A Whisper to the Living

game unfinished. You understand?”

“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “Yes, but there are unfinished games that cannot be abandoned with the setting of the sun.”

“You are the police,” the man said.

“Yes,” said Tarasov.

“I have seen you here before.”

“Yes,” said Tarasov.

“You asked me about suspicious strangers and I told you I had seen nothing.”

“Yes,” Tarasov said once more.

“Even if they finish now,” the man said, “I don’t think I’ll play.”

“Avoid the unfinished game,” said Rostnikov.

“Yes.”

The old man smiled, showing uneven brown Russian teeth.

The policemen walked away, leaving the thin man alone in front of the coveted table and game.

“They would not notice if our killer came up behind one of them, caved in his skull as he sat considering his next move, and dragged the body away,” said Tarasov.

“They would notice a new player who sat down.”

“Yes,” said Tarasov. “But they would not notice a missing player. One of your victims may well have played here a few times. They seem to show no curiosity about regulars who do not show up one day and never appear again.”

“Maybe I’ll have Emil Karpo play tomorrow,” said Rostnikov.

“He plays chess?”

“He is quite good, but he shows no enthusiasm for the game.”

“And do you?” asked Tarasov.

“Not for the game of chess,” said Rostnikov, taking in the area while still looking at Tarasov.

Aleksandr Chenko, string shopping bag in hand, hurried down the path about fifty yards from the chess tables. The bag was heavy with milk, bread, vegetables, and cans of sardines and a large box of kasha. His prize purchase that day at the Volga Grocery had been a bunch of large nearly perfect radishes. He had brought the radishes out and placed them in the bin, spreading them to give their best effect. To ensure that this bunch would still be available, he had placed it gently in a corner of the bin and covered it with ice. He would clean them and admire them before slicing a few of the larger ones and putting them on a sandwich with the sardines.

He did not look directly toward the chess tables, nor at the two who were obviously policemen. Yet he saw them. One had been here several times before. The one with the bad left leg had only begun to come over the past week. At odd hours he would sit on a bench and read a book.

There was something intriguing about the man with the bad leg who was built somewhat like a large brick. It would be interesting to get close and see what he was reading, perhaps even to talk to him. At some point Aleksandr knew he might be caught, but it was essential that this not happen before he had reached his mark. If he chose to go on killing, every victim after that would be a bonus.

At that moment he decided that the policeman with the bad leg would be the one with whom Aleksandr made the record. That would happen soon. Then he would celebrate. Tonight, after eating his sandwich of radishes and sardines, he would call both The Moscow News and The Moscow Times and give them an accurate count of the dead. Since the police were not letting people know, he would tell them. It was essential that people around the world knew.

Just before turning to the left at the point where the path divided, Aleksandr allowed himself one quick glance at his next victim.

The policeman with the bad leg was looking back at him.

4

The Scientist in the Cellar

“This is foolish,” Elena Timofeyeva said, peering through the window of the bistro on Kalinin Street.

Elena looked at Sasha for support. He intended to give it, but a look from Iris Templeton tempted his resolve. He had not been with a woman for almost five months and here was a pretty, smart, famous woman regarding him with obvious intent.

“It is not a good idea,” he said in compromise.

Iris Templeton smiled at Sasha and said, “Perhaps not, but I’ve made my career by doing foolish things that others were afraid to do. You are police officers. There must be many times when you tread when there might be danger.”

The meaning of her words was not lost on either Elena or Sasha.

“Besides, you will be right behind me.”

“But-” Elena began.

“But,” Iris Templeton continued, “your orders are not to give me advice, but to provide me with protection. Is that him?”

Iris nodded at a lone man who sat drinking from a coffee cup at a small, round table against the far wall of the crowded bistro.

“Yes,” said Elena.

The man they were looking at was well built, fair skinned, with prematurely white hair. He could not have been more than forty years old. He wore a blue button-down shirt and on his chair was draped a leather jacket so fine that it shined with the reflection of the overhead lights.

“I’m going in. Stay here,” said Iris, examining her reflection in the window.

“We are not under your orders,” said Elena. “We decide where we must be to protect you.”

“It would be better if we were friends,” said Iris. “Sasha and I are going to be friends.”

Sasha resisted the urge to brush back the unruly lock of hair that dangled down his forehead.

Iris Templeton entered the bistro. When the door opened, the two police officers could hear the sound of music from a CD player inside. As the door closed, they heard the somewhat familiar sound of some popular singer shouting loudly. Neither Elena nor Sasha recognized the performer. Both knew that Zelach could immediately identify the song, the performer, and his complete discography.

“It is not a good idea,” Elena said with mocking sarcasm as the door closed. “If something happens to her, we will be held responsible.”

Sasha did not respond.

He watched Iris Templeton move to the table of Daniel Volkovich, who half-stood in greeting. He was smiling as he took Iris Templeton’s hand and held it for a few seconds longer than Sasha thought necessary.

Iris Templeton sat across from the pimp. She was in profile. White light danced on her face. It was a cameo that attracted Sasha, who well knew the danger of responding to what he was feeling. Yet he could not control it.

“Let’s go in,” said Elena, pulling the collar of her jacket around her neck. “I’m cold.”

Sasha felt neither hot nor cold. He felt bewildered.

“Yes,” he said.

The two entered the bistro. There were two empty tables, only one of which had a clear view of where Iris and Daniel sat talking. A fat man with a red face had to move in tightly to allow Sasha to sit. The fat man looked annoyed. He was about to speak, but something in the near baby face of the man who had forced him to move warned him that it would not be a good idea.

The police officers were too far away and the music too loud to let them hear what was happening at the