“Sounds good,” said Rostnikov.
“The baby is sick,” said Tkach. “I have to be home. Maya is already … upset.”
Rostnikov nodded in understanding and said he would assign someone else to work with Elena at night. And then he handed the book to Sasha.
“Read it, please,” said Rostnikov.
“Now?” asked Sasha.
“Sit. Read. Summarize for me as you go along. The book is not long.”
Sasha had just started reading when the phone rang. Rostnikov picked it up.
“Inspector Rostnikov?”
“Yes.”
“This is Leo Horv, State Security. I would like a few minutes of your time this afternoon. It is a matter of importance. I believe we have some information on the bomber.”
“So I was informed by Inspector Timofeyeva. Would two o’clock be acceptable?” asked Rostnikov.
“Two o’clock,” the man said, and hung up.
Rostnikov looked at the phone and then began drawing on his pad, a cage with a faceless man inside, while Sasha went on reading and summarizing.
Sasha had almost finished the book when the phone rang. Sasha placed the open book on his lap and rubbed his forehead wearily. The call was from a civilian who identified himself as one of the historians of the Hermitage.
Rostnikov took notes as the man spoke, and made no sound as the man gave him far more information than he probably needed. The conversation, almost completely one-sided, lasted a little more than twenty minutes. When it was over, Rostnikov looked up from his notes at Sasha, who seemed to have fallen asleep.
“Sasha,” he said.
Tkach was immediately awake, brushing the hair from his eyes and ready to continue his reading.
“Go back to what you were reading about the gold wolf,” Rostnikov said, looking at his notes. “Translate every word. Then go home and get some sleep, be with your family.”
Sasha did not argue. He found the section Rostnikov wanted and translated it word for word as best he could.
The afternoon before, when Rostnikov had brought the girls back home from visiting their grandmother, Sarah Rostnikov listened to them as they sat around the table. The girls were more animated than Sarah had ever seen them. They spoke of their visit. They told of how Inspector Rostnikov had promised to see what he could do about getting their grandmother out of prison. They both emphasized that he made no promises, but that he said he would try.
Sarah smiled. The girls ignored the tea she had placed before each of them, though they had finished the cookie they had each been given.
The pain had come back, perhaps ten minutes earlier. Sarah showed no outward signs but continued to smile and listen. The pains had grown more frequent. They had started recently, months after her cousin Leon was reasonably certain that the delicate surgery had been successful. But then, about two weeks ago, the head pains had come. Not really headaches but pains. At first they lasted only a few seconds, but now they were getting longer. At first she told herself they had nothing to do with the surgery she had undergone, that this was something entirely different. But the last three times the head pain had come there had been slight tremors in both her hands. She hid her hands in her pockets or, as she did now, under the table.
The girls talked.
Suddenly the pain stopped and perhaps a second later the tremors stopped, too. It had felt as if someone had stuck an electric probe into her head with no warning and then, suddenly, pulled it out.
She would have to do something about it. She knew she would. She had promised herself the day before that the next time it happened, she would call Leon. If it was serious, she would think of a way to tell Porfiry Petrovich, and she would ask him to do whatever he could to free the girls’ grandmother. It wasn’t that Sarah had not grown to love them. She had. But Sarah Rostnikov had the distinct fear that a time might come when she would be unable to take care of them.
Sarah did not usually procrastinate. She kept her promises to others and to herself. It was one of the many traits of his wife that Rostnikov admired. Since he had met her, when she was just a young girl, she had been resolute. Although she could easily have hidden the fact that she was Jewish, she would quickly proclaim her heritage whenever the word
She decided not to wait. When the girls had left for school this morning, at least an hour after Rostnikov had left, she reached for the phone, first to call her job to say she was ill, and second to call Leon.
It was difficult in both cases to keep her voice steady. It was even more difficult to keep the phone from falling from her trembling hands.
NINE
The call announcing Porfiry Petrovich’s visitor came exactly on the hour. State Security Agent Leo Horv showed his identification card at the Petrovka guard station, where the young uniformed officer with pink cold cheeks looked at it and called the lobby check-in desk. Sergeant Sismikov answered in a bored, deep voice that let the guard know that the sergeant was warm enough to be bored. Sismikov checked his appointment log and told the guard to send Agent Horv in.
Since the State Security agent wasn’t carrying anything, there was nothing to be searched. Nonetheless, Sismikov, who was the size of the Kremlin cannon, asked if Agent Horv would please pass through the metal detector.
Horv smiled and readily agreed. The machine was extremely sensitive. Still, it did not screech.
Horv made his way up the stairs, found Rostnikov’s office, and stepped in.
He hadn’t been prepared for what he saw.
The box of a man behind the desk rose awkwardly with a smile of greeting and held out his hand. Horv took it and looked at the other two men in the room. The unkempt one seated to his right wearing a blue smock examined the guest as if he were a specimen. He was introduced as Technician Paulinin, and the gaunt man in black was introduced as Inspector Karpo. The newcomer recognized him as one of the two men who had entered his apartment the day before. He had carefully removed all photographs of himself, but had she kept one somewhere? Did this blank-faced, erect man recognize him?
There was an empty seat between Paulinin and Karpo. Rostnikov, sitting awkwardly, held out his hand, palm up, to suggest that the State Security agent have a seat.
He sat and said, “I suppose you want to get straight to business. All right. I’ll tell you why I am here.”
“I think that first Citizen Paulinin would like to see the bomb,” said Rostnikov conversationally, folding his hands on the desk in front of him. “Would you like some tea, Alexi Monochov?”
Alexi sat back, trying to hide his confusion.
“I recognized your voice from our telephone conversations,” said Rostnikov, “but, even more compelling, was the fact that Inspector Karpo has been to your apartment. He has seen your photograph, an old photograph, but it is you. Your mother gave it to him. Well?”
“I’m here to …” Alexi began.
“No, I’m sorry. I was asking about the tea,” said Rostnikov.
“No tea,” said Alexi eyeing the men.
The two flanking him looked like variations of madness. Karpo sat rigidly, unblinkingly examining him. Paulinin looked as if he were suffering from some slight malady that made it difficult for him to sit still.
“Then, may we see the bomb?” asked Rostnikov. “I don’t know much about bombs, but I do know that making one with the use of almost no metal, particularly for the detonator, is quite an achievement.”
Confused, trying to regain his determination, Alexi opened his coat to reveal the deep-pocketed black nylon
