lights.
In the protection of darkness, he put his back against the wall and slowly made his way to the window. At the wall, he went down on hands and knees. At the corner of the window, he parted the curtain slightly and looked out.
Chief Inspector Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov was looking directly at him. There was a look of what appeared to be great sadness on the face of the policeman.
In the apartment from which Rostnikov had gently removed the old couple who lived in it, Rostnikov considered what Aleksandr Chenko might do.
A major difficulty and also a blessing was that Chenko would probably not commit another murder with a policeman peering into his apartment and, in all likelihood, following him when he left. He would probably not kill, but Rostnikov could not be entirely certain. Maybe Chenko would decide to kill Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov. It was a distinct possibility.
Chenko would find it difficult to avoid acknowledging Rostnikov’s presence, not if he wanted to maintain the charade that he was innocent. He had awaited a smile, a wave, a look of amusement or curiosity on Rostnikov’s face. There was none, nothing but that face of sadness.
Rostnikov could see nothing in the near total darkness in the rooms. He kept looking, waiting for a fuss of curtain or the full face of bravado. It took a few minutes, but the vigil proved worthwhile. Rostnikov saw the curtain on the right move slightly. He turned his attention to the curtain and fixed his eyes at the spot from which Chenko would probably look.
Rostnikov was right. The curtain rustled.
Tyrone was feeling decidedly unwell.
He had trod bare of foot and bleeding to the apartment of Dr. Simotva, two blocks away. Dr. Simotva worked on a strictly cash basis and asked no questions, which, oddly enough, made people want to talk to him.
Tyrone’s cheek had been cleaned, treated, and stitched. Dr. Simotva had offered to give the young man a more than ample injection of morphine, but Tyrone had rejected it. Tyrone wanted to be awake for what he had to do. And so he had withstood the pain. Normally he would have welcomed any drug that would dull or eliminate the pain, but not on this night.
“You are now a work of art,” Dr. Simotva said, standing back to admire his work.
The doctor was forty-nine years old, a short, ash-bearded man with a rapidly receding hairline. He thought he looked quite dapper. The world did not agree.
The basin next to the chair in which Tyrone sat was heaped with bloody hand towels.
“I have an old pair of shoes that I think might fit you,” said Dr. Simotva. “Socks too and maybe a shirt. I have several I do not wear. I do not even know why I keep them.”
“Thank you,” said Tyrone.
Dr. Simotva smiled benevolently. Socks, shoes, and shirt would be added to the bill his patient was about to receive.
“Take these,” the doctor said handing Tyrone a small plastic bottle of pills, “every four to six hours for the pain. It is not morphine, but it may suit you.”
Tyrone pocketed the bottle and touched the small tape in his pocket with his fingers. He stood on weak legs and asked, “What do I owe you?”
“Fifty euros.”
“I will be back with it before the night is through.”
“Now would be a better time.”
“I have only twelve euros and I need them. I will give you a hundred euros when I return.”
Dr. Simotva considered the offer. After all, what could he do about it now, remove the stitches and throw the boy into the street?
“I know where you live,” the doctor said.
Tyrone nodded, not mentioning that the apartment in which he had lived no longer existed.
“I have business associates who can come for you should you not pay what you owe. They would not be gentle.”
No less gentle than the two men who had beaten him and destroyed his equipment and the apartment, thought Tyrone, who tried not to imagine what his mother might think when she returned to nothing. He and his mother had little to do with each other. Their paths seldom passed. There was no joy in their encounters. She would smile sadly and go her way, and he would smile back and go his. He had not been a wanted baby. His mother had planned a career as an office manager, but the unexpected birth had led her to a life of being nothing more than a waitress.
“I understand,” said Tyrone. “They would not be gentle.”
“Good. I will get you shoes and clothes.”
“And a cap to cover the bandage,” said Tyrone. “I have just the thing, an orange Netherlands cap from the 2004 Olympics,” said Dr. Simotva.
When Dr. Simotva left the room, Tyrone pulled out his cell phone, pulled up his list of recent calls, and punched in the number of the Zaray Hotel. When the night clerk answered, Tyrone asked to be connected to the room of Iris Templeton.
Sasha rationalized. He was usually very good at this, though his confidence had been eroding for the better part of a year.
There was really nothing wrong with being in the bed of the Englishwoman he was guarding. This way he could be at her side twenty-four hours a day, his gun, a Makarov/Shigapov pistol with a twelve-round magazine, within easy reach.
When they had returned to the hotel earlier that night, they had changed rooms and informed the desk that no one was to acknowledge that Iris Templeton was even in the hotel. The consequences of not complying with the police were enough to get full cooperation.
Sasha had volunteered to remain with Iris. Elena fully understood what this meant, but she was too tired and had far too much on her mind to object.
When the phone rang through the darkness, Iris moved out of his arms and reached for it before Sasha could stop her.
“Yes,” she said to the night clerk, “put him through.”
She reached over, phone in hand, to push the button that turned on the light above the bed. Sasha was awake now, listening to her side of the conversation.
“Tyrone. . When?. . We had an agreement. . I am sorry you have been put through-Two thousand euros is far too much. I can get my editor to approve one thousand. . All right. One thousand, five hundred. . Bring it to me now and I will give you a check. . Yes, I can give you a thousand in cash. . One hour.”
She hung up and looked at Sasha.
“You have a very sad face, policeman.”
“I am a sad policeman,” he said.
“You had better put on your pants,” she said, climbing out of the bed. She looked incredibly slim and healthy as she moved nude across the room. Sasha tried to compare her to his wife. He found that he was no longer certain what his wife looked like without her clothes on.
“A sad policeman,” he said to himself as he swung out of the bed.
11
