good man. He was not a good husband.”
“. .and he killed Lena Medivkin,” added Vera.
“And he killed Lena Medivkin,” Albina repeated.
“If you do not tell the police what happened, Ivan Medivkin will suffer, go to prison, possibly be executed.”
“True, but if I tell, I will suffer. Would you like more tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“I have killed once. I think I can kill again. Let me show you something.”
She stood and crossed the room to the chest of drawers and opened the top drawer. Then she brought something out. It was a gun.
“I know almost nothing about guns,” Albina said. “Fedot said it was always loaded, that all one had to do was point it and pull the trigger. It was not unusual for him to take it out and aim it at my face.”
“Why did you stay with him?” Vera asked, trying not to look at the gun.
“I do not know,” said Albina, returning to the chair directly in front of her visitor. “I never considered leaving, probably never would have, had I not followed Fedot to that hotel.”
“I think we should finish our tea and call the police, or perhaps we should simply go to them.”
“I know a bit about prisons,” said Albina, looking first at the gun in her hand and then nowhere. “I know what will happen to me. I will be destroyed, violated, my body and mind insulted by the hands and tongues of foul-smelling strangers.”
“It is the right thing to do.”
“The right thing?” asked Albina “What do I care about doing the right thing? I care only at this point for staying alive.”
Vera put down her teacup and said, “I have changed my mind. A little more tea would be nice.”
“No,” said Albina, standing, weapon now aimed at her visitor.
“Neighbors will hear gunshots,” said Vera.
“In this outpost of the indifferent, no one will care. I can kill you and wrap you in something, maybe this carpet, and carry you out tonight. I can carry your body to the Metro station very late tonight, and when no one is looking I will sit you up on the bench at the entrance and leave with the carpet. The problem is that I like you. You have stuck by your man to the point at which your loyalty is about to lead to your death.”
“It would be very nice if we could think of a solution other than your shooting me and carrying my body through the streets of Moscow.”
“I am too tired to consider options.”
“Since my life depends on such considerations, let me present a few problems with your plan.”
“A few problems?”
Vera should have noticed long ago, but the woman had kept it covered by a shroud of pseudo-or perhaps real grief: Albina Babinski was drunk.
“Yes,” said Vera, still seated. “We seem to be getting along quite nicely. We might become friends. You do not really want to see me dead on your floor.”
“No, but I probably will not be haunted by the image, and if I am, so be it. You will join the legion of the dead who invade my dreams.”
Vera considered throwing the cup still half-full of tea at the head of Albina Babinski. It would almost certainly fail to save Vera, but there seemed to be nothing else to do. Albina raised the gun in a shaking hand and aimed it at Vera. The distance was but half a dozen feet.
“I cannot do it,” Albina said, now cradling the gun as if it were a newborn baby.
It was at this point that the door to the apartment flew open, destroyed at the hinges and locks. Both women turned toward the noise and witnessed a giant filling the doorway. He strode in. Albina fired at him.
“Ivan, no,” said Vera.
He pushed her to the side and advanced farther toward Albina Babinski.
Vera turned and leaped at the woman with the gun who was about to shoot again at Ivan Medivkin. Before Albina could fire off another round, Vera sank her teeth into the wrist of the arm with the gun. Both women tumbled backward, Vera on top, Albina letting out a scream of pain and dropping the gun.
Vera picked up the gun and turned to look at the Giant, who sat on the floor panting for air, blood pouring from a wound in his neck and another in his chest. She could see now that he was manacled.
“Are you all right?” asked Ivan.
“Yes, but you are not.”
“I am sorry, so sorry,” Albina said as she wept.
At that point, Iosef Rostnikov and Zelach thundered into the room. Iosef held a gun in his hand.
“Medivkin, you are a fool,” said Iosef.
“We might have been too late,” said Ivan.
Zelach stepped forward to put handcuffs on Albina Babinski, who held out her wrists dutifully and said, “My wrist is bleeding.”
“We will fix it,” said Zelach.
“I would not have shot her, you know, but when he came rushing at me-”
“No, I do not know,” said Zelach, helping the woman to her feet.
Vera and Iosef knelt at Ivan’s side. There was no point in trying to help him to his feet. He was far too big and solid.
Iosef had his cell phone out and called for an ambulance.
“Do not die,” said Vera. “I will not forgive you if you die.”
“I will not die,” said Ivan.
Ivan, his eyelids now very heavy, considered the likelihood of his own demise and gave himself odds of five to two in favor of survival.
Iris Templeton was packed and ready to go less than an hour after the attack by the two men. Elena stood at the door watching her.
“You have what you need?” asked Elena.
“More than enough,” said Iris, surveying her closed suitcase.
She had given her statement to two detectives, one in a leather jacket and the other in a zippered jacket that threatened to burst under the pressure of the man’s distinct belly. Even before the two detectives, who were not from the Office of Special Investigations, released her, Iris had begun writing the story in her head. It would be in four parts. First, the prostitution ring in Moscow; second, the murders of the prostitutes and the pimp; third, the attack on her own life by Pavel Petrov’s men; and fourth, the full exposé of Petrov himself.
The interviews with the prostitutes were on the miniature recorder that now rested in her suitcase, along with the recording of Pavel’s confession of murder. She did not want it or the tape she had purchased from Tyrone to be confiscated at the airport. Most of all she did not want Petrov to make another attempt on her life.
“I am ready,” she announced.
“You will wish to see Inspector Tkach?” asked Elena.
“Not necessarily.”
“I see.”
“Do you? I think you see a cold-hearted professional woman who has a great story and has used a handsome Russian policeman for fun and profit.”
“Used?”
“As he used me for refuge from a past he chose not to disclose.”
The door opened and the two detectives to whom Elena and Iris had given their report on what had taken place reentered the hotel room.
The one in the leather jacket wore his thick dark hair brushed back. He wore a smile that suggested he found the world and its vagaries amusing.
“We will have to search your suitcase,” the one in the leather jacket said.
“Why?”
“Orders,” said the man as the other detective, the one with the belly, moved to the bed and began to go
