“I thought it might have been me who impressed you,” she said.
There was a teasing in her voice and manner that reminded him of Mathilde. Was she imitating Mathilde? Was it part of her act? Was he seeing the real woman?
“You asked to see me,” he said. “You said it was important.”
“Down to business,” she said, slapping both hands on the small table. “All right. Mathilde and I were friends. We talked. I knew about you. I knew something close existed between the two of you toward the end. But you want to get to business. Fine. If you are interested, I will take Mathilde’s place. Not in a personal relationship but a business one. My rates are low and my time flexible. I would like to be able to do it for Mathilde.”
Karpo, who had mastered the skill of not blinking, looked directly at her and decided, at least for the moment, that she was telling the truth.
“Why aren’t you working a hotel or …?” he began.
She laughed. Not Mathilde’s ringing laugh, but a low, deep laugh and said, “I’m too old. The girls in demand are near amateurs, teens or in their early twenties. I hold on to my regulars and pick up extra money doing … well, things. I refuse to walk the streets in front of second-rate restaurants and hotels. Are you considering? It’s difficult to tell looking at you.”
“I’m considering,” he said.
Consideration of such a thing was not something Emil Karpo could do quickly.
“You have a last name, Amelia?” he asked.
“The real one or the easy one?” she asked.
“Both.”
“The real one is Boroskovich, Amelia Boroskovich. The professional one is Boros. I thought it sounded exotic when I began my profession. Now I am stuck with it.”
Karpo rose and looked down at the young woman. He spoke deliberately with no trace of emotion.
“I will consider,” he said. “If I decide to engage in the relationship, it will be for one time initially. We can decide what, if anything, happens after that. I want only the business relationship.”
“Your gallantry is flattering,” she said with a smile on her very red lips. It was an ironic comment worthy of Mathilde.
“If I decide affirmatively, will this time and place a week from now be acceptable?” he asked.
She shrugged and said, “Now would be acceptable, but, I know, you want to consider.”
“Yes,” he said. “I may decide negatively. It would have nothing to do with your appearance or personality, which are quite acceptable.”
“A real compliment,” she said, showing more teeth, which were white and remarkably even. “I’ll be here a week from this moment, Emil Karpo. If you come, I will smile. If you don’t, I will drink a cup of strong coffee, have a cigarette, and whisper to the memory of Mathilde that I tried.”
Karpo nodded and left the shop. He walked the way he had come without looking back. He told himself he would consider, that he would check on Amelia’s background, but unless he found something truly damning, he knew he would be back at the shop in exactly one week at the same time.
The Yak stood looking out the window of his office. His hands were clasped behind his back when Rostnikov entered and closed the door.
“It would be nice to have some fresh snow,” said Director Yakovlev, still turned away from his deputy.
There really was nothing intelligent to say about the comment, so Rostnikov stood silently. Written reports on the bomber, the rapist, and the men who had murdered the Jews were in his hand.
Yakovlev turned around, approached Rostnikov. He took the reports and placed them on his desk without looking at them.
“Last night our bomber, Alexi Monochov, was transported by plane to a mental hospital in Irkutsk, Siberia. An evaluation by a psychiatrist and a decree from a judge were obtained.”
Rostnikov said nothing.
“Monochov turned over the names of the eight profiteers and criminals his father had been blackmailing,” said the Yak, “along with the evidence against them.”
Again Rostnikov said nothing, though he knew from his last conversation with Monochov that there had been sixteen people of substance being blackmailed. He had more than a good idea of where the evidence against the final eight, probably the most influential people on Monochov’s list, might now be.
There was a pause while Director Yakovlev waited to see if Rostnikov would react. Rostnikov did not.
“You’ve made me look like a genius in my first week,” said the Yak with a touch of what may have been relief. “Three major crimes brought to resolution. My decision to put you in charge of all ongoing investigations has brought me reluctant praise from several sources.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” said Rostnikov.
“Would you like to sit?” asked the Yak, moving behind his desk.
“Not if we will be brief,” said Rostnikov.
“We will be very brief,” said the Yak, touching the tips of his fingers together. “I have only one more piece of information. Regrettably the statue of the wolf you brought in yesterday proved to be nothing but a cheap replica of the original. Sometime in the past century someone must have made off with the original and buried the imitation in its place.”
Rostnikov said nothing. There was nothing for him to say. He knew that the statue he had brought in was authentic. He had been a police officer long enough to know when he was touching real gold, emeralds, diamonds, rubies. He had touched them the night before. He had placed a real treasure on the desk where the report files now stood. In addition, Rostnikov was certain that the Yak didn’t think he was deceiving his deputy.
“A certain member of the government, one who is high in rank and shows promise of being president one day, came here last night,” said the Yak. “I do not know how he knew the statue had been delivered to me. He looked at it, examined it, and proclaimed it a fraud. Then he took it with him.”
The Yak, Rostnikov knew, did not have to tell him about the unidentified member of the government. It was clear that the Yak wanted Rostnikov’s respect. Yakovlev was not after the wealth to be derived from a rare treasure any more than he would use a list of nuclear criminals to gain wealth. Yakovlev sought only that which would yield influence and favors. Conclusion: the director had the eight missing files, and an influential government official had the wolf.
“It will be a disappointment to the staff of the Hermitage,” said Rostnikov.
“I have already spoken to Colonel Snitkonoy and explained the matter,” said Yakovlev.
“And each of the three thieves has explained in lengthy statements how the other two were responsible for the murders of the Jews,” said Rostnikov.
“They are all guilty,” said Yakovlev. “Their trials will be swift, and the zeal with which we have pursued and caught these killers will be made very public.”
“There turns out to be one irony,” said Rostnikov, now wishing that he had taken the director’s offer to sit. “The four men thought they had some right to the wolf because their ancestors had originally stolen it.”
“Twisted logic, but not ironic, Porfiry Petrovich,” said the Yak.
“Two of them, plus the one they murdered, Igor Mesanovich, were descendants of the original band of anticzarist thieves,” said Rostnikov, “but the fourth, Yevgeny Tutsolov, was not related to any of the original thieves. His family were all laborers and factory workers in Moscow from long before the original theft. He lied to the others.”
“Interesting,” said Yakovlev.
Rostnikov stood silently and met the other man’s eyes.
“Perhaps the wolf will be found one day,” said Rostnikov.
“Perhaps, who knows,” said the Yak. “Meanwhile, what we have said here this morning must remain confidential.”
“I’ll tell no one,” he said.
“In which case, I would like to do you a favor, both for your outstanding work and your discretion. Thanks to what I have told you, the extent of my influence has expanded significantly.”
Rostnikov thought for only a few seconds and then told his superior what he wanted. Two favors.
“Name them,” said Yakovlev.
