some work for.”

“Do you know that Sivak is dead?” asked Hamilton.

“I was informed,” said Kuzen, growing increasingly nervous at the hovering presence of the gaunt policeman in black.

“A shoot-out,” said Karpo. “Rival gangs. A woman died in the cross fire.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Kuzen, adjusting his glasses.

“Sivak was a member of a mafia,” said Hamilton. “An organized gang composed mostly of former convicts, the Beasts, many of whom had served sentences at Correctional Labor Colony Nineteen.”

“And?” Kuzen asked, looking at Hamilton.

“And members of this mafia can be identified by a prison tattoo, an eagle clutching a nuclear warhead,” said Hamilton.

“I never noticed such a tattoo on Sivak or any of his friends,” said Kuzen.

The two men had slowly inched forward and were looking almost directly down at Kuzen.

“The tattoos are generally in places that are not visible if the man is clothed,” said Hamilton.

“Interesting,” said Kuzen.

“Several years ago an attempt was made to smuggle nuclear material into Germany,” said Hamilton. “Is that also interesting?”

“Yes,” said Kuzen.

“You had heard about this attempt?” asked Hamilton.

Kuzen was definitely sweating now and was unwilling to wipe his forehead for two reasons. First, the policemen would see. Second, he might stain his silk robe or pajamas.

“Something. Vaguely,” said Kuzen, “when I worked for the government.”

“How secure are nuclear weapons in Russia?” asked Hamilton. “Your best guess.”

“Not terribly secure,” said Kuzen.

“Weapons depositories are guarded by a few untrained soldiers and a barbed-wire fence,” said Hamilton.

“I know nothing about that,” said Kuzen, looking up from man to man, sitting back as far as he could.

“How much of a problem would it be to steal fissionable material, perhaps even short-range warheads?”

“I couldn’t begin to speculate,” said Kuzen.

“The mafia for which you are working,” said Karpo, “is already, with your help, in possession of nuclear material and planning the massive theft of nuclear weapons. These are to be shipped out of Russia with the help of Italian criminals and sold to North Korea, Iran, and China.”

“Me?” Kuzen said, pointing to himself.

“You,” said Hamilton. He wondered where Karpo had gotten his evidently accurate information.

“The woman who died in the cross fire between the two gangs was a particular friend of Inspector Karpo’s,” Hamilton said.

Kuzen looked up at the blank white face. The men standing before him looked like chess pieces-one black, one white, avenging knights who might strike at odd angles.

“Inspector Karpo has already visited with a member of the gang we are discussing with you,” said Hamilton. “He has visited a prisoner named Voshenko. Do you know Voshenko?”

“Voshenko? Voshenko,” Kuzen said, finding it impossible to control the trembling in his voice. “The name is-”

“Very big man,” said Hamilton. “Bigger than the man downstairs whose knee I accidentally dislocated.”

“Big man. Voshenko. Yes. Maybe,” said Kuzen.

“Inspector Karpo broke both of his thumbs,” said Hamilton. “It was an accident too. Accidents can happen to anyone. For example, I could walk in the other room, find myself a cup, and pour myself coffee. I might hear the crash of breaking glass, and when I returned to this room, I might find the window broken and you missing. Do you have a family, Igor Kuzen?” asked Hamilton.

“Wife, two daughters,” he said, his voice breaking. “They … we live in a dacha outside of town.”

“Business success forces you to live in this apartment most of the time?” said Hamilton.

“Yes,” said Kuzen. “Listen, please, I know nothing of this gang business, or killings, or any theft of nuclear materials. I’ve done a few things that may not be strictly legal. Who really knows what is legal and what is not anymore? But killings, nuclear weapons. Nyet.”

“I need a cup of coffee,” Hamilton said.

Kuzen looked at the FBI agent in panic and reached for his sleeve. “No, please.”

“I’m just going to get a cup of coffee,” said Hamilton calmly, a smile on his face.

“They have no warheads, no weapons, yet,” said Kuzen.

“Nuclear material?” asked Hamilton.

Kuzen shrugged.

“We have carefully examined your background, Kuzen,” Hamilton said. “It is our conclusion that you do not have the requisite skills to assemble a functional nuclear weapon. How long will it be before the Beasts discover this?”

“You don’t understand,” said Kuzen. “They already know. I am only a decoy. I know enough to talk the language of nuclear weaponry with people sent by the North Koreans or the Iranians.”

“So the Beasts have no plans to deliver real weapons?” asked Hamilton.

“Not yet,” said Kuzen. “The German they killed in the café, Kirst. He figured out I was a fraud. He was going to tell the buyer and …” He shrugged.

“Why are you confessing so readily?” asked Hamilton.

“Because,” said Kuzen, “if you leave without taking me with you, they will come and question me. I am not a man of great courage. They will assume that I have talked or might soon talk.”

“We will have the names of all members of the mafia for whom you are working,” said Karpo.

Kuzen laughed nervously.

“And,” added Hamilton, “we will have your testimony and all information you possess about illegal activity.”

Kuzen stopped laughing, tried to catch his breath, and said, “I will be a dead man. There is no place you could put me that would be safe. They would get to me in any prison.”

“What about the United States?” asked Hamilton.

“I don’t know,” said Kuzen. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you will testify against this mafia and I will arrange for you to have immediate political asylum in the United States. I can also arrange for you to find employment in our nuclear-disposal efforts.”

“America?” Kuzen said. “My wife? Daughters? If they stay …”

“Your wife and daughters too,” said Hamilton.

“This is all so fast,” said Kuzen. “I need time to … You just walk into my home …” He pointed around the room at his possessions. “You take everything away.”

“There will come a time,” said Hamilton, “when your mafia will find your information too old and limited. Then they will buy themselves another expert and eliminate you. How can someone as intelligent as you are be so stupid as to not see this?”

“I …” Kuzen began, but he never finished.

The front door burst open. The bald man from the lobby came limping in with a gun in his right hand. Karpo and Hamilton drew their weapons as the limping man, his teeth clenched in either pain or a grin, began firing.

The bullet from Hamilton’s weapon crumpled the man forward on his knees as the shot from Karpo’s gun hit the man in the forehead, jerking his head back.

“Are you hit?” asked Hamilton, moving cautiously toward the fallen killer without looking back at Karpo.

“No,” said Karpo.

“How could he miss?” said Hamilton, kicking the weapon away from the dead man.

“He didn’t,” Karpo answered, looking down at Kuzen, whose beautiful silk robe and pajamas were drenched with blood. “He came to kill him first.”

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