Georgi’s call woke me,” the man said. “I need a cup to wake up.”
“You are Igor Kuzen?” Hamilton asked.
“I am,” he said. “And I’m much more impressive when I’m fully dressed. Have a seat. Excuse me for one moment only.”
The two men continued to stand.
“Why do you do what you do?” Karpo asked, looking around at the furniture.
“Why do I …? To feed my family. Because I believe in preserving and protecting my government,” said Hamilton.
“Capitalism?” Karpo asked, examining a cushioned chair with delicately carved ebony legs.
“Capitalism,” Hamilton agreed. “Democracy.”
“Capitalism and democracy seem to be destroying my country,” said Karpo. “This chair is of museum quality.”
“Why do you do this?” Hamilton asked.
“Because I believed in Communism,” Karpo said. “I still believe in Communism. It was the weak, stupid, corrupt leaders who only gave lip service to our system who eventually destroyed the Soviet Union and betrayed Communism.”
Karpo kept examining the furniture, knowing that he was conversing with the FBI agent primarily to help contain the urge he had to begin destroying everything in the room.
“So you work in the hope that Communism will return,” said Hamilton, watching him.
“No,” said Karpo. “If it returns, it will be the same or worse. It is too late. I continue my work because I know nothing else to do and I do it well. The sense of satisfaction has diminished, whereas crime has increased. I’ve become a garbage man cleaning polluted litter that never stops falling and may destroy me.”
Since he did not know Karpo, Hamilton was not as amazed as his colleagues at the Department of Special Affairs would have been at Karpo’s openness. Karpo found it easier today to talk to a stranger who was very much like him in many ways.
“And the woman?” asked Hamilton. “Mathilde Verson?”
Karpo turned to look at the FBI agent and this time said nothing. The question was not a welcome one. The tension was broken by the return of Igor Kuzen with a cup of coffee on a saucer. Both cup and saucer were patterned with flowers and looked very delicate. Kuzen had also taken the time to brush his hair and put on a robe that exactly matched his pajamas. He sat in one of the more erect pieces of antique furniture and began to drink his coffee.
“You don’t want to sit?” he asked.
“No,” said Hamilton.
“As you wish,” said Kuzen.
“Aren’t you curious about why we have come?” asked Hamilton.
“Yes,” said Kuzen. “But I assume you will soon tell me. I saw you admiring the furniture.”
“And the view,” said Hamilton.
Kuzen smiled and took another sip of coffee.
“You are a scientist.”
“Correct,” said Kuzen.
“By appearances a wealthy scientist,” said Hamilton.
“I am comfortable,” admitted Kuzen, looking at Karpo, who definitely made him uneasy.
“You worked in a government office, at government wages,” Hamilton said. “Fifty dollars a month, maybe a bit more.”
“A bit more,” Kuzen said. “I’m a good physicist.”
“You worked in nuclear research,” said Hamilton.
“Dismantling nuclear arms and disposal of nuclear waste,” said Kuzen. “Beyond that, as your colleague will tell you, I am unable to comment.”
“You quit,” said Hamilton.
“To work in private industry,” said Kuzen, finishing his coffee and setting cup and saucer on an ornate metal trivet on the table in front of him.
“Private industry seems to have recognized your expertise,” Hamilton said, looking around the room.
“Capitalism has been good for me,” Kuzen said, folding his hands.
“What company do you work for?” Hamilton said. “We couldn’t find it in your files.”
“I am a consultant to many companies,” Kuzen said. “Both foreign and domestic.”
“Do you know a Mikhail Sivak?” asked Karpo.
“I’ve met him,” Kuzen said. “Hired him and some of his associates to transport goods for a company I do
