“Ivan,” said Iosef. “Both your wife and Babinski were dead when you entered the hotel room?”
“Yes. Who killed Lena?”
“We know Fedot Babinski killed your wife,” said Iosef. “What we do not know is who killed Fedot Babinski.”
Knock at the door.
Tyrone was close to calling Elena Timofeyeva. There were only a few more passages, bits of dialogue that needed work to restore them to the point at which they could be heard clearly. It was late, closing in on midnight. He had her office phone number and he had hacked into her unlisted home phone. She had not answered, but at eight o’clock he left messages on the machines telling her that he was running late, very late, but he had good news. He would bring the tape and perhaps somehow she would show her gratitude.
Knock at the door.
He smiled. Elena the voluptuous policewoman had heard his message and could not wait for him to bring the good news.
Tyrone had been moving slowly to the door, chewing on a caramel, which he could not resist and would certainly contribute to the destruction of his teeth.
Knock at the door.
Only when he was standing before the door did he wonder who besides the policewoman might be knocking at this hour. Had his mother come home a day early and forgotten her keys? Was PoPo Ivanovich here to report on some newly discovered treasure trove of information he had hacked into? No, it had to be the policewoman. Tyrone swallowed his caramel and ran his tongue over his teeth.
Knock at the door. He opened it.
Two men stepped forward. One was thin, not as thin as Tyrone, and wore a suit that fit him reasonably well. He was about fifty, with white hair and blue eyes. His teeth, Tyrone noted, were perfect and seemed to be his own as he spoke.
“You know why we have come,” the man said.
At his side was a considerably larger man wearing brown denim pants, a black T-shirt, and a smile Tyrone definitely did not like.
Tyrone knew, but he said, “Tell me so that I make no mistake.”
“The tape,” said the white-haired man.
The man’s hands were folded in front of him. The larger man in the black T-shirt had his considerable hands at his sides.
Tyrone considered asking,
“I have given it to the police,” he said.
“You restored it?” asked the white-haired man.
“I did, at least most of it, but I paid no attention to what was being said.”
The two men who had entered his life suddenly now looked at each other and considered.
“Even if I did hear something,” Tyrone added quickly, “I could not testify to what I heard. No court would believe me, not with my background.”
The larger of the two men stepped forward and pushed Tyrone. Tyrone staggered back and almost fell.
“To which policeman did you give the restored tape?” asked the man with white hair.
“His name is Sasha Tkach,” said Tyrone.
The white-haired man nodded. Tyrone felt just a bit safer.
“And you made copies,” said the white-haired man.
It was not a question.
“No,” said Tyrone. “I was asked by the police to make no copies, and I did not have the time.”
“Oleg?” said the white-haired man.
The other man shook his head “no.”
“Oleg does not believe you,” said the white-haired man.
The slaps came in quick, stinging seconds, two with the open palm of Oleg’s right hand and then two with the back of the man’s right hand. Oleg was wearing a large ring. It cut into Tyrone’s cheek. Tyrone reached out to steady himself on a chair that was not there. He sat backward on the floor with a brittle thump.
Oleg stood over him. Tyrone tried to think.
“No copies,” he said. “I swear on the graves and bones of all the saints who have ever lived, on every holy icon that has ever been discovered. I swear.”
“Empty your pockets,” the white-haired man said.
Tyrone, cheek bleeding and certainly in need of surgical closure, came to his knees and emptied the contents of his pockets onto the floor. Then Oleg lifted him to his feet and patted him down.
Agreement passed between the two invaders.
“Come here. I have something important for you to do,” said the white-haired man.
Tyrone put a hand to his cheek and shuffled his way to the man, who said, “Do not drip blood on me.”
The white-haired man took a small spray can from his pocket. He unscrewed the lid of the can and handed it to Oleg, who began spraying its contents generously around the room.
“Now,” said the white-haired man. “Be thankful you are alive and, as you consider your luck, run through the corridors shouting, ‘The building is on fire.’ ”
Oleg produced a lighter, turned it on, held it to a piece of paper he tore from a discarded newspaper on the sofa, and set the apartment ablaze.
The white-haired man and Oleg pulled Tyrone into the hallway and closed the apartment door.
“You will have a scar,” said the white-haired man. “It will remind you to be careful about working with the police. Now run.”
Tyrone, hand to his burning cheek, stumbled, then ran awkwardly, calling out, “Fire, fire, fire.”
When he looked back over his shoulder, the two intruders were gone. He paused for an instant to be certain and then shambled back to his apartment door. The heat from inside threatened the door. Almost everything of his and his mother’s was now gone. His equipment would be useless. Almost everything was gone. Almost.
He knelt and dug his fingernails into the cover of the electrical outlet near the door. The heat stung his fingers, but the outlet cover popped off, revealing an empty space just large enough for the copy of the tape he had placed there less than half an hour earlier.
It was a time to panic, but Tyrone did not panic. Instead, he walked slowly out the door past the people who had come out of their apartments to find out whether there was a fire or they were the victims of a drunken joke.
In bare feet, Tyrone moved to the stairwell, his right hand to his bloody cheek, his left hand clutching the tape.
10
Sara and Porfiry Petrovich sat in the apartment on Krasnikov Street.
“It will happen and we will have grandchildren,” said Rostnikov. “And they will grow and ask impossible questions, which we will delight in answering.”
“And they will be strong and beautiful,” she said.
“Of course.”
She had fixed him a bag of food, including a bottle of orange juice and a thermos of coffee, when he told her he would have to work through the night. She wanted to ask if what he was going to do might be dangerous, but she did not. What was the point? Everything he did each day might result in anticipated or unanticipated
