A Whisper to the Living

would find someone within the Office of Special Investigations to corrupt, someone who could find that tape and destroy it, as Petrov would then destroy this Colonel who reeked with the sweet smell of victory.

Pavel was brought to a halt in his pacing by the Yak, who said, “I am not vulnerable to intimidation. I have no living relatives that I care in the least for. I have no friends. I have never broken the law, not even when I was a child.”

The policeman had kept up with him.

“I understand,” said Petrov. “Now, if you please, I would like to get back to work and do my part in keeping the gas flowing for the people of Russia.”

“And what is your work?”

“I am afraid I am not allowed to tell you that.”

“Politburo.”

“I cannot answer that.”

The truth was that Petrov existed in the company as one of but several people who deflected attacks on the company with charm, half-truths, and lies.

The Yak nodded in understanding.

Petrov decided that Iris Templeton had to have a copy of the tape and it would have to be destroyed. How many copies of the tape were out there? How many people would he have to kill or have killed? It was his own doing, his own arrogance. He had lived long on the edge and felt he would never plummet. Even now, when disaster crawled toward him like a fat spider, Pavel Petrov felt a thrill.

The smug police bureaucrat sitting in his office might have to be disposed of and-

“The tape is safe,” said the Yak. “If something happens to me it goes to someone who will immediately arrest you for murder. It will not matter if my death comes from a bullet in my brain or a fall down a flight of stairs.”

This is the second time that Colonel Yaklovev has seemed to read my mind. Am I that obvious?

Petrov decided he would make a phone call the moment the Yak left the room.

“You want evidence of corruption within the corporation?” said Petrov.

“Yes.”

“And you will overlook my. . indiscretions?”

“No. Never, but I will not yet call them into the light as long as you continue to provide me with evidence that I can use.”

“And you want this simply to uproot corruption?” said Petrov.

“I have other reasons you would not understand.”

“An honest man. There are all too few of them. I do not like honest men.”

The two men did not shake hands, nor did Petrov rise. Igor Yaklovev showed himself out, which was fine with Pavel. He had urgent business elsewhere. He picked up the telephone on his desk.

Paulinin took a plastic container from his desk drawer, popped it open, and put two yellow pills in his palm. He had been up for the past two days.

He had to speak to the dead.

Some of the dead had to be spoken to quickly, before they faded away. They did not stop yielding information, but they did deprive Paulinin of their company. The dead spoke only to him.

Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov was accustomed to the darkness and smells in the laboratory below the surface of Petrovka. He was also accustomed to finding a corpse on one or both of the tables beyond the labyrinth of tables filled with books, beakers, poisons, and instruments whose function it was best to keep to himself.

“These two,” said Paulinin, pushing his glasses up his nose with the back of his hand, which clutched a bloody scalpel. Paulinin preferred to work without latex gloves. He wanted to explore the nuanced corners, crannies, and protuberances that lay beneath the skull and inside the organs.

Paulinin, on rare occasions, admitted to himself that he might be mad.

“These two,” Paulinin repeated, looking down at the pale naked corpses of a bearded old man and an older woman. “They are victims of yet another copycat.”

The skull of the man was most recalcitrant. Paulinin picked at the cracked pieces as if they were parts of a coconut.

“Different hammer,” the scientist continued. “Different power. Different hand. These two were struck by someone left-handed. Your others were all murdered by a right-handed killer, except for the two of which I told you already.”

“He is even further from his goal than he thought,” said Rostnikov.

“His goal?” asked Paulinin as he probed into the dead woman’s stomach, which he had opened with a steel scalpel.

“To kill more people than any other Russian ever has.”

“In that case, I will delve more deeply,” said Paulinin, his fingers searching the cavity he had opened.

“Do that. And call me when you have something.”

“You already have an idea,” Paulinin said, using his free hand to turn the head of the man so it was facing straight up, eyes open.

“Perhaps,” said Rostnikov.

There was no direct flight from Moscow to London. Iris would have to spend two hours in the Frankfurt airport. She had experienced such waits before. She had a book with her, Notes on a Scandal, but she was sure that she would be unable to read. She had begun writing her story before the plane took off.

Iris Templeton welcomed the distraction of her laptop even more than that of the book she was reading. Iris Templeton had a secret. She had a deadly fear of flying. Given the choice, she would never fly again, but she did not have the choice and she did not want anyone to know her fear was kept in control with pills, hypnosis, alcohol, and meditation. She always flew first-class and always sat in an aisle seat. She limited herself to one drink a flight, regardless of how long the flight. Her preferred drink was a premium straight brandy. She loved the taste of brandy.

Iris did not have to stand when the woman moved past her to the window seat. There was plenty of legroom. The woman was slightly heavyset, well-groomed, business suit and briefcase with laptop computer. The woman smiled. Good teeth.

“Elizabeth Croning,” she said, reaching over to shake hands.

“Iris Templeton.”

Iris was in no mood for new friends or idle conversation. She removed her novel from her briefcase, inserted the fragile airline plugs in her ears, and adjusted the volume. It was something classical, possibly German, and too sweet for her taste but all right for holding off conversation.

She removed her laptop from its sleeve and waited for the gate to open like a Thoroughbred and for the fear to be smothered by the bright light of ideas and music.

From where he sat, he could just see her arm resting.

He had almost missed the flight. The call had come when he was on his way home. He had immediately caught a cab, gone to the airport, showed his passport and his identification, and hurried to the gate at the final call for takeoff.

There had just been time to pick up a travel bag at the airport.

He had been told that he would be supplied with a very compact weapon in lockers when he got to Frankfurt and London. He would not have to carry a weapon onto the plane. He had been told that Iris Templeton had a two-hour layover in Frankfurt. He had been told what he had to do. He would do it.

He had an aisle seat next to a black man in a gray suit and matching tie. The black man gave the late- arriving passenger as much room as he could and concentrated on the notebook full of lists of numbers.

The man who had arrived late did not look away for more than a few seconds. There was reason to believe someone else was on this plane watching Iris Templeton. Before it was over, he fully expected to know who that