man’s name. The young man did know from Elena that she worked in the Office of Special Investigations. Therefore, he had asked for the boss of that department.
“What do you want?” asked the guard, who looked remarkably like one of the men who read the news on
The guard stayed well back when he asked the question and waited for an answer.
“To give him something of great value. It is my civic duty. Tell him it involves the man from Gasprom in whom he is interested.”
“Wait.”
The guard moved away, replaced by another guard who looked like a little boy with a big gun.
Tyrone had done his best to dress respectably, which meant he had to buy new clothes with some of the money he got from the British journalist. He had been given the money in the hallway after he turned over the tape. He did not say it was the only copy, and it was not. In his pocket was another copy.
Tyrone’s request was brought to the Yak’s assistant, Pankov, who weighed it carefully and moved to the window where he had a partial view of the gate. The young man looked harmless, but who knew these days? Two Chechen suicide bombers had attempted to enter Petrovka in the last three years. Neither had succeeded, but there might always be a first. The young man seemed to be in some pain, but that might be Pankov’s imagination.
“Wait.”
Pankov rubbed his palms against the sides of his pants to keep from revealing his perspiring hands. He had worked for Colonel Yaklovev for five years, yet the prospect of entering the office with news that the Yak might not like still terrified Pankov.
He knocked and was immediately told to enter. Behind the desk directly in front of him sat Igor Yaklovev under a portrait of Lenin that one might be forgiven for thinking was a portrait of the Yak himself.
“What?”
“A young man wants to see you,” said Pankov. “He claims to have something you would like to have, related to the man from Gasprom.”
The Yak pondered the situation for a moment. In his three years as Director of the Office of Special Investigations, no one had ever simply come to the gate seeking him.
“Have him thoroughly searched, every thread of his clothing and every tooth in his mouth and all the recesses of every orifice of his body.”
“Yes, sir,” said Pankov. “Then should I bring him here?”
“No,” said the Yak. “Turn him loose naked and tell him never to return.”
“I-” Pankov began.
“It is a joke, Pankov,” said the Yak with some exasperation.
“Oh. . ”
Pankov had never before heard the Yak utter anything that even sounded like a joke.
“Bring him,” said the Yak, and Pankov hurried out the door.
Ten minutes later the young man was ushered into the office of Igor Yaklovev.
“You have been beaten,” the Yak said to the boy who stood before his desk, “beaten by professionals.”
“By people who wanted to destroy what I have for you,” the young man said.
The boy was skinny, pigeon breasted. He had made some attempt to pat down his wild hair, but that had only made it worse.
Tyrone would have liked to sit. Sleep would be even better, but the man who looked like Lenin did not offer him a chair.
“Your name?”
“Tyrone.”
“Your real name.”
Tyrone hesitated.
“It would not be difficult to find out what it is without your cooperation.”
“Sergei Bresnechov.”
“Sergei Bresnechov, what do you have for me?”
“A recording of Pavel Petrov gladly confessing to murder.”
“Let me see it.”
“It is not on my person,” said Tyrone. “I am not a fool.”
“What do you want?” asked the Yak.
“Three thousand euros or one hundred and eighty-five thousand rubles.”
“I think you want something else in addition to money,” said the Yak.
“I want to work for you, handle all your electronic needs, you know, listening to your enemies, uncovering secrets they think are hidden on their computers, things like that.”
“And what would you want to be paid for this service?”
“We would negotiate it job by job.”
“Sit.”
Tyrone sat as if he felt no pain.
“If this recording is authentic,” said the Yak, “we can negotiate your terms. Does anyone else have a copy of this confession?”
“An English journalist named Iris Templeton thinks she has, but she will discover that she has a blank tape.”
“She will be very angry when she discovers the truth,” said the Yak.
“I hope so. Elena Timofeyeva works in your department.”
“Yes.”
“I have done a few things for her in the past. I do not think she will like what I have done to the English journalist.”
The Yak could see the hint of adoration behind the young man’s languid look. Such adoration might well be of value in the future.
“I will take care of that,” said the Yak. “The recording?”
“You have the frightened little man outside your office be at bottom of the escalator of the Olegskaya Metro station at exactly ten tomorrow morning.”
“I have no intention of betraying you,” said the Yak. “It is far easier to simply buy you, but if you wish to play games, I will oblige.”
Tyrone rose from the chair with some difficulty. His head still ached and dizziness prevailed when he stood.
“Are you all right?” asked the Yak.
“Perfectly,” said Tyrone, though he ached from deep bruises on his face, back, and stomach.
Something came to his mouth and Tyrone was certain that if he spat, it would be bloody.
“No more games after tomorrow morning,” said the Yak in warning as Tyrone crossed the room and opened the door.
“None,” he said. “I know how easy it would be for you to find me. I have left a gift to prove my loyalty.”
“A gift?”
“Maybe we should call it a good-faith offering. You will know about it soon.”
“I look forward to it with great anticipation,” the Yak said quite flatly. “And now, work.”
Tyrone left and Igor Yaklovev folded his hands and said, “Very easy.”
In the apartment in which Vera Korstov sat talking to Albina Babinski, Vera was trying to get the much larger woman to agree to confess to the murder of her husband. It was proving to be a most difficult task.
“It was not murder,” said Vera, cup of tea in her lap.
They were having a very civilized discussion of the consequences of Albina having cracked her husband’s skull with a blunt instrument.
“It was murder,” Albina said, looking at the knuckles of her hands. “He was not a bad man. He was not a
