The entryway before them was covered in white carpet. There was a single dark wooden door in the wall with no name on or near it.
Karpo and Zelach moved forward to the door, the armed elevator operator behind them. The door popped open. Inside was a large room with a well-polished wooden floor. At a very modern white desk sat an old man in a suit and tie. The old man had thick white hair and small, remarkably blue eyes.
He looked up at the three men and said, “You have ten minutes, no more. Mr. Lovski has an important engagement.”
Karpo nodded. He did not think that they would require more than ten minutes, but if they did, he would take whatever time he felt was needed.
The old man’s eyes met Karpo’s. Karpo was accustomed to people looking away from his ghostly appearance. This old man did not. The old man nodded at the elevator operator, and a door behind the old man’s desk opened.
Karpo and Zelach moved forward with the elevator operator at their backs. They walked through the door and it closed behind them.
The office was as remarkably modest as the building itself. Through the large double window one could see the Hero Tower several hundred yards away and the Moscow River beyond it.
There were four comfortable, soft black-leather chairs and a matching couch against the wall. A conference table with six chairs stood in the corner next to a low wooden table with a marble top, on which rested a large samovar and a line of cups, saucers, spoons, and a bowl of sugar cubes.
Behind the wooden desk before them sat Nikoli Lovski. Both detectives recognized the man from both newspaper and television pictures and they knew his voice when he suggested that they be seated.
He was a man of average height, a bit stocky and no more than fifty years old. His hair was thinning and dark and his face was full, with deep-set eyes. He wore a white shirt and an orange tie. His jacket was draped over the back of his desk chair.
Karpo and Zelach sat. The elevator operator stood behind them near the door.
“Tea?” asked Lovski. “Or I can get you coffee? I am particularly partial to strong tea with water brewed, as it was meant to be, in a samovar. The one over there belonged to my mother’s father and his father before that. It was the only possession the family had that was worth anything in rubles or memories.”
“I’ll have …” Zelach began.
“Nothing,” said Karpo.
“I will,” said Lovski, reaching under his desk to press a button.
The office door opened and the old man entered. Lovski held up one finger and pointed to himself. The old man moved to pour him a cup of tea.
“Your son is missing,” Karpo said.
“I have two sons,” Lovski said.
“Misha,” said Karpo, knowing that the man behind the desk knew which son was missing. “We have reason to believe he has been kidnapped. Have you been contacted with a ransom demand?”
“No,” said Lovski, accepting the cup of tea from the old man, who quickly left the room.
Karpo was reasonably sure the man was telling the truth. “You may be contacted very soon,” he said.
Lovski nodded and drank some tea. “And I will pay any reasonable amount, providing it can be demonstrated that it is not a scheme of Misha’s to get money from me. He is not beyond that.”
“How can that be demonstrated?” asked Karpo.
“Simple,” said Lovski, licking his lips. “I shall demand that they deliver to me the small finger of his left hand. I will check it against his fingerprints, of which I have a set. Misha would not cut off his own finger. He needs it to play that piece of steel garbage he calls a guitar.”
“Do you have any idea who might want to hurt your son?” asked Karpo.
Lovski smiled and said, “Anyone in his right mind. Have you seen him, heard the filth he spews? He has even written a song about me, calls me the wealthy Jew in the steel tower, the Manipulator of Metropolis. He says I should be flattened by a female robot, my penis ripped from my body. I understand it is one of his more popular songs.”
“It is,” said Zelach.
“You’ve heard it?” asked Lovski with some interest.
“Yes,” said Zelach.
“And?”
“It is what you say, though there is a pulse to the music that …”
“It is possible that he has not been taken for ransom,” said Karpo.
“You mean someone who hates him has already killed him or is torturing him somewhere?” asked Lovski, taking another sip of tea.
“There are many possibilities,” said Karpo.
Lovski nodded. “There is another possibility,” he said. “I am a member of the Russian Jewish Congress.”
“I am aware, of this,” said Karpo.
“My newspapers, television stations have been critical of Putin and his regime. This you also know.”
It was Karpo’s turn to nod. “So, you believe he may have been taken by someone who wants to put pressure on you to stop your attacks on Vladimir Putin?” Karpo asked.
Lovski smiled. “Nothing so simple,” he said. “A few months ago Putin attended a rededication ceremony at Marina Roscha, the Chabad Lubavich Hasidic synagogue.”
“I remember,” said Karpo.
“What do you know of the synagogue?” asked Lovski.
“It was one of only two allowed in Moscow during the Soviet era,” said Karpo. “It was untouched until the fall of Communism. Since then it has been attacked three times. In 1993 it was almost destroyed by fire. It was bombed in 1996 and 1998. And it has been restored and rebuilt.”
“Yes,” Lovski said with an approving nod. “And Mr. Putin was there to proclaim that the new Russia would not tolerate anti-Semitism. My newspapers covered it, put Putin on the front page and oh the television screen. Putin was not just making peace with a handful of Jews. He was making a peace gesture toward me.”
Karpo nodded.
“You think it is my inflated ego making this assumption?”
“No,” said Karpo. “Your ego, as you call it, is clearly large, but your interpretation bears serious consideration.”
“Meaning?” Lovski prompted.
“Your son may have been taken by an individual or group, anti-Semitic in nature, anti-Putin in philosophy, who wants to put pressure on you to keep you from supporting Putin.”
“Yes.”
“But they have not yet contacted you?”
“No, but when they do it may not be for money. It may be to tell me that Misha is safe as long as I keep up my attacks on the regime.”
“It is a possibility,” said Karpo.
“It is more than that,” said Lovski. “Inspector, I confess that I have been contacted. My receptionist took a message this morning. The caller said to tell me that Misha is alive for now.”
“Was the caller a man or woman?”
“The receptionist said it was a man, or, to be more accurate, a young man.”
“Anything else?” asked Karpo.
“I do not want my son to die,” he said. “I don’t want to see him or hear from him, and I would prefer it if he were somewhere far away. South America would be fine. I understand there is a second and third generation of fascists there who might like his kind of hatred, but I do not want him dead. He is young. People change. I did. Perhaps in ten years, twenty years, he will change, perhaps for the better. I’ll be an old man and far beyond wanting a reconciliation, but he will have to live with whatever that means to him. Officers, give me your number. If I am contacted I will call you, but only if I feel certain that whoever called means to kill Misha no matter what I do. I will try to keep that from happening by promising them and delivering a bonus for his safe return, if that is
