to resist all that American cash.
Maria was accustomed to dealing with odd, nervous, cold, and ranting men. There was no type she hadn’t seen. Few of her clients were women, but the women tended to be quiet and look determined and guilty.
The man who had just given her seven hundred dollars for less than an hour of work was one of the oddest she’d seen. She had learned her craft working as a preparer of identification cards for railway employees. When her ulcers had caused her to lose too many hours, Maria had been dismissed. It had proved the luckiest thing in her bleak life. The first false identification card had not been her idea but that of a former railway worker with whom she had become friends of a sort. He needed identification for his brother to get a job with a new American business opening a branch in Moscow. Maria had done a more than adequate but makeshift job without the proper equipment, but now she had cash hidden away and a well-equipped garage. She could afford a good private doctor to treat her ulcer, and she had a warm room and enough money to indulge in her passion, chess, which she played at her neighborhood club every day, sometimes for many hours as she and the others sipped hot tea and contemplated their moves.
Maria’s prize possession was a trophy for a tournament victory, a team victory. The tournament had been held in Tbilisi in 1987.
While she had been preparing the identification card for the man with little hair, she had the uneasy feeling that he was insane. She had dealt with people who seemed insane, but this one was different. Fleetingly she thought that he might be considering killing her when he had what he wanted. But seven hundred American dollars had quieted her fear, that and the small pistol in her pocket. When she had taken his money and handed him the card, Maria kept her hand in her pocket, grasping the gun.
But the man had done nothing. He had said nothing. He pocketed the card, shifted the weight of his briefcase, and left the garage.
When she was sure the man was gone, she turned off her machines, closed her bag of identification cards, zipped it, and hurried out, turning off the lights and locking the door behind her. If she hurried, there was a chance she could witness at least part of the game between Ivan Ivanovich Presoka and whoever might have the privilege of playing against him. The ancient Presoka played only in the mornings. He was not well enough to do more. But he was still brilliant. His hands might have a bit of a tremor, but his mind was as keen as when he had been a ten-year-old boy wonder.
Maria didn’t give another thought to the man for whom she had just made a State Security Agency identification.
The pile of neat dark green files was manageable, fifteen in all. It included all the information on each of the women attacked by the serial rapist. It also included several other files that were not connected to the case but, according to the computer, had sufficient similarities to be examined. They sat in Sasha’s cubicle, he on one side of the small desk, she on the other. Each took one pile. They were both tired, but for vastly different reasons. Both had been at the former church where the makeshift Jewish temple now existed. Both, along with Iosef, Zelach, Belinsky, and a few members of his congregation, had, under the direction of Porfiry Petrovich, spent five hours the night before installing a heating system. Rostnikov, who had read a book on the subject, did much of the heavier lifting. The book was badly out-of-date, but so was the system they installed.
It had gone smoothly, and the skill of Iosef and Belinsky with tools borrowed by Rostnikov had been a key to their success. When they were finished, Rostnikov had told them that Belinsky should expect some problems, but they could be remedied. He suggested that the rabbi find some place to store the leftover sheets and scraps of metal and the various screws and joints in case they were needed later.
It was late, and in spite of the heavy labor, they were cold when they were finished. The system was now being turned on. It didn’t look too bad, and Belinsky was already working on ways to cover and decorate the exposed metal tunnel that ran around the room.
Iosef asked Elena if he could take her home so they could talk on the way. She agreed and they were the first to leave. They went to Iosef’s small apartment, which he shared with an actor who was touring with a new play. Elena had called her aunt, who sounded fully awake, and said she had no idea yet when she would be home. There had been something in Elena’s voice that she knew her aunt, the former procurator, would pick up. Then there had been tea. There had been talk. There had been kisses and then the cool sheet of Iosef’s narrow bed.
The fact that he had condoms in the drawer of the little table next to the bed could have meant many things. Elena was a policewoman. She couldn’t help considering
She stayed the night, and it was he who talked of marriage as he gently rubbed her nipples in the dim light he had left on when they undressed and went to bed. Elena wasn’t sure. They made love twice. First, when they went to bed. Second, when they awakened early in the morning. Both times were wonderful for Elena, but she couldn’t tell what they meant, though he proposed again.
She wanted time to think about it. They had not known each other long, and they had shared few talks like this. She knew that the first night they met Iosef had told his mother he planned to marry Elena.
She slept little and had no time to change her clothes before meeting Sasha at Petrovka.
Sasha had experienced as little sleep as his partner but for quite a different reason. After they had finished the duct work at the temple, Sasha had lingered, wanting to talk, not wanting to go home, but everyone had left quickly. They were tired. It was late.
When he got home, Maya greeted him with a screaming baby in her arms. He looked around for his mother. She wasn’t there. Pulcharia was probably in the next room asleep, but Maya was desperately trying to soothe the crying baby. Maya looked exhausted. There was darkness under her beautiful eyes, and strands of hair had escaped the brush.
“He has a temperature,” she said. “He is hot.”
Sasha, still in his coat, reached over to the crying baby in his wife’s arms and touched his forehead. Very hot.
“He is coughing,” Maya said. “I couldn’t wake Pulcharia and take him to the doctor. I didn’t know how to reach you, and I couldn’t take your mother corning over, though I would have called her if you hadn’t come soon.”
Beneath the tone of concern for the child there was a hint of the anger he would have to face when the baby had been taken care of, anger at his being off somewhere helping Rostnikov on some church repairs.
Still wearing his coat, Sasha went to the address book on the table near the phone. It was very late, but the baby was very sick. He called. The doctor was home and sounded quite awake.
He was not a pediatrician, but he was Sarah Rostnikov’s cousin Leon. He was the one to whom Porfiry Petrovich’s people turned when they needed medical care, and he had given what he could, protecting them from the horrors of Moscow hospital care.
The conversation was brief. They were to meet at a nearby hospital with which Sarah’s cousin was affiliated. He would be there in half an hour.
One of them had to stay with Pulcharia. One of them had to take the baby. They both knew which one. Maya continued to try to soothe the child as she dressed him warmly while Sasha went back to the street in hope of finding a cab. It took him ten minutes, and he had to show his badge through the closed window when a cab finally stopped.
The cab driver rolled down the window, and Sasha explained his situation. The cab driver was a Lithuanian who had come to Moscow as an engineer and stayed as a cab driver. The pay was better if one included the tips, particularly from foreigners in search of food, drink, gambling, and companionship. Even after the payoff to the mafia that protected him, Max made a far better living than he had as an engineer. There were too many people now claiming to be engineers and no one to hire them. Max had been on his way to the Hotel Russia when Sasha stopped him. Taking the woman and child to the hospital and waiting for them would cost him.
It would also cost Sasha far more than he could afford, but he didn’t consider that. He got in the cab and guided it to his building, where he told Max to wait for Maya and the baby.
Maya was packed and ready. The baby was still crying and coughing.
“The cab is downstairs,” he said. “He’ll wait for you at the hospital. Please call me if anything …”
