“I know better than to assume romance, Karpo.”
“It is both a failing and an asset that I am committed to precision,” he said.
“But our relationship has changed greatly in that time,” she said, taking a step toward him.
“Yes.”
“You began as a client and became a friend,” she said.
“That is accurate,” he agreed.
“And,” she said, stepping even closer to him, “I have learned that behind your dedication to duty is a human with needs beyond those of a cyborg or an animal.”
Karpo said nothing.
“What is on the wall?” she asked.
He told her. She looked at the map and the Lucite coverings.
“There are so many,” she said.
“And no pattern,” Karpo said.
“Then something’s missing,” she said.
“No,” said Karpo. “It is complete.”
“No,” she insisted, walking to the map. “Something looks … You have a Metro map?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Same size?”
“Yes, and one for bus lines. But he has, as far as we know, never used the Metro in any-”
And Karpo stopped, the right corner of his mouth moving slightly in something only Mathilde Verson would recognize as a smile.
Moments later the Moscow Metro map was on the wall covered by the clear plastic sheets.
“Every murder has taken place within a five-minute walk from a Metro station,” he said.
“No attacks in Metro stations?” asked Mathilde.
“No. Nor right outside of them.”
“Maybe he wants to be near them,” she said. She was sitting in the straight-backed chair in the middle of the small room and looking up at Karpo. “But why?”
Karpo looked at the map again.
“Every Metro line,” he said. “Kirovsko-Frunzenskaya, Arbatsko-Pokrovskaya … Not just one or two lines.”
“Perhaps,” she said, “he is unaware that he is doing it. Or, perhaps, he cannot move far from the Metro yet wants to draw our attention away from it.”
“Because,” Karpo said, “he may work near the Metro.”
Karpo moved to his desk, gathered his notes, and turned to face Mathilde.
“I should have seen this,” he said. “What do I lack that prevented my seeing this?”
“Imagination,” Mathilde said.
“There may be some other link, some other grid that also matches. It could be a coincidence.”
“But you don’t think so,” she said.
“No. If this is right, we have narrowed our search down to perhaps eighty thousand people.”
“I did not say I could solve your problem, Emil. I simply pointed out a pattern.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Two weeks,” she said.
“Then I shall see you when you return. I wish you a good trip,” he said, moving toward the door.
“Where are you rushing to?” she asked.
“I shall wake Sasha Tkach and proceed to consider the relationship between the killings and the Metro.”
“He has a wife, two children, and a mother,” Mathilde said. “Let him sleep a little longer.”
Karpo considered the suggestion.
“Perhaps. He may be more useful if he is fully rested.”
Mathilde stepped toward him again.
“Emil Karpo, I am in a good mood. I have just given you a useful suggestion for finding a murderer. I am going to see my sister married. Therefore, though it is not Thursday, I suggest that you and I get undressed, get on top of your little prison cot, and make love.”
Karpo simply observed the woman who was now only inches from him.
“I am not proposing marriage,” she said. “Just a major deviation from routine.”
“When must you leave?” he asked.
“My train leaves at eleven. I’ll have to be out of here in no more than an hour.”
“That will give Sasha Tkach another hour and ten minutes of sleep. That should be sufficient,” said Karpo.
Mathilde shook her head, took the notebook from Karpo’s hand, and whispered, “How could any woman resist such a romantic offer?”
SEVEN
It was raining. No, to call it rain was an injustice to the madness that the skies had unleashed. The sheets of dark water that poured down were like nothing Porfiry Petrovich had ever seen. First there had been a gradual gathering of dark clouds as he drove toward the police station. Then came a distant cracking that might have been thunder or sounds from a construction site.
By the time Rostnikov arrived in the small cell in which Igor Shemenkov now sat at a small wooden table, the sky had gone insane. Rostnikov was fascinated. He stood at the window, his back to Shemenkov, whose neck was surrounded by a crude metal brace that made it impossible for him to turn his head.
“What are you looking at?” Shemenkov rasped.
“The rain,” said Rostnikov. “I have never seen rain like this.”
“It always rains like this,” Shemenkov croaked.
A loud crack and a bolt of lightning tore through the sky.
Rostnikov turned to face Shemenkov. “Moscow,” he said, “was built to make people feel small against the magnificence of the revolution. The streets are eight lanes wide, the statues are five stories high, the buildings are as big as mountains. But this-look at it, Shemenkov-this really makes one feel small. You feel we could be washed away in an instant.”
“I have been impressed by the weather since I came to Havana,” Shemenkov said. “And by the women. I wish I had never encountered either.”
Rostnikov looked at the disheveled hulk before him. Shemenkov had his head in his hands. Wisps of whatever hair he had left crept through his fingers. His eyes were puffed and red.
“If you kill yourself, Igor Shemenkov, you will be assumed guilty and I will have come to Cuba for nothing.”
Shemenkov pressed his head more tightly in the vise of his fingers.
“I did not attempt suicide to embarrass you,” said Shemenkov. He coughed painfully.
“Don’t do it again,” said Rostnikov. He crossed the room and sat down in the chair opposite the prisoner. “I bring you something that might be hope.”
Shemenkov’s eyes scanned the face of the detective.
“Someone threatened Maria Fernandez three or four weeks ago, a
“Yes,” said Shemenkov. “I told you. His name is Javier.”
“Do you think this
“Of course,” rasped Shemenkov so low that Rostnikov could barely hear him, “I didn’t kill her. Those people … they can go through walls, cast spells. … Of course.”
