how some women might find him interesting. Elena found him wearisome, however. The man was a walking unsatisfied penis.
The one thing she had decided was that if he placed a hand on her once, she would remove it. If he placed a hand on her twice, he would hit the floor with a sudden and painful thud. She hoped, if that happened, there were many people around to watch, and that of the many people around to watch, police officers would be preferable.
She checked her watch and went looking for the junior diplomat to ask him if there was a place nearby, perhaps a cart or stand, where she could buy a sausage sandwich.
Iosef and Zelach were jostled forward by the crowd, wedged in between two bearded priests wielding crosses like bludgeons and crying out against specified and unspecified blasphemy. Iosef wondered where these men had been for the almost seventy godless years of Communism.
It was difficult in the mélange of bodies to remain upright, to keep from getting herded by the police against the wall behind the tomb, and also to watch the two Africans, who were running from the scene.
The screaming woman with the bullhorn was at Zelach’s side now, as the two policemen tried to make their way through the crowd to the grass beyond the path. Zelach reached up and turned a knob on the bullhorn, sending out a screech that brought winces to the faces of police, gay mourners, and the angry mob. Then the bullhorn went silent. The screaming woman had not noticed Zelach’s move, but a babushka had and shouted, “That one. He turned it off.” She was pointing at Zelach.
Iosef also shouted and pointed at a nearby tall black shirt.
“Him,” he said. “I saw him too.”
A few in the crowd reached for the protesting black shirt. Zelach and Iosef made a lunge through a small opening in the crowd and arrived in the open, just missing a baton swung by a particularly large policeman.
“Police,” Iosef said, pulling out his identification and showing it to the large slashing policeman who was in no mood or condition to examine identification.
Iosef and Zelach ran. The large policeman turned back on the crowd.
“We are the police,” Zelach said, panting.
“Policemen have been known to be injured by mobs and each other,” said Iosef. “Which way did they go?”
“The mob? They are right. .”
“The Africans.”
“There,” said Zelach, pointing.
“You see them?”
“They were heading for Red Square.”
Iosef nodded and started in pursuit with Zelach right behind.
“They will get lost in the crowd,” said Zelach.
“Two black men? One tall and thin, the other short and round?”
“It is possible.”
“It is possible,” said Iosef, who began laughing as they ran.
“Is this funny?” asked Zelach, barely able to keep up.
“Forgive me, Zelach. The Rostnikovs have a peculiar sense of humor.”
“There,” gasped Zelach, trying to catch his breath.
Iosef saw them in the crowd, just about to hurry through the Metro station entrance.
“Slow, now,” said Iosef.
It was a command Zelach has happy to hear.
Iosef was hoping that the two men they were trying to catch would also slow down. They had no reason to believe they were being followed. If the policemen hurried, they might be spotted. If they were too slow, they might well lose their quarry.
Biko and Laurence had to slow down. They had no magnetic Metro cards. They had to stop at the booth and pay their fares, pointing to the map of stations on the wall. Neither man commanded more than a short supply of Russian.
“Now what?” they both said at almost the same instant, walking toward their platform.
They walked through the palatial Metro station, past glittering statues and brightly painted ceilings, unsure of what their next step might be or how they might reconnect with the Russians who had James Harumbaki.
The loudspeaker announced the arrival of a train in Russian. It meant nothing to the two men, who were trying to decipher the name of the station on the wall. They were heading back to the only neighborhood in the city where they were likely to reach other Africans, particularly Botswanans.
They looked blankly at the station map and got on the first train that arrived, hoping that they had read the map correctly.
Their weapons were under their coats in leather and cloth slings designed by James Harumbaki. It was possible to fire simply by reaching under the coat, tilting the weapon, and firing while it was still in the sling. Biko had given serious consideration to doing just that when he saw the insane crowd moving in their direction in the park.
They were living in a nation of near madness.
Biko and Laurence sat in the almost empty late evening car of the Metro as far from others as they could. Across from them on a seat lay a German shepherd, asleep. There was no human who looked like an owner nearby. Laurence was particularly fond of dogs and wanted to move across and carefully offer his hand. The dog did not seem to belong to anyone. Maybe they could take it with them. Dogs had a calming effect on him, and he harbored a very slight feeling of guilt about the three times not long ago in Somalia when he had eaten the meat of scrawny dogs.
Farther down, three Russians were sprawled on the seat. They were drunk. One man had his head in the lap of a second. The third lay by himself, eyes open, about to slip to the floor.
As the car doors began to close, a large bald man holding a cloth to the back of his head got in, glanced at Biko and Laurence, and sat at the far end of the car.
The train moved out of the station, and a Russian voice announced the next station.
The bald man, Pau Montez, did not look directly at the Africans, and in the next car Iosef and Zelach sat doing their best not to be seen by the desperate Biko and Laurence.
“Do you know why I pace like this?” asked Kolokov without stopping.
James Harumbaki was not interested in the question but he waited for an answer. He was seated at a table, the chessboard before him. He was not tied, and he considered, since the large bald man was not present, that it might be possible to run across the room, throw open the door, dash through the house, and, once in the open, make a dash over the pile of rubbish and into the partial cover of the trees. He had gauged all this. It might be possible, but it was unlikely to succeed. James Harumbaki’s legs were weak. One eye was almost closed. He felt slightly dizzy. And there were two others in the room, silent Russians, one of whom, though he looked quite out of shape, was close to the door. Better to wait for a more promising opportunity.
“Do you know why I pace?” Kolokov repeated, smoking as he walked a bit faster across the room.
James Harumbaki’s lower lip was swollen where Kolokov had punched him.
The room smelled of sweat, tobacco, and sour dampness. James Harumbaki would have been sick to his stomach even if Kolokov had not punched his belly.
“No, I do not,” said James Harumbaki.
“Because, it helps me think, think, think.”
With each “think” Kolokov had tapped the side of his head with a distinct
James Harumbaki nodded his understanding.
