aids he had bought her.
“Yes, you are supposed to see a policeman, a policeman who could be shot or stabbed or beaten on the head or run over by a car.”
“Don’t forget poisoned,” he said, moving past her into the living room.
“You are not funny,” she said, following him.
“I know. It is one of my many failings. What are you doing today?”
“I’m working at not changing the subject when I talk to my only child. Did you see someone in the mirror who has been drinking too much, like his long-dead father?”
“My father died in a car accident.”
“Hah.”
“Hah?”
“I suspected poison at the time,” she said, trying without success to lower her voice in case some governmental agency thought enough of her to eavesdrop on her every word. “He was engaged in very sensitive government work.”
“Yes,” said Sasha, knowing that his father had been no more than a senior file clerk in the Underministry of Vehicles.
Now she followed him into the little kitchen where he opened the refrigerator door, removed the sliced brown bread and the last of the ham they had been nursing through meals for three days.
“You have never said anything about poison,” Sasha said, knowing that he was lost, lost in one of those futile conversations with his mother.
“I didn’t want to trouble you,” she said. “Put mustard on that.”
Sasha paused, plate of butter in his hand.
“Who doesn’t like mustard? Let’s have a show of hands,” he said, holding up his free hand.
“You are mocking your mother,” she said loudly with mock resignation.
“I have never liked mustard,” he said, placing the butter dish on the small table.
“And that has been your downfall.”
“Not liking mustard has been my downfall?”
“Being difficult has been your downfall,” she said, reaching out to tear off an edge of the ham he had placed on the table.
“I am not yet hopelessly fallen,” he said.
She said nothing, watched him make a sandwich, considered giving him more culinary advice, and thought better of it.
“You should stop being a policeman,” she said. “It is dangerous and you are no longer as alert as you once were.”
“Which of us is?”
Now they were into a familiar conversation they had repeated dozens of times.
“I’ve talked to Porfiry Petrovich about my concerns for your safety,” she said, folding her arms over the green dress she mistakenly believed flattered her.
“Many times,” Sasha said.
“Yes, many times.”
The sandwich was finished. It was a monument to distracted inefficiency. He took a bite.
“You should sit when you eat. It is bad for your digestion to eat while standing.”
He moved toward the door.
“It is worse to eat while walking,” she said.
She walked behind him to the door. He finished downing what he had in his mouth, paused, and turned to face her. She was a head shorter than he, which made it easier for him to lean over and kiss her head, which he did.
“I think I’ll be going to Kiev soon,” he said. “I will talk to Maya. I will beg, plead, promise on the lives of my children to be a good and faithful husband and father. I have no great hope. I’ve made such promises before.”
“I know,” Lydia said, taking his hand. “Tell her it is the last time you’ll ask her to come back to you.”
“She said last time was the last. I’m late.”
He smiled at his mother. It wasn’t much of a smile, but it was enough. She stood in the open door of the apartment as he headed for the stairs, eating his ham sandwich.
“Beg her to come back,” she called out. “Tell her you’ll stop with the women, the drinking, the brooding.”
“I don’t think all the neighbors heard you,” Sasha said over his shoulder.
“They already know everything,” she said. “Be safe.”
He waved his sandwich at her and went down the stairs.
Sasha had twenty minutes to get to the address where he was to meet Elena Timofeyeva. There was no way he could make it.
Chapter Five
Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov, Chief Inspector in the Office of Special Investigations, was airsick. The seat was small, the space for his legs-one real, one artificial-was restrictive, the ride bumpy, the smell of human bodies and tobacco cloying.
Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov would be fine when they were on the ground, according to the young woman in a military uniform who seemed to be in charge of avoiding questions. She was also in charge of giving them each a bottle of water and a bar of whole grains held together by congealed honey.
Dubious information about the nature of his illness did not soothe Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov. He tried to read the slightly tattered paperback copy of his Ed McBain
There were two seats on each side of the aisle. Emil Karpo, erect as always, sat looking out the window at clouds. Rostnikov preferred the aisle. Actually, Rostnikov preferred not to be on any airplane at all.
There was no one to whom he could complain. He was resigned. It was not unlike most things in life.
Rostnikov closed his eyes and leaned back. Six of the other passengers on the plane were heading for Devochka. All six of them worked for the mining company. There was no one else to work for. The plane would drop them off at Devochka and then take the remaining thirty-seven passengers to Noril’sk.
Rostnikov had read the folder the Yak had given him. The security folder for Devochka had been prepared by the Director of Security at the mine. The name of the man and his signature were on the reports in that folder. Rostnikov knew the man. He was also certain that Yaklovev was well aware of Porfiry Petrovich’s connection to the man.
“You are ill, Porfiry Petrovich,” came Karpo’s voice through the hazy pink of Rostnikov’s closed eyes.
“The air.”
“Here,” said Karpo, putting something in Rostnikov’s hand.
Rostnikov opened his eyes and looked at the pill in his palm.
“For airsickness?” Rostnikov asked, swallowing the pill without waiting for an answer.
“Yes.”
“You get airsick?”
“No,” said Karpo. “But I prepare for the contingency when I fly.”
“Are you prepared for all contingencies, Emil?”
“No, that would be impossible. I try to prepare for those I can anticipate.”
“A wise life plan,” said Rostnikov. “We make a good team, Emil Karpo. You are logical and unimaginative. . no insult intended.”
“And none perceived. I see little value in having an imagination. Besides, it is not a choice one makes.”
“And I am intuitive,” said Rostnikov, feeling a bit better already. “Intuition can deceive.”
“As can logic,” said Karpo.
