“Yes,” said Boris. “In my sixtieth year, I have become a murderer and will now commit further crimes by concealing that murder like … like a criminal in some French movie.”
“You have seen many French movies?” asked Rostnikov.
“Actually, no, and it has been many years since the last, but I have a good memory.”
“Remember then that Primazon came here to see me. I talked to him and left. Then our very-much-alive man left. In fact, he and I left at the same time. It would be best if many people saw him leaving the district.”
“Many people will swear that they saw him drive away,” said Boris, looking far more alive than when Rostnikov had entered the room.
“Good. Then I will finish my coffee, meet privately with your son, and go home.”
“More will come, won’t they?”
“I will act so that no one will follow,” said Rostnikov. “I cannot guarantee it, but I believe you and your family will be left in peace.”
“And why do you do this?”
“Why? I believe it is what should be done.”
“But you are a policeman and I am a murderer.”
“And I must wake up every morning and say to myself, Porfiry Petrovich, can you live with what you have done with your life so far? Can you live with what you did yesterday? And I wish to be able to answer yes. Now I must talk to your son. As soon as we leave, I suggest you put your dead visitor in the trunk of his car and keep him there till it is dark. I think it best if the women and the child do not see him.”
“They are strong,” said Boris.
“I have seen many dead people,” said Rostnikov. “I would be quite content to see no more and to have never seen the first.”
They stood up yet again. They shook hands, and Rostnikov went in search of Tsimion Vladovka.
Tayumvat rode with Karpo and Vanga to Petrovka. The three sat in the back of the car, Vanga in the middle. The driver whistled a nonsong, and Vanga struggled to find another, better lie. He could think of none.
“This is a mistake,” he said.
“It is not,” said Tayumvat.
The pale policeman looked straight ahead and said, “Before we went to Bolskanov’s apartment, I asked Dr. Tayumvat to look at the files in your computer.”
“You had no right …” Vanga said with indignation.
“I had the right and the obligation, but you may dispute that with the courts and my superiors if you wish,” Karpo replied calmly. “He asked me to look at your paper on dream research. It meant nothing to me. He said he did not believe you had written it, though he could not prove it.”
“That’s-”
“Ah, there was one curiosity I have not yet mentioned,” said the old man. “At my age, my memory. The cover page, dedication, and cover letter to a journal meant a great deal. The article itself has two spaces after each period. That is standard. The cover page, dedication, and letter are different. In each of those, and in all of your correspondence and memos, the period is followed by a single space. I would say that the text was written by one person and the cover page with your name on it was written by another, by you. I quickly examined the files of Bolskanov. They all contain documents with two spaces following the period.”
“Dr. Tayumvat also says that the style of the article in question bears little resemblance to your style in other documents in your computer,” said Karpo. “I believe his professional opinion will carry great weight, and I believe others who know of such things will agree with him.”
“I know important people,” said Vanga.
“I knew Einstein,” said Tayumvat. “Met him twice. The first time he smelled of pipe tobacco and asked where he could get good food. That was in Vienna. Why he asked me, I don’t know. What do I know of Vienna?”
Vanga went silent. A lawyer. Yes, he would get a lawyer. A very good lawyer. He would make calls. He would ask for favors. He was a respected scientist, the director of a major research institute.
“It doesn’t matter,” said the old man, looking out the window.
“What doesn’t matter?”
“That you are the director of a respected research institute,” said the old man.
Vanga stared at the old man.
“You read my mind. I thought you didn’t believe in such things.”
“I didn’t read your mind,” said Tikon Tayumvat. “It was the logical thing to think under the circumstances.”
And the logical thing to think now, thought Andrei Vanga, is that I wish you were dead.
“I soon will be,” said the old man, still looking out the window. “But there is a very real chance that you will go first.”
“Try again,” Nadia Spectorski said, sitting across from Zelach in her laboratory, a stack of photographs, facedown, in front of her. “Or, rather, don’t try, just close your eyes and tell me what you see.”
“I would prefer to keep my eyes open,” he said.
“Then open. Do you see anything?”
“You. This room. No more.”
She picked up a photograph and looked at it. It was a white telephone on a black table.
“What am I looking at?”
“A photograph.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know.”
She adjusted her glasses and Zelach did the same. He would not survive a battle of wits with this woman. I am, he told himself, going to become a test mouse or a monkey doing tricks. No, Porfiry Petrovich will save me from this. He must save me.
“You are supposed to cooperate,” she said evenly.
“I am,” said Zelach, slouching in the chair as best he could.
“Then what is …”
She stopped. It was she who saw two quick, very quick, almost subliminal images. The first was of Andrei Vanga sitting next to Emil Karpo. Vanga was definitely frightened. The second was of her sitting in the office of the director, behind the desk, talking to … someone.
“Are you all right?” asked Zelach.
“Yes,” she said.
“You saw something?”
“Yes. Did you see it?”
“No. Dr. Spectorski, I do not want to do this.”
She sat back, took off her glasses, rubbed her forehead with one finger, and closed her eyes.
“Then,” she said, “it will end.”
When she opened her eyes, Zelach was looking at her in a way few men had done in the past.
“End?” asked Zelach.
“My-if you don’t want to proceed, you should not have to do so. I think you are a good man who doesn’t want to or have to be turned into a research phenomenon.”
“Why have you changed your mind?”
“I don’t know,” she said, removing her glasses and placing them on the table. “May I ask you a question?”
“What?”
“Would you … I’ve never done anything like this before … would you go out for some coffee and cake with me? I will pay. If you say no, I will understand.”
“I say yes,” said Akardy Zelach. “And can we not talk about … this?” he asked, looking around the room and at the photographs.
“We will talk of other things,” she said with a smile.
Zelach thought she had a most wonderful smile.
