“The man,” Elena said. “What did he look like?”
“Not big. Wide like …” The boy opened his arms to indicate the width of the man’s body. “His face … he wore a cap pulled down to his ears. A cap like the men on the riverboats wear. And he had a short beard, black. And a Band-Aid on his nose.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Wearing? I don’t remember. Pants. A shirt. I think they were dark or something.”
Elena knew the beard, the Band-Aid, and hat were probably gone by now. Even if he had the description from the boy, Sasha could walk right past the man.
“And he told you to do what?” Elena said.
The boy pursed his lips and paused. “Will you give me thirty rubles if I tell you?”
“If you don’t tell me, and quickly, I will give you the day to think about the consequences of not telling a police officer what you know. The day will be spent in a cell. If you are lucky, you will be alone.”
“He told me to come here, to the lady with the blue bag. That I should open the bag, and if there was anything but money in it I was to make that signal with my hands and shake my head.”
“Be quiet,” grumbled one of the two big men playing chess behind them.
“Did he tell you what this was supposed to be about?” Elena asked, ignoring the men.
“He said you and he were playing a game.”
“You believed him?”
The boy turned away. “He gave me one hundred rubles.”
“Would you recognize him again if you saw him without the cap, without the Band-Aid, without the beard?”
The boy shrugged and said, “Maybe, no. No, I don’t think so.”
“Even if I gave you another hundred rubles?”
“No,” said the boy. “I know what police do. You would have a lineup, and if I identified some policeman as the man, you would put me in children’s detention.”
“Go to school,” said Elena. “Now, fast.”
The boy ran, back in the direction from which he had come.
Elena suddenly felt a presence behind her. A hand touched her shoulder. She drew her pistol from her purse and turned, backing away a step.
One of the two big men who had been playing chess behind her stood looking at her and the gun. There was a look of surprise on his face, which quickly turned to resignation. He shook his head.
“Am I to die at the hand of a pretty young lady in the park just because I want to have a quiet chess game?” he said. “Yevgeny Savidov, this was a day to make deliveries, not to die.”
Elena put the gun away and said, “I’m sorry. Finish your game. I’m going.”
The man with the tough face nodded and moved back to the table.
Elena picked up the blue bag and began to walk back to the car. Sasha appeared before her, out of breath.
“Nothing,” he said.
Elena nodded and kept walking. “Something is wrong,” she said.
Sasha walked at her side. He had not exercised in weeks and he had a slight pain in his side.
“What do you mean?”
“Why didn’t he do this at night?” she asked.
“Who knows? Maybe he works at night or has a wife who knows nothing about his extortion.”
“Maybe,” said Elena. “But he sent the boy and told him to signal if there was no money in the bag.”
“So?” asked Sasha.
“Would it not have made more sense for the boy to nod or bow to indicate if the money was there?”
They were almost at the street now.
“It could go either way,” said Sasha.
The pain in his side was gone and he could breathe normally now. He would have to start exercising again. He was the youngest member of the Office of Special Investigation, and everyone, with the possible exception of Pankov and the Yak, was in better condition than he was.
“What if he expected the bag would not contain the money?” she asked him. “He gave Kriskov a little over a day to raise two million American dollars in cash. Why didn’t he give him more time? Raising that much would be difficult, if not impossible.”
“Our man didn’t know that,” said Sasha. “He just thought Kriskov was a millionaire movie producer with big backers. Why would he want Kriskov to fail to raise the money?”
“I don’t know,” she said, facing Sasha. “Maybe he just wants an excuse for killing our movie producer.”
“And the negatives?” asked Sasha.
“I don’t know,” said Elena. “I think we should talk to Porfiry Petrovich.”
When the boy was waving his arms in Timiryazevsky Park, Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov was in an aisle seat near the front of the airplane. He was reading a tattered paperback of Ed McBain’s
Rostnikov was aware of several things on the airplane as they headed for St. Petersburg, but these things did not stop him from enjoying the book, though it was the third time he had read it.
He was aware of his son, Iosef, seated next to him at the window, looking out at dark clouds below, chin resting on one hand, thinking of something important, something about which he had to make a decision. Porfiry Petrovich was aware of the vibrations of the plane and the hum of the jet engines. He was aware of conversation among the hundred or so other passengers behind them. But foremost in his awareness was the man seated fourteen rows back, on the aisle. It was the same man who had been in the crowd looking at the body of the murdered cosmonaut. The man was even carrying an umbrella, probably the same one he had when he looked up at “window the night before.
“Iosef,” he said, putting the book in his lap and using his hands to move his leg.
His son turned to him and pulled slowly out of his musing. “Yes.”
“I have a game I wish to play with you. A game I played with the same Elena Timofeyeva about whom you were thinking just now. We played it when we were on a plane to Cuba.”
Iosef nodded and shifted to face his father. The young man’s handsome face, the male version of his mother, was now focused.
“What is the single most interesting thing about the people on this flight?”
Iosef smiled. “The lady, the one with the wig, four rows behind us at the window. She keeps looking back through the window, back toward Moscow, as if something or someone is following her. I would guess that she is right. Since she is no beauty, I would guess that it is not a lover. I would guess that she is running away with something of value. It would be interesting to talk to her.”
“Very interesting to talk to her,” agreed. Porfiry Petrovich. “Anything else?”
Iosef’s smile broadened. “The man with the umbrella who is following us,” said Iosef. “The one in the crowd at Lermontov’s house. Do I pass the test?”
“Tell me more about the man.”
“Well,” said Iosef. “He is almost as tall as I am, not as heavy. His clothes are adequate but not expensive. His face is the face of hundreds we pass in the street every day. He is bland, not the least bit sinister. A quick glance would lead one to the conclusion that he worked in a bank or office, low-level, a dull man.”
“In short?” asked Porfiry Petrovich.
“In short,” Iosef continued, “a good appearance for an assassin. A young woman with a baby, a very old man who needed a cane to walk, an overweight babushka with pink cheeks carrying a string shopping bag, they would be even better for the task, but he will do.”
Rostnikov reached over and patted his son’s cheek. “And what shall we do with him?” he asked.
“For now? Nothing, but when you do decide to confront him, I would like very much to squeeze fear and a groan of agony from him.”
“That may be possible, but I don’t think it will be a good idea.”
“I know,” said Iosef. “It is a fantasy. I am learning to live with my fantasies.”
“Have you read this book?”
