through it.
“Be careful with that please,” said Iris.
Elena and Iris knew full well what the two men were looking for. Word had somehow gotten to them. Their orders were clear: find the tape.
They took only minutes to find the miniature tape recorder and the tape inside. They were tucked into the suitcase lining. The detective with the belly began to play the tape and immediately knew it was what he was looking for.
“We must take this,” said the detective in the leather jacket. “It will be returned to you.”
“I am sure it will,” said Iris.
“We must also inspect your person,” said leather jacket.
“I can do that,” said Elena, stepping forward.
Leather jacket hesitated, a hand cupping his chin, and then said, “I will have to do that myself.”
“I protest,” said Iris.
“I understand,” said the detective as his hands went over her body from neck to toes.
When he finished, he stood.
“Have a safe trip back to England,” said leather jacket. “And come back soon.”
“Thank you,” said Iris, trying to control her anger as the men left the hotel room.
She checked her watch as she put her clothes back in the suitcases. “They were neater than I expected.”
“They took your tape,” said Elena.
“A copy rests uncomfortably wrapped in tissue between my legs, where I hoped that I would not be touched. There, I am ready to go.”
Sasha had shaved hurriedly and managed to nick himself twice, small nicks, one just under his nose, the other on his neck. He was at Petrovka looking for Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov. When Sasha reached the door of the space shared by the detectives of the Office of Special Investigations, he was startled to see Tyrone, Sergei Bresnechov, coming down the stairs.
Sasha and Elena’s plan had been to find Rostnikov and suggest that he put the boy who called himself Tyrone into seclusion to protect him from Pavel Petrov. Sasha crossed the hall quickly to the Chief Inspector’s office, knocked, got no reply, and entered to a sight that made his knees very weak and his stomach threaten to surrender.
There sat his mother and his wife.
“What?” he asked.
“We are here to see Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov,” said Lydia.
“Why?”
“To determine if you merit yet another chance,” said Sasha’s mother.
Maya sat, hands in her lap, looking up at him as if he were an unwelcome trespasser.
“Go away,” said Lydia, sweeping him away with her arm.
A dazed Sasha Tkach backed out of the office unsure of whether he had witnessed reality or a hazy dream. He considered opening the door again but decided to go across the hall to his desk.
14
Pavel Petrov’s office at Gasprom was impressive. It was meant to be. Colonel Igor Yaklovev, however, was unimpressed.
Both men wanted, lived for, power, but the Yak was content with a reserved power.
Petrov wanted those who came in contact with him and heard of him to think in terms of ruthless power. The Yak wanted few to hear of him and most to think of him not at all.
And finally, Pavel Petrov was a violent pimp and a murderer. Igor Yaklovev was definitely not violent, and if he had caused a death or two in his career, it was just part of the job.
Most visitors to Petrov’s office were intimidated by its size, the awards on the walls, the massive antique desk, and the man behind it.
“Please sit,” said Petrov.
It was not the Yak’s wish to leave his office except on very rare occasions to dine, lunch or dinner, at a restaurant, seated at a quiet table to the side, from which he could watch the people at middle levels of power. This was sufficient public exposure.
The Yak sat, expressionless, across from the smiling, confident Petrov, who said, “You are admiring my desk.”
“Yes.”
“Following the Revolution the desk was taken from the office of the head of the personal guard of the Tsar himself. For sixty years it was forgotten in the office of a pompous notary. And then one day a collector of such pieces told an acquaintance of mine who owed me more than just a favor. And within a day, the son of the now- dead notary, after a very small payment and a few minutes of persuasion, sold the desk to me.”
Petrov lovingly ran the palm of his left hand across the shining desk.
They were a study in contrasts. Pavel Petrov was tall, definitely handsome, with well-groomed black hair, almost perfect skin, and white teeth. He was a presence with which to be reckoned. Igor Yaklovev in mufti was a most unimpressive presence. He was five-foot-six, lean, pale.
“It is yours,” said Petrov, patting the table as if it were a favorite pet. “I give it to you.”
“There is no room in my office for such a gift.”
Pavel Petrov swiveled in his chair. His back was to the Yak.
“Then sell it. In one of the drawers you will find a very generous sum.”
“How generous?”
“That depends on the evidence you have of certain indiscretions of mine.”
Had Petrov sent someone to follow the Bresnechov boy?
“Like murder?” asked the Yak. “I am not interested in money. But I do have a counteroffer. I have a recording of a conversation between you and an English journalist named Iris Templeton.”
Pavel Petrov spun around again to face his visitor. Petrov’s fingers began to tap out a quite uneven beat.
“What does interest you in this fragile life?”
The Yak ignored the threat and told the powerful man across from him that he wanted only to let him know that he had the tape.
“I see,” said Petrov. “And copies?”
“I expect to have all that exist in my hands before tomorrow ends.”
“Am I to trust you, Colonel Yaklovev?”
“It does not matter if you trust me. It matters only that you know I have the tape.”
“I think we understand each other,” said Petrov, standing.
“No, we do not,” said the Yak. “If you engage in any other criminal activity involving brutality or murder, if you hurt anyone, the tape gets released to the media and to all the members of your board of directors.”
Petrov was up now pacing the floor, pausing here to touch some object or award, pausing there to look at a photograph of him with a famous person, including three with Vladimir Putin.
“Offer accepted,” said Petrov.
“It was not just an offer. It is also a condition.”
Petrov decided to probe the dour man’s vulnerabilities. He would take his time. He would work slowly. He
