Oxana would give everything up with the threat of a sharp razor stroke across her cheek. He would not even have to kill her, though if he went that way he might as well.
The policeman on the park bench, the one she was working with and certainly sleeping with, was a good choice. He was probably a pragmatist who would give up the diamonds in the hope of living another day, going on to something else or going after Balta. Balta would have to find out, meet with the policeman, probe his weakness.
It would all be decided in the morning.
He checked his watch. It was time. He had to make his call. He was sure that his cell phone was fully charged.
As he placed his call, Balta moved before the full-length mirror behind the hotel room door. It amused him to wonder what St. James would think if he knew Balta was admiring his naked body in the mirror while he talked to him on the phone.
“Yes,” St. James said after the second ring.
“I’m in Kiev. I have not found the diamonds yet. Tomorrow perhaps. I do have the money.”
“Where are you?”
“Premier Palace Hotel.”
“Keep me informed.”
Balta went back to the bed. He had peeled back the blanket and laid on the sheets still damp from the touch of his body after the shower. He would give the money to St. James, but he would report that he had been unable to find the diamonds though he had tortured and killed both the policeman and the model. He had every intention of getting the diamonds. He had no intention of giving them to “Sir” Gerald St. James. Balta would take them to Paris, where the buyer was waiting. And with his wealth, he would go to the United States, where opportunities suitable for his talents awaited him.
Chapter Ten
“January 7,
Fyodor Rostnikov, glasses well down his nose, read from the thin black plastic-covered document.
He looked up at Porfiry Petrovich, who nodded at him across the desk, urging him to continue to read the report.
They were sitting in the same small meeting room where the Moscow detectives had sat the day before with the elected board of the town and mine. With the murder of Anatoliy Lebedev, the board was now reduced to four.
In front of Karpo who, as always, sat erect, dressed in black, ignoring the beam of sunlight that streaked past his face, was a mug of hot water. Before Fyodor and Porfiry Petrovich were mugs of strong black tea. All the mugs were white with pictures of a young Linda Ronstadt smiling up at them.
Emil Karpo had spent two futile nights in the cafeteria drinking tea, watching and listening to the few people who approached him. Though everyone acted suspiciously, none was clearly guilty of two murders.
Porfiry Petrovich, sharpened pencil in hand and pad of paper before him, wondered how he was going to finish the drawing upon which he was working. The drawing was of the room in which they were sitting. Karpo and Fyodor were rapidly scratched faceless images but seated upon the table a creature of no clear species crouched, ready to leap out of the drawing. Porfiry Petrovich was intrigued.
Fyodor looked up over his glasses at the two detectives. It was highly unlikely that Commissar Vortz would know the precise time of waiting, which suggested to the three men that the commissar was covering his ass. If he were, it was unwise to report what happened next.
Another incredulous look from Fyodor. Karpo showed nothing. Porfiry Petrovich was busy with his drawing. Fyodor went on:
“It is signed,” said Fyodor. “Commissar Vortz was reassigned to a Gulag under suspicion that he had killed the Mine Safety Director over an old feud about the provision of fuel and then made up the ridiculous story about the ghost girl because he knew the lore about such sightings.”
“And there are three more reports about seeing this ghost girl,” said Karpo.
“Yes,” said Fyodor, “a total of six from 1963 till yesterday.”
Porfiry Petrovich had finished his drawing. He held it out to look at without trying to understand what he was seeing.
“May I see the report?” he asked.
It could have been given as an order, but it was delivered as a polite request, which Fyodor honored.
Porfiry Petrovich took the report, opened it, and saw that it had been written on a typewriter whose ink roll had been reused almost once too often. In addition, the carriage had slipped and the upper third of each letter was in a red almost as faint as the black below it. He took a sip of his tea and asked, “Do you note something very strange about this report?”
“I notice very little that is not strange,” said Fyodor.
Rostnikov handed the report to Karpo, who began to read.
“Why is the girl naked?” asked Karpo.
“Precisely,” said Rostnikov. “Why is the beast on the table, and why is the girl running naked?”
“Beast on the table?” asked Fyodor.
“Never mind,” said Porfiry Petrovich. “I am sorry. Emil Karpo asked. .”
“Why is the ghost girl running naked?” Karpo repeated.
“Because,” Fyodor said removing his glasses, “she is a ghost, or she is supposed to be a ghost, and ghosts do very strange things.”
“When was the last time, before this morning, that you read this report?”
“I’ve never read it before this morning,” said Fyodor. “It was in the retired files of the Director. You asked to see all reports of suspicious deaths in the mine and any mention of the ghost girl.”
“I have a whim,” said Porfiry Petrovich. “I would like a search, supervised and conducted by you, Emil, of the entire town, room by room, hiding place by hiding place.”
“What are we looking for?” asked Fyodor.
“An old typewriter with a very worn ribbon.”
“And you expect the typewriter on which this report was written still to be in use, or functional, and still to have the same ribbon?” asked Fyodor.
“I think it possible this report was written very recently,” said Porfiry Petrovich.
“Why?” asked Fyodor.
“That I do not yet know.”
