“Honduras?” repeated Kolokov, looking at James for a possible answer to the question.
James had no answer.
“The man from Honduras,” said the bald man. “Three years ago.”
“Hon-” Kolokov repeated. “I don’t remember any-Guatemala. He was from Guatemala. How did you come up with Honduras?”
“I got it wrong.”
Kolokov looked at James and sat back, smoking and remembering. The Guatemalan had been a tiny man, the color of a pecan shell. He was no more than thirty-five and had fallen under Kolokov’s umbra during a street robbery. On little more than a whim, Kolokov had brought the man, Sanchez, to an apartment, and was about to do something particularly painful to him under the guise of getting him to tell how he might provide ransom money.
Sanchez had worked him perfectly, claimed to be a member of the Guatemalan mission in Moscow, talked Kolokov into a partnership to steal ancient artifacts from Central America and sell them to dealers in Turkey. Kolokov let the man go after they shook hands on a partnership that promised to make both men rich.
The problem was that Sanchez had lied. He was not a diplomat. He was a visiting poet. He knew nothing about artifacts. He knew much about making up stories.
“You really know where there will be a delivery of diamonds?”
“Yes,” said James. “They will be delivered to three Russians who will take them to various cities, where they will be exchanged for cash.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Kolokov.
James was impassive.
“I’m telling the truth.”
“I’ll kill you painfully if they do not appear where you say with the diamonds.”
“I understand.”
Kolokov rose and began to pace the room. If this black man were as smart as he appeared to be, he knew that he would be dying as soon as Kolokov had the diamonds.
“What will you do with the diamonds when you have them?” asked James.
“Sell them?”
“Where? To whom?”
“I know people,” said Kolokov pausing, wary.
“People who can handle millions in diamonds or low-level gluttons who deal in wristwatches and seal skins?”
Kolokov didn’t answer.
“You need to know who can pay for the diamonds,” said James. “You need to know the people who can take the diamonds West to Germany, France, England, the United States, Japan, the people who will pay you for the diamonds when you have them.”
“And you will tell us who they are?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll have to trust me.”
“No,” said James. “Once you have the diamonds we go to someplace very public where it will be impossible for you to kill me without getting caught. In this public place I will tell you who the contact buyers are.”
“You might lie?”
“We stay in public till you or your people make the first contact,” said James. “I will give you three names. You pick whichever one you like.”
“Sounds good,” said Kolokov, knowing full well that he would have to find a way to kill this smart-mouthed black once he had what he needed. It should not be too hard.
“Guatemala,” warned the bald man.
Kolokov shook his head and smiled at James with a shrug. If it were like Guatemala, at least he would be ready for it. It was also a promising sign that the bald man had not said ‘Honduras.’
“Are you a chess player?” asked Kolokov.
“Yes.”
“A good one?”
“A good one.”
“So am I. Let’s play a game or two.”
“Guatemala,” came the voice from the shadows.
Kolokov grabbed the blue cup from in front of James and hurled it in the direction of the bald man. He hit the man in the face. The bald man made no sound.
“I’ll get the board,” said Kolokov. “Play your hardest, Botswanan.”
“I will.”
James had decided to see what kind of player Kolokov was before devising a strategy that would convince his captor that he was doing his best while letting the Russian win the game. He did decide that, while he would lose the first game, he would surely win the second, but lose the third. Kolokov would sometimes be even, but he would never lose.
James Harumbaki was not the best chess player in Botswana. He was the second-best player. He was confident that he could manipulate the Russian. The best player in Botswana was an Indian who owned four pawnshops. The Indian had finished fourth in the world the previous year.
“Watch him,” Kolokov said, leaving the room to get the chessboard and pieces.
When he was gone, the bald man in the shadows stepped out. His cheek was gushing blood from the cup Kolokov had hurled at him. He calmly looked at James Harumbaki and said, “Honduras.”
Balta had a simple plan for finding the model.
The city was not exactly overrun with modeling agencies and beautiful models. There were some, even a few small offices of agencies with their primary headquarters in Paris or New York. No, finding the model Christiana Verovona had described on the train before she died should not be difficult.
Balta had a list of names he obtained from the agencies. He also looked at photographs. None of the agencies would give him the addresses or phone numbers of any of the women they represented. They didn’t want to risk being cut out of their share of a job.
There was a daily newspaper ad calling for beautiful young girls who were looking for a career in modeling. Balta knew it was a scam, but he called the telephone number in the ad and made an appointment.
When he arrived at the office of the Parisian Modeling Agency just off of a busy street, he was ushered through a reception-waiting room where a girl of no more than fourteen sat on a chipped metal chair next to a woman in her forties.
Balta was taken to a small office where a lean man wearing an unimpressive wig to cover his bald head made a show of rising. He was ridiculous. Dressed in crimson slacks, a blue blazer, a puffy white shirt, and a crimson scarf that almost matched his slacks, he made a show of adjusting his jacket as he sat.
“I am Anatole Deforge,” he said in a French accent which did not disguise his Slavic origin. “And you wish. .”
“To find an old friend I’ve lost track of.” Balta continued smiling.
“An old friend. Then you are not interested. .” he said with disappointment.
“Not at the moment,” Balta added, leaving the door open to what the man who called himself Deforge might be planning to offer.
“Well,” Deforge said with a shrug. “Perhaps. .”
“Perhaps,” said Balta. “I’m looking for Oxana Balakona.”
“Which of us isn’t?” said Deforge.
“You know where she lives?”
“I can find out if she has a residence in Kiev. I know she works here from time to time. I’ve never had the pleasure of representing her.”
Oxana Balakona was far above the aspirations of this little man, but Balta knew how to deal with little men.
