“Paulinin is examining all of the shoes tonight,” Karpo had said. “He will work through the night if necessary, and he believes it will be necessary.”
“So?” asked Porfiry Petrovich.
“We may know by morning who killed Sergei Bolskanov.”
“And your thoughts about psychic happenings?” asked Rostnikov.
“I have brought some books to my room,” said Karpo. “I will read. However, I believe some psychic phenomena may well exist. They are not mysterious in any way other than that we do not yet understand them scientifically.”
“Then,” Porfiry Petrovich had said, “they do not lead us to gods, demons, or ghosts?”
“No,” said Karpo.
“But perhaps people can move objects with their thoughts, and dreams can tell us of the past and the future, and unidentified flying objects may exist?”
“You are being provocative, Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov.”
“Yes.”
“It is likely at some point in the future there will be only identified flying objects, as there may be dreams which contain the possibility of alternative future events,” said Karpo. “The dreamer remembers only those aspects of the dream which prove to be more-or-less prophetic and forgets those which are not.”
“Emil, it might help if you tried using your imagination.”
“You have suggested this frequently in the past. I have little or no imagination. I do not wish one. I am reading books and examining theories,” said Karpo. “I continue to believe that there is but one life, that magic does not exist, and that which we have called magic is simply phenomena not yet explained by science.”
“I don’t believe you are as dispassionate as you claim,” said Rostnikov. “I have seen you when … but that is yours to do with as you will. Iosef and I will be gone a day or two or three, no more than that. Pankov will know how to reach me.”
“Very good,” said Karpo.
“And, Emil, I think that if you could allow yourself to do so, you should find someone you could trust with your secrets.”
“I have no secrets.”
“You have secrets, Emil Karpo. I have known no one without secrets. Even apes, even dogs and crows have secrets, places where they have things. We have places like that within ourselves.”
“And the person I could trust is you?”
“No, Emil, the person you can trust is you.”
“You are feeling very philosophical tonight.”
“Yes, I think it is storms that make buses and benches fly and the vastness of the universe in which tiny machines carry men beyond our sight that has put me in this mood. When we come back, you will come to dinner. I will be less pensive. The girls miss you. Laura thinks you are cute.”
“I am not cute,” said Karpo.
“You can explain that to Laura. She doesn’t believe me. Be good to yourself, Emil Karpo.”
And then the conversation had ended.
Emil Karpo had gone to see Mathilde regularly once a week for years. He had paid her the price she asked till the last year or so when she had refused to take his money. He had told himself that going to a prostitute was essential, that he was a man, that man was an animal. He was satisfying a need. But his relationship had changed and he had been about to give that change a name when Mathilde had been murdered in the crossfire of a Mafia war. Her death had given him a determination, a new meaning, to destroy the gangs, the gangs that slaughtered the innocent and destroyed hope. He had made clear to Rostnikov that he wished to be assigned to Mafia-related crimes that came to the Office of Special Investigation. Sometimes Rostnikov listened to his wishes. Sometimes he did not.
Karpo had not wished to go to a prostitute since Mathilde had died. He had briefly thought that Mathilde’s sister, who had come to Moscow from Odessa for the funeral, might … but she had left. It was better to be alone. Feeling was less likely to enter the portal Mathilde had created in him if he was alone.
Enough. He knew it was two in the morning. He required a full four hours’ sleep. He turned off the computer, rose, moved to the cot, turned off the light, and was asleep in less than thirty seconds.
Chapter Seven
A sleepy dawn of dark clouds was just coming when the phone in Yuri Kriskov’s living room rattled. It was sitting on a table before the three of them-Kriskov, his wife, Vera, and Elena Timofeyeva-who had been drinking coffee and waiting with little to say.
The house was large, not a mansion but complete with large living room, three bedrooms, two baths, full kitchen, separate dining room, and a garage. The view from the front windows was of other recently built houses that looked much the same.
“Wait,” said Elena, touching Yuri’s hand as he reached for it.
The line had been tapped, and in the small blue van parked outside two men were going to record the conversation and find the location where the call was coming from. Elena knew that the new technology was such that they needed less than a minute to locate the caller. A few extra rings would give the men in the van more time to trace the call.
After three rings, Elena said, “Now.”
Yuri Kriskov was fully if casually dressed, dark slacks, light-blue silk shirt open at the collar. Vera Kriskov wore only a robe and slippers, though she had taken time to brush her hair and put on makeup. Elena and Yuri Kriskov sat next to each other on a white sofa. Vera Kriskov sat across from them, legs crossed, on a matching chair.
Just before the call came, Yuri had lit his fourth cigarette of the brief morning.
“Yes,” he said, after Elena nodded to him to pick up the phone.
Elena had told him not to drag out the call, not to cause suspicion. In fact, if he could, he was to ask reasonable questions of clarification, ask them quickly, and not provoke the caller.
“You have the money?” Valery Grachev said in the high-pitched voice he had been practicing with Vera’s coaching.
“I have it. It wasn’t easy to …”
Elena shook her head
“I have it,” he said. “In a large gymnasium bag, blue.”
“American dollars? No rubles. Rubles are worth shit.”
“American dollars.”
“When we hang up,” Valery said, “you get in your car and drive as quickly as you can to Timiryazevsky Park.”
“I can’t,” said Yuri, looking at Elena, who was now nodding
“What?” asked Valery, sounding suspicious, though Vera had told him exactly what to expect.
“I broke my leg,” said Yuri. “Actually, you broke it.”
Yuri was improvising now and Elena shook her head
“You broke it because you made me so nervous with your threats and the horror you are committing that I fell and broke my leg. I have a wife, children. If you do this …”
“Stop, now,” shouted Valery, checking his watch. “Who is coming with the money? Your wife?”
“No,” said Yuri. “She is too frightened. My niece, Elena, will bring it.”
“No, hobble to your car,” Valery said. “Or I destroy the negative and kill you as I promised.”
“I can’t,” said Yuri mournfully. “I …”
“Stop,” shouted Valery. “All right, have your niece bring the bag to Timiryazevsky Park. You know where the chess tables are?”
