Rostnikov pointed with a gloved hand to the center building.
“What is in there?” asked the boy.
“Someone I know lives there.”
“The Maniac?”
“Perhaps.”
“What will sitting here accomplish?” asked Yuri.
He was beginning to doubt whether the crate-shaped man at his side was indeed a policeman and not just another of the crazy people who had nothing to do but hang around the park and create worlds and realities where none existed. Yuri’s father had warned him of such people, but Yuri, who planned to be a writer of fiction when he grew up, was fascinated.
“So far, my sitting on park benches has resulted in my meeting you and the person who lives over there. You told me about the bird feeders that had been moved.”
“And that was helpful?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I think I will write a story about you,” said the boy, pulling his hat down lower over his ears.
“I should like to read it when it is finished.”
Rostnikov rose slowly, making sure his ersatz left leg was firmly under him.
“You are leaving?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
“Then I shall also,” the boy said, rising and slipping the bag of books over his shoulder. “You will be here tomorrow?”
“I will be somewhere tomorrow,” said Rostnikov.
“That is not an answer. Everyone is always somewhere.”
“I have known many people when they were nowhere.”
Yuri nodded, not certain whether the somber-looking man who said he was a policeman was saying something very deep or something rather stupid.
“You should go home, Yuri Platkov.”
Yuri shook his head in a slight acknowledgment of affirmation.
“And you?”
“I should cross the street.”
He called himself Tyrone. His real name was Sergei Bresnechov. He hated his real name. He hated almost everyone in addition to himself. He tolerated a few people, including his own mother, and he felt more than mild affection for the policewoman Elena Timofeyeva because she had let him go after six hours alone in a cell. She had not charged him. Besides that, she was pretty and just ample enough to meet his fantasies.
Tyrone was at best a gawky seventeen-year-old. He was somewhat pigeon chested, extremely skinny, with a frenzy of wild dark hair and a large nose on top of which was poised a pair of glasses. He wore an extremely rumpled T-shirt on the front of which was a faded photographic imprint of Gene Simmons with his tongue sticking out. Tyrone had promised the pretty policewoman with the large breasts that he would no longer hack into the files of the National Socialist Party. They had complained. They had threatened. Tyrone was a Jew. The National Socialist Party was a Hitler-loving hodgepodge of skinheads, would-be Nazis, and zombies. Tyrone’s mission had been pure sabotage. Quite illegal. He was fortunate that his case had made its way to the desk of Elena Timofeyeva, whose distaste for the National Socialist Party was admittedly stronger than her commitment to the law. The law, she had learned in her five years as a police officer, was often quite clearly wrong. She felt little guilt in circumventing a bad law. Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov served as a model for her behavior. He had once told her, “If you break the law, do so with the understanding that you believe you have done what is right and are willing to accept the consequences should you be caught.”
Tyrone did not stop hacking into the National Socialist Party’s computers. He just did so with far greater caution and discretion.
Now he sat hunched over some piece of electronic gear on the table in the small living room. The table housed two computers, all manner of electronic equipment, and a plate bearing a large sausage and lettuce sandwich. The few pieces of family furniture in the room had been exiled to a nook in the corner of the room, a nook in which all furniture faced a large television set.
“Yes, I can,” Tyrone said, picking up his sandwich and taking a great bite. “I will need time.”
“How much time?” asked Iris over his shoulder.
“Yes, how much time?” asked Sasha.
“A day, maybe two. I have to barter with an acquaintance for an oscilloscope.”
“We need it soon,” said Elena, standing at the end of the table with the filtered light through a window behind her.
Tyrone chewed and looked up at her, squinting.
Elena did not seem to notice that the boy was clearly infatuated with her. Sasha noticed.
“Tonight,” Tyrone said, still chewing. “Call or come back at nine.”
“Tell no one about this,” Elena said.
“I will not,” he said, watching her. “My mother is spending the next two days at the dacha of the man who likes to be thought of as my uncle and not my mother’s boyfriend. It is not really a dacha. It is a shack surrounded by a forest of weeds.”
“Nine, Tyrone,” Elena said. “We are counting on you. This is very important.”
She touched his shoulder and smiled, at which point Tyrone would gladly have hacked into the files of the CIA and the Kremlin offices.
“He does not know you are getting married,” Sasha said when they were back outside.
“Why would he care?” asked Elena.
“You underestimate your power to charm,” said Iris. “He did not even look at me.”
Sasha, who had been looking at Iris, averted his eyes.
“We will take you somewhere safe with Svetlana,” Elena said, quickly changing the subject.
“Is there somewhere safe in Moscow?” said Iris.
“Petrovka,” said Elena.
“The central office of the police? You think that is safe from Pavel Petrov?” asked Iris.
“Yes,” Elena lied.
“I will stay with you,” said Sasha.
“Is there a bed?” asked Iris, looking at Sasha.
“A cot,” said Elena.
It was clear to Elena that the British woman was trying to make Sasha uncomfortable. And she was succeeding. Elena had no objection to this. Sasha had spent the night in this woman’s bed. He deserved to be uncomfortable. It was a small enough consequence for having been caught.
A cell phone rang. All three of them started to reach into pocket or briefcase.
“Mine,” said Elena, taking her phone from her pocket.
The misty gray rain had begun again. While Elena talked, all three moved to the car and got in. When they were inside, Sasha behind the wheel, Elena in the rear with Iris, Elena continued her conversation, asking, “Where?. . When?. . How bad?” She paused after each query to listen to the answer. Then she said, “Thank you,” and hung up.
“Olga Grinkova has been attacked. She is in the hospital. If we hurry, she may still be alive when we get there.”
8
