“Ridiculous,” he said softly to his glass. “They haven’t even gone to a movie together.”
Rostnikov sensed the eyes of Povlevich of the KGB looking at him over the magazine. Should he call the man over, offer him a drink? The man looked lonely, but Rostnikov was tired. Perhaps tomorrow.
Rostnikov got up carefully, tucked Elena Timofeyeva’s notebook under his arm, and slowly made his way across the patio, through the lobby, and up to his room, which had, according to Major Sanchez, been used frequently by Maria Fernandez. Rostnikov drew himself a tepid bath.
He closed his eyes and thought of Maria Fernandez, who had certainly bathed in this same tub. He imagined her looking down at him with a smile. But the figure above him was uncomfortably pale and vague. He reminded himself to ask Major Sanchez for a photograph of the dead woman. The warm water appeased his leg sufficiently for him to work his way out of the tub, dry himself, and put on the boxer shorts in which he slept.
He lay in bed for a while reading about Carella and Brown. Finally, with the ghost of Maria Fernandez lying next to him in the darkness, Rostnikov turned off the light and closed his eyes.
While Rostnikov was reading his book, Major Sanchez and Antonio Rodriguez met in the major’s office, where they drank from glasses filled with Russian vodka.
“He knows,” said Rodriguez, adjusting his thick glasses.
“That doesn’t surprise me, Antonio.”
“Nor me. Does it matter?”
Sanchez looked at his drink and pursed his lips.
“Who knows? Probably not.”
“I like him, the Russian policeman.”
“He is likable,” said Sanchez. “But …”
“But?”
Major Sanchez put a finger to his lips and said quietly, “Antonio, my friend, there are things it is best that you not know, things I wish I did not have to know.”
The major held up his glass.
“To the Russian.”
Rodriguez blinked once, raised his glass, and repeated, “To the Russian.”
“But if the devil springs forth suddenly from the earth …” Sanchez said.
“… then may he spring forth not under us but under the Russian.”
Emil Karpo sat upright in his straight-backed wooden chair staring at the wall of his room.
Earlier, as he did every morning before dawn, Karpo had wrapped himself in the thick, dark robe he had been given by his mother two decades ago. He had taken a clean blue towel, the blue plastic container that held his soap, and the black plastic container that held his straight razor, and had gone to the communal shower at the end of the hall. Under the stream of cold water, he had carefully soaped and washed his body and hair. He had then shaved without a mirror. When he was done he had carefully rinsed his razor.
Back in his room, Emil Karpo had dressed and brushed his hair back with the same bristle brush he had used since coming to Moscow years before. He had taken good care of his few belongings, and they had endured.
He had eaten his bread and tomato, drunk his glass of cold tea, and cleaned his already clean room.
Now he sat facing the wall, his dark shades and curtains drawn to keep out the sun, a bright lamp turned to face the map of Moscow on his wall. It was not as elaborate as the map in Yevgeny Odom’s apartment, and the names of the streets had not yet been changed to eliminate the revolution, but otherwise it was the same.
Karpo had prepared four Lucite overlays for his map. He had purchased the thin Lucite sheets at a market not far from the Kremlin. Each sheet had been covered with advertising for some French cigarettes. Karpo had painstakingly removed the advertising with a sharp knife.
The four overlays, each marked in a different color, were arranged so that they could be read even if all were placed over the map at the same time. One overlay showed the location of each murder he felt reasonably certain had been committed by Case 341. A second overlay showed the date, time of day, and weapon used in the murder. A third overlay gave information on each victim by location. A fourth overlay indicated if any witnesses had been found and what, exactly, the witnesses had seen.
Karpo had looked at his map and overlays for hours. There should have been a pattern, but there appeared to be no pattern-no relationship between the days of the week of the murders, the intervals between, the times of day, the phases of the moon, the victims (though he seemed to prefer them young), the weapons used, the locations.
Yet perhaps there was a pattern. The killer was working hard to keep from falling into a pattern. He had even attacked twice in the same location, among the stand of birch trees behind the USSR Economic Achievements Exhibition. The pattern was the conscious avoidance of a pattern.
Karpo’s task was to outguess the killer. To do this he had to figure out where and when he was least likely to attack next.
So Emil Karpo sat for a time, his eyes on the map. Occasionally he got up to switch the overlays, then sat down again to stare at the map, consider a new possibility, take more notes.
He was going over the relationship of night attacks to day attacks when he sensed the sound of footsteps long before he was fully aware of them. They came up the stairs toward his landing, moved down the uncarpeted floor of the corridor. The pace slowed a few dozen paces from his door, and he rose silently, crossed the room, and opened the door. It was Mathilde Verson.
“You don’t ask who’s knocking before you open your door at five in the morning?”
Karpo stood back to let her in.
“You didn’t knock.”
“You didn’t give me a chance. But it doesn’t matter. You knew it was me,” she said, stepping inside. He closed the door.
Her red hair flashed fiery in the light of the lamp as she walked toward the window.
“May I let in the sun?” she asked, reaching for the shade.
Karpo said nothing.
“The sun is up,” she said.
“Five forty-seven,” he said.
She eased the shade up and let in the day. She wore an orange dress with yellow flowers.
“You have something to ask me, Emil Karpo?”
Her hands were on her hips. With the open window behind her he could not clearly see her face, but he was sure she was smiling.
“You are going away,” he said. “An emergency. You will not be gone long.”
“My detective,” she said, looking about the room.
“If you were in trouble, you would have said so in the hall. It would have been evident from the tension in your muscles and your voice. However, if it were not an emergency, you would not have come here this early. If you were going to stay away long or were planning never to see me again, you would not be in a playful mood.”
She sat on the edge of his bed and looked at the map on the wall.
“And where am I going on this brief trip?” she asked.
“Odessa,” he said. “Your sister is getting married, an unexpected marriage.”
He could see her face now. She smiled and cocked her head to one side.
“Absolutely wrong,” she said.
Karpo stood rigid.
“No.” She sighed. “Don’t worry. You are not wrong.”
“Your family is in Odessa. Births, marriages, and honors are nontragic emergencies. Your sister is unmarried and so-”
“And so,” Mathilde interrupted. She got up from the bed. “How many years have we been together, Emil Karpo?”
“Four years, two months, and twelve days,” he answered instantly.
