“You are.”
“Will I stun the psychologists and psychiatrists who examine me in prison?”
“Possibly.”
“Yes, they will probe my life, ask questions about my childhood, my mother and father, and discover nothing. Why do you want to help me?”
“What have I said that makes you think I want to help you?” Rostnikov said.
“Do you have handcuffs with you?”
“Yes.”
“You will put them on my wrists and take me away.”
“It will all end in a whisper.”
“No,” said Chenko, rising, hammer in his right hand.
“First place the hammer on the ground,” Rostnikov said with a series of grunts as he rose with the revolver now aimed at the chest of Aleksandr Chenko.
Chenko ignored him and said, “People live with the constant fear of death. They, the old, fear its coming. With this hammer, I release them quickly so that they will fear no more. Do you fear death, policeman?”
He asked stepping forward, hammer now rising.
“I do,” said Rostnikov. “But that does not matter. Put down the hammer, Aleksandr Chenko.”
The door of the apartment flew open. There was a sudden storm of gunfire. Rostnikov distinctly heard a ping as a bullet hit a spot of metal on his leg. The bottle of Nitin wine exploded, its contents spraying upon the falling body of Aleksandr Chenko.
Rostnikov was certain that he felt one bullet hit him and then another one. He could see Aleksandr Chenko, spattered with wine and bullets, fall backward over the chair, the hammer spinning around in the air and breaking free through the window, sending a brief rain of shards of glass flying atop both the policeman and the serial killer.
Iris Templeton turned her head to the rear as if she were looking for the flight attendant. No one was looking at Iris. At least not at that moment. She considered the woman in a business suit in the window seat next to her. Then there was the dark, good-looking man in business class who spoke perfect Spanish on the airline phone. Perhaps it was the lean, pale man in a black suit whose eyes were turned toward the window. Even if someone was watching her, there was no point in worrying until they were on the ground, which would be very soon.
Of course she thought that the most likely truth was that no one was watching Iris Templeton. She changed her mind when the plane landed in Frankfurt and she was sitting in the coffee bar with a biscotto and a cup of coffee. She was certain she was being watched, though she recognized no one from the plane. Perhaps Petrov had called ahead, perhaps many things.
If someone was planning to get the tape of her and Pavel Petrov, they would have to wait until the plane landed in London and luggage had been picked up. Richard Neatly was supposed to meet her at the airport. She had called ahead. Richard was a very good man, but he was short, almost frail, fussy, and a few years past sixty years old and would be no good in a crisis. His heart was in a good place, but he sighed when news readers on the BBC made an error in grammar. She was certain that if he were here now he would, as he had done in the past, remind her that “biscotti” was plural and not singular, but she had never heard anyone order a “biscotto” and she did not intend to be the first.
Normally, Iris enjoyed nothing more than an almond biscotto. Even a chocolate would do. Any biscotto would help compose her. But not today. She sat. She ate. She drank, but without the enthusiasm she usually savored.
She was certain the lean man would be on the plane to London. She looked at him. He looked away, not quickly but with the deliberation of someone who had seen enough this time.
The list of arrivals and departures above her clicked, and her flight to Gatwick appeared.
She had another hour with the dark man.
“The power of Christ has saved you, but why?”
Artyom Gorodeyov had brought his message to the bedside of Ivan Medivkin, who was in no condition to hear it. Vera Korstov at his bedside in the hospital thought it would have been more helpful had Christ intervened a little while earlier.
Vera was little interested in the question the man with the shaved head and no neck had posed. Though Marx and Lenin were not her gods, at least they were firmly rooted in reality.
“Why?” asked Vera over the rush of hallway noise through the slightly open door.
“You are famous,” said Gorodeyov. “You are now a hero. You have the power to impel thousands, maybe even millions, to embrace the Union of the Return.”
“Which is a political party calling for the return of Stalinist control,” said Vera. “Stalin for Christ.”
Ivan groaned and tried to roll into a more comfortable position, but the pain in his neck, arm, and shoulder was too much to bear.
Doctors, nurses, therapists had come, though Ivan was too groggy to fully understand what had happened. He did know that he was not expected to die. He did know that returning to the ring now was a distinct possibility. Only hours ago he had abandoned all hope of boxing again. Now he was a hero.
“Rest,” Klaus Agrinkov had said. “No hurry. We have impressive offers from all over the world: Kuwait, the United States, Indonesia, everywhere.”
Ivan reached for Vera’s hand now as Gorodeyov leaned forward and continued his sermon.
“You owe it to Mother Russia,” whispered Gorodeyov.
Ivan could smell the man’s breath, an unpleasant combination of garlic and breath mint.
Vera was impressed by the man’s ability to penetrate the imposing protection of the quite visible police in the hallways. The Union of the Return had more power than she had expected, to get through the gauntlet of uniforms.
“I am tired,” Ivan said.
The bed was uncomfortable, at least half a foot too short. His feet dangled over just enough to disturb whatever comfort he might hope to find.
His unwanted visitor reminded Ivan of a soccer ball. He began to smile but failed. Even a smile brought pain.
“We will talk later,” said Gorodeyov. “You can come to the compound to rest and recover. You will be protected, unbothered.” The visitor’s offer was very appealing to Ivan. He remembered the compound. Were the people that friendly? Was it really that beautiful?
“Consider it, Ivan Medivkin,” said the man, patting Ivan on the arm.
The giant was now snoring fitfully.
The usual crowd at Gatwick stood waiting at the belt for their luggage to rumble by. Since it was just after midnight and many passengers had been traveling for as much as a full day or more from all over the world, the battle for a good space was less frantic than usual. There was almost a dreamy haze of shared understanding.
Iris had but one bag, green canvas, wheels, made for world travel. She reached between the bustling woman and the lean man from the plane with a “pardon me.” Someone bumped into her and the bustling woman’s hand reached out to grasp the handle of the bag and start to pull it from the grinding belt.
Iris reached out to stop the woman. Before it was necessary to do battle, the woman loosened her grip and the canvas bag tumbled forward on the belt for another ride.
Iris turned toward the woman, heard an odd intake of breath, and saw a look of pale anguish on the face of the woman. She seemed about to fall. Iris reached out a hand, but the woman found sudden support from the pale man who immediately and calmly helped the woman to a seat. Many glanced; none moved; the woman seemed to be in safe hands. They all wished her well. They had apartments to get to with telephone messages, cats to feed, beds to drop onto.
On the belt came Iris Templeton’s green bag once more, but somehow it had lost the thin blue ribbon
