Chapter Twelve
Balta watched and listened.
It was cool, but pleasant enough for the tables of the coffee house to be set up out on the street. All the small round Plexiglas tables were taken, which suited Balta just fine. Balta looked at the beautiful Oxana who smiled as if she had a secret.
She was not alone. Balta admired Rochelle Tanquay’s sleek, dark feline beauty. If everything worked out as he planned, Balta expected to be seeing a great deal more of the elegant Miss Tanquay.
Balta sipped strong espresso that was almost thick enough to require a spoon.
Oxana and Rochelle talked about the model’s career, about the shoot in Paris and what it might mean to her. Oxana was delighted to listen to and take part in a conversation that was entirely about her.
There was a swell of laughter from a nearby table. A young man, who looked like a wrestler and wore a supposedly masculine two-day growth of beard, slapped the less-than-sturdy table, setting the cups and saucers into a jangling dance. The sound covered whatever Oxana was saying. Balta heard pieces of the model’s words but not all. He was certain, however, that she had said nothing about diamonds. He really didn’t expect her to.
Then the man who Balta had seen with Oxana in the park strode over, adjusting his tie when he saw Rochelle Tanquay. A smile showing remarkably even and reasonably white teeth appeared as Oxana made the introductions.
“This is Jan Pendowski,” said Oxana. “Jan, this is Rochelle Tanquay.”
“Oxana told me about you,” Jan said, taking Rochelle’s hand and holding onto it a bit longer than might have been considered polite.
“You are a policeman,” Rochelle said, matter-of-factly removing her hand from Jan’s grasp and reaching into her purse for a cigarette.
“I am a policeman,” he said almost with apology.
He quickly removed a lighter from his pocket and extended it to Rochelle, who used it. She had offered a cigarette to Oxana, who took it and waited for Jan to flick the lighter for her. He almost forgot. His eyes were on Rochelle.
Balta watched with amusement and saw a tinge of jealousy color Oxana’s face.
“What kind of policeman are you?” Rochelle asked.
“I catch smugglers.”
“Like people who bring fruit and cheap watches in their pockets?” Rochelle asked impishly.
“Like people who are inventive about bringing drugs into the Ukraine and even transporting gold and precious jewels across our country.”
“Yes,” Oxana said, trying to shift the conversation to another subject. “Jan, tell her about the perfect baby.”
“The perfect baby?” asked Rochelle.
“A young couple is changing planes to head for Istanbul,” said Jan with a grin. “They tell me the baby is asleep but they would be willing to move him gently if it is necessary to search his blankets.
“I say that there is no point in disturbing such a perfect baby. The couple thanks me. I examine the things they had brought in a basket for the baby. It is clear that none of the items, baby food, diapers, changes of clothing have been tampered with or are being used to hide anything.”
“That’s when. . ” Oxana prompted.
“That’s when I knew,” said Jan. “I took the baby from the young woman’s arms, placed it on the table, and cut into its stomach with my pocket knife. An older woman watching from behind in the examination line screamed in horror.”
At this memory, Jan Pendowski laughed.
“Artificial baby,” said Oxana.
“Too perfect,” said Jan. “So perfect that everything in the child’s basket was untouched, new, absolutely clean in spite of the fact that the couple had been traveling most of the day. When I cut the baby open, out came the contents like a Mexican piñata exposing candy. The doll was filled with diamonds.”
“Clever,” said Rochelle, meeting the provocation of his eyes.
“I am not deceived by appearances,” he said. “I have seen too much.”
“I am certain you have many equally interesting stories,” said Rochelle.
“Many,” he said, unsure now of whether she was twitting him.
“Perhaps you can tell them to me when I have more time in Kiev,” she said.
“Who knows?” said Jan as a waiter appeared with coffee for him and refills for Rochelle and Oxana. “I may be getting to Paris in the not distant future.”
“Be sure to look me up,” said Rochelle.
“I will,” said Jan.
Oxana watched the exchange with amusement and perhaps only the slightest hint of jealousy. Rochelle Tanquay was French. Rochelle was engaged in sexual teasing. Jan would gladly have jumped into bed or the back of his car with Rochelle, but without further encouragement, he would promptly forget her. Besides, if all went well, Oxana would have the diamonds and Jan would be dead before the end of the next day. All it took was resolve. Oxana had never killed anyone. She had come close on two occasions, both times as a result of being challenged by other models for work which was rightfully hers. Oxana was confident that with the proper incentive, and almost two million euros, she would have sufficient incentive to murder Jan, who was now outrageously suggesting seduction to another woman. He was a pig, a clever, handsome, and dangerous pig, but a pig nonetheless.
She admitted to herself that she was fascinated by both Jan’s performance and Rochelle’s. She enjoyed playing voyeur and even allowed herself the fantasy of rushing to Jan’s apartment, undressing him, and making him spring to life if he had not already done so under the table. And yes, she also fantasized about seducing Rochelle before they left Kiev, though it was more likely that the clearly worldly Parisian knew more about making love to a woman than did Oxana.
“What is amusing?” asked Jan.
“Thinking about Paris,” said Oxana.
Rochelle smiled.
“Paris will be good to you,” she said.
Rochelle’s eyes met Jan’s. There was no denying the provocation. Jan considered how he would juggle being with Oxana and killing her and seducing the beautiful woman from Paris. It would be difficult, but he decided it would be worth the reward. And if Rochelle did turn him down, he would have one more night with Oxana.
With the diamonds now hidden in his apartment and two beautiful women from which to choose, life looked very good for Jan Pendowski. All that was left for him to do was rid himself of the two Russian police officers, one of whom, the woman, he had given fleeting consideration as a possible object of his attentions. He still might, though it could be a particularly dangerous effort.
Jan Pendowski sat back and glanced at a lean man in a jacket and open-necked shirt who had just risen from the next table. The man seemed vaguely familiar.
Balta had seen and heard enough.
Now he had a plan.
St. James’s phone rang, the green one, the one reserved for Ellen Sten and the people in the field in Moscow, Devochka, and Kiev for the duration of the operation. The moment the situation was resolved to his satisfaction, the phone number would be changed.
“I am in Kiev,” Ellen Sten said when he picked up the phone.
“Does Balta know you’re there?”
“No.”
