electricity.
She breathed heavily, tasted dry leaves in her mouth, opened her eye to see a blue-green beetle calmly munching on a blade of grass.
The bald man was panting wildly now as he again raised the metal bar.
“Don’t hit my face,” she pleaded, looking up at the man from her knees. It was like she was praying.
“I won’t hit your face,” Odom said, breathing deeply.
“I’ve never done anything like this be-”
“I don’t care,” said Odom. “Be quiet. Shh.”
Iliana looked up. The bald man had the fingers of his left hand to his lips. In his right hand was the black thing, which Iliana could now see was a piece of metal pipe. There was blood on the pipe. Her blood.
“My father …” Iliana tried.
“Quiet,” said the man, leaning down over her and whispering. “Sh. Sh. Yevgeny is sleeping.”
Iliana went quiet, spat out something, a leaf, a piece of grass, the beetle.
“You don’t go to the Polytechnic. You’re a runaway,” the man said.
“Yes,” Iliana said.
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen,” she lied.
“You made it very easy for him,” the bald man said. “You were not very smart. Do you know what park you are in?”
“No, I …”
“Sokolniki Park, the park of the falconers. The Czar’s huntsmen trained their falcons here. They swooped down on command, snatched birds in flight, and brought them back to their masters.”
“I’ve never …” Iliana began and then stopped.
“You are going to do what I tell you,” the man said. “You will do it exactly as I say, with enthusiasm and a perfect imitation of good cheer. You understand?”
“Yes,” said Iliana.
The pipe suddenly swooped down, making the sound of the rushing wind through its hollow center. It came down across her back as she tried to turn away. The pain was hot and wet. She screamed.
“No screaming,” said the man. “No screaming or you die.”
Iliana bit into her cheek to stifle her scream. She wished for the gunfire in the streets of Tbilisi, prayed that Anatoli or one of the others had followed her, vowed that if she lived through this she would never again work alone, never.
“No screams,” she said softly.
“Good,” said the man. “Then we begin.”
Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov disliked airplanes in general and Aeroflot flights in particular. He had heard from Prokofyev, who headed military security at Sheremetyevo International Airport, how Aeroflot was now being mismanaged by both the government and private investors. They had resorted to metallic cannibalism-plundering dead planes for parts-to keep the dwindling fleet flying.
There was a runway covered with weeds and hidden from most travelers that served as the graveyard of the flying dinosaurs of the former Soviet Union.
Prokofyev had offered to show the archaeological site to Rostnikov when next he flew, but the detective had chosen to leave the heap of rusting corpses and broken wings to his imagination.
There were many reasons beyond the decay of Aeroflot that caused Rostnikov’s general distrust of machines that flew. A primary factor was his concern that, on the slightest whim, the plane might grow weary, shed a wing, or decide that a small bolt that held the engine together should suddenly be spat out.
The behavior of animals was unpredictable within parameters that made Rostnikov comfortable. The behavior of machines, which could be predicted, struck him as no more to be counted on than the goodwill of a dancing bear. The purring of an engine and the purring of a cat were not signs of contentment but of potential irrationality.
These things had been on his mind when Rostnikov’s superior, Colonel Snitkonoy, known to all as the Gray Wolfhound, had seen him off at the airport.
They had spoken in the VIP lounge, a dark empty room with a bar that sold vodka and tasteless chips for hard currency. Elena Timofeyeva had sat in the vast, stale-smelling waiting room next to the VIP lounge as the Wolfhound had paced and gone over both Rostnikov’s assignment and the problems of the Special Investigation Office that were Rostnikov’s responsibility.
The Gray Wolfhound was a man designed to command respect. Always immaculately uniformed, with fair, well-cut features, blue eyes, and a mane of perfect white hair, the Wolfhound through wars, coups, and attempted coups had not only survived but prospered. Those in government and on Petrovka Street, however, had long considered the Wolfhound a joke whose function was to make glowing speeches and to escort middle-level foreign visitors on tours.
But the work of Porfiry Petrovich and his assistants, who had been demoted to the Wolfhound’s staff, had been given credit for preventing the assassination of the president. The Wolfhound had become a hero, and his ceremonial office, small though it was, was now being given increasingly delicate cases.
Some of these assignments came from those in the government who feared that the loyalty of more traditional departments could not be counted on in case of a sudden change in the government. Other difficult cases came from those who hoped that the man and his staff would fail and others loyal to the past would replace them.
“Delicacy,” the Wolfhound had said to Rostnikov, who sat in a particularly uncomfortable purple VIP chair looking up at the standing colonel. “The Cuban government does not wish to prosecute a Russian citizen for murder without the assurance that our government will not interfere.”
Rostnikov nodded dutifully, though the colonel had made this point at least four times in the past two days.
“Make no mistake”-the colonel pointed solemnly at Porfiry Petrovich-“the Cubans still rely upon our goodwill and we upon theirs. A time may come soon when our government will be in a position to resume meaningful trade with Cuba.”
Rostnikov nodded as Colonel Snitkonoy clasped both hands behind his back.
“In addition, there are members of the People’s Congress who have taken particular interest in this case. I have been told that there is concern that if it is not concluded with dispatch, certain radical elements, Pamyat, Stalinists, looking for a cause-in this case the conviction of a Russian citizen of murder in Cuba-will make an issue, demand his release, attack the government. And, I tell you this in confidence, there is concern that members of both the Congress and the KGB may be encouraging such a reaction. And so you are, as quickly as possible, to review the investigation of the Cuban police, confirm their findings, and return as quickly as possible.”
“What if he is innocent?” Rostnikov asked.
“That would greatly complicate the situation,” said the colonel. “But … you have seen the reports.”
Rostnikov nodded again.
“And?”
Rostnikov shrugged.
“Inspector Rostnikov,” the Wolfhound said with a weary sigh. “There are sensitivities here.”
“I will be sensitive to sensitivities,” said Rostnikov. “But …”
Colonel Snitkonoy shook his head.
“But what? Find what you will find, Inspector. Do what you must do. But it would be best if the man is guilty and the Cuban government has done an outstanding job of criminal investigation.”
“Let us hope then that this Russian citizen is guilty of murder,” said Rostnikov.
“I do not find irony engaging or instructional,” said the colonel, looking toward the door of the lounge. The bartender and a few passengers were being kept out of the lounge by two uniformed officers under the colonel’s orders.
“I will do my best to refrain from irony,” Rostnikov said. “And the Kazakhstani minister?”
“Deputy Inspector Karpo can do the paperwork,” the colonel said. “The man died of a heart attack. Unfortunately …”
