rooms of delusion in Devochka? Solzhenitsyn had written of such a Gulag phenomenon.
Orlov looked up.
“You are sworn to silence?” he asked. “I am still two years from publishing my findings.”
“I swear to silence,” said Rostnikov.
“I believe you. The bacteria can eat carbon. It can even eat diamonds.”
With this Orlov folded his arms, adjusted his glasses, and smiled.
“Fascinating,” said Rostnikov. “And what function can such a bacteria serve?”
“At this point,” said Orlov, “it does not matter. It is not my task to find function. We came naked to the earth and converted what we found to all you see around you. We did it from nothing, from trial and error. A bacteria that consumes diamonds is a wondrous and amazing thing.”
“It is,” said Rostnikov.
“Even if the remaining diamond pipes run out, the mine must remain. I must remain. The bacteria and their hosts must be preserved, protected, and studied.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“You think me mad?”
“The dividing line between sanity and madness is not as clear as the lines on your map. In fact, I do not believe there is a line, only a vast area that, at least at its edges, touches us all.”
“Gogol?” asked Orlov.
“Rostnikov,” replied Rostnikov.
“We should wait till the night,” said Pau Montez.
He had a square gauze pad taped to the back of his head. A tiny spot of blood had eked through it.
Kolokov was concentrating on the chessboard which James Harumbaki could see only dimly through his swollen right eye. His left eye was completely closed.
“I will consider your suggestion, but right now I am playing chess,” Kolokov said, lighting his third cigarette since sitting across from his hostage.
James had decided not to beat the Russian in eight moves, though he could have. Kolokov played chess the way he played at being a gang leader: He was recklessly mediocre. James decided to stretch the game out and find a way to make his opponent think he was going to win. Then James Harumbaki would spring his trap and softly utter “checkmate.”
“We will go when this game ends,” Kolokov decided. “They won’t be expecting us.”
There was only one other gang member, Alek, in the room. He stood silently in the corner. He had survived by standing silently in corners out of Vladimir Kolokov’s line of sight.
The other member of the gang, Bogdan, was standing in the doorway of an old apartment building that smelled of onions and people. He was watching the cafe in case the two Africans came out. Kolokov had sent him with the cell phone. He was to call if the Africans left the cafe and to follow them wherever they might be going.
Kolokov smiled at the chessboard and then at James Harumbaki. He was certain now to trap the African with his next move. He sat back, hands folded behind his head. He reeked of satisfaction with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“Checkmate,” said James Harumbaki, moving his knight slowly and placing it neatly in the center of a black square.
The smile remained on Kolokov’s face for a beat and then his hands came down and he leaned forward to look at the chessboard. It was indeed checkmate. James Harumbaki sat silently. Even had he wished to smile or display a look of satisfaction or regret, he would never make it evident on his battered face.
“Luck,” said Kolokov.
“No,” said James Harumbaki, thinking of his two comrades who had been brutalized and murdered by the fool across from him.
Kolokov’s fists clenched.
“Do not kill him, Vladimir,” the bald man said. “We need him. The diamonds.”
Kolokov struck his captive with a closed fist. James Harumbaki’s head spun to the side. He spit blood and a tooth on the floor. Even with his now further diminished eyesight, James Harumbaki was reasonably sure he could leap across the table, take Kolokov’s gun, and shoot him. It was likely the bald man would have his own gun out by then, and James Harumbaki would be a dead man. It was tempting to consider making the move, but the likely result would be his widow and two orphans.
“Let us go now,” said Kolokov, picking up his white queen and throwing it at James Harumbaki.
The queen hit his chest and tumbled to the floor.
James Harumbaki longed for the moment when he would kill the Russian. He would probably have to kill the bald man first, but that, too, would provide satisfaction.
“Get up,” shouted Kolokov.
James Harumbaki rose on shaking legs. He knew he could call on his body to respond when required. He had been tortured and beaten in Africa by better men than this Russian.
The Russian grabbed his arm and pushed him toward the door. The bald man went to the corner, opened a suitcase resting on a table against the wall, and revealed a cache of automatic weapons. James Harumbaki recognized the weapon that was handed to Kolokov, an AKS-74U Shorty Assault Rifle with a PBS silent fire device and a BS-1 silent underbarrel grenade launcher. James had seen the weapon used in Sudan, Somalia, and Rwanda. Patrice, Biko, and Laurence would be destroyed instantly along with others in the cafe or on the street unless they acted first. He hoped they understood that they must act first.
Both Kolokov and the bald man put on leather coats that had been hanging on metal hooks screwed into the wall. James Harumbaki watched the Russians hang the assault weapons on slings inside the coats.
“Now we go, black man,” said Kolokov with a wild dancing grin. “We will have a talk with your friends and trade you for several handfuls of diamonds. And then we will destroy you and your friends and anyone, black or white, who gets in the way. And that will be the real checkmate.”
“Why do we not just arrest them all?” asked Zelach. “The man in the doorway over there watching the two Africans and the Africans, too.”
“We will,” said Iosef. “But I believe something will happen very soon.”
“What?” asked Zelach.
“The man in the doorway is waiting for someone,” said Iosef.
“Who?”
“The bald man from the park and the Metro.”
“When he comes, we arrest them all?” asked Zelach.
“We do. Meanwhile we stand here in our doorway, watching the two Africans through the window and the man in the doorway over there, who is also watching them.”
Iosef had explained all this on the way here. Zelach often required the repetition of data, not because he was stupid, but because it took time to sink in. But once Zelach put information into his memory, it remained there for eternity, ready for recall. He could relate accurately the details of an arrest made a decade earlier. He could relate it right down to the condition of the criminal’s shoes and the exact nature of his crime.
“Do you think, Iosef Rostnikov, that he sees us?”
“No.”
“Do you think there will be shooting again?”
“Possibly. Very likely.”
Akardy Zelach went silent. He was not afraid, but he thought about his mother. Zelach’s mother was, though few knew, a gypsy. She had settled in Moscow for her son’s sake, so that he could be a policeman and someday marry a Russian girl and have children.
That day might yet come if Zelach survived long enough. He had once been shot on a case protecting Sasha Tkach. Zelach had survived after a long recovery. He might not be so fortunate the next time.
Now he stood in a doorway with the son of Porfiry Petrovich, wondering if his mother would rejoin her gypsy relatives should her son be killed.
