The Wolfhound’s eyes met and held Karpo’s, which revealed nothing.
“Very well. Go. I will let you know.”
Karpo nodded, and he and Tkach turned to leave.
“Attend to that cold, Deputy Inspector,” the Wolfhound said.
“I will,” answered Tkach, anxious to escape so he could let out the cough that he had choked down.
When the two detectives had gone, the Wolfhound considered whether he should indicate to the council that a plan had been suggested to catch the man who had murdered at least forty people in the past three years. He would then be placing not one but two distasteful decisions before them. If the council agreed to assign officers and Karpo’s plan failed, the council would know it quickly, for he would be expected to follow up with a report. If he did not report and word of it got back to any of the men in that room, he would have to explain why he had not done so. There was no help for it, he concluded, but to face the possibility of failure on two fronts of his besieged operation.
Though he usually enjoyed being the focus of attention, Colonel Snitkonoy did not walk into his outer office with the enormous confidence he usually projected.
When the colonel’s door opened, the startled Pankov rose quickly from behind his desk. He bumped his knee as he made a useless effort to pat down his hair.
“I’ll be gone two hours,” said the Wolfhound. “I want Major Grigorovich in my office at three-fifteen this afternoon. Also, put in a call to Inspector Rostnikov in Cuba. I want a full report from him in writing before the end of the day. He can dictate it to you.”
“Yes,” said Pankov, his hopes dashed for an easy day of paperwork.
“Havana is a city of misleading surfaces, you know?” said Antonio Rodriguez, taking off his thick glasses to wipe them on his shirt.
Rostnikov looked at the little man at his side. They were stopped at a red light on the Prado, a street whose broad median strip had benches, ornate iron railings, and stone lions at the corners. But the buildings that had once clearly been spectacular were all falling to ruin. Atlantis, thought Rostnikov. It is like Atlantis risen from the sea.
Rodriguez squinted into the afternoon sun, put on his glasses, and looked startled, as if the world had magically changed in the time it had taken to clean his glasses.
Rodriguez had been waiting at the hotel when Rostnikov returned from his workout, had greeted him saying, “Change your clothes quickly. I have something to show you.”
Rostnikov had gone to his room, showered and dressed, and returned to the excited little man, who urged him out into the street and into an automobile pitted with acne.
Rodriguez looked at the light, which was now green, and carefully changed gears on his 1954 Chevrolet. The car moved forward with a shake of metal. In a few places, the floor below Porfiry Petrovich’s feet was worn through with age and rust. It was disconcerting and fascinating to watch the brick street pass beneath him. Rodriguez talked excitedly.
“There,” he said. “That white house was Batista’s capitol. Now it is the headquarters of the Cuban Academy of Science. See there, right there, across from the ballet? That statue? Saint Martí. I was here the night in the 1950s-it was summer-when some U.S. Marines climbed on the statue. The people tried to kill them.”
“Have the Russians climbed any statues?” asked Rostnikov.
“Worse,” said Rodriguez. “They piss on the statues.”
A familiar red bus, the same kind of bus that traveled the Moscow streets, passed them quickly going in the opposite direction. Rostnikov looked up at the street signs carved into the building at the next corner. They were at the corner of Colón and Agramonte.
“There,” said Rodriguez. “You must look. Big white building. It was the Presidential Palace. Now it is the Museum of History. And here …”
He pulled the car over to let traffic pass and pointed to a small park surrounded by a dark iron fence. The park was cluttered with an odd assortment of gray-green trucks, jeeps, two airplanes, and a small boat.
“This too is a museum of the revolution,” said Rodriguez. “The boat is the
“Fascinating,” said Rostnikov. “But, Antonio Rodriguez, you did not snatch me from a few hours of rest to show me the sights of Havana.”
“We are a bit early,” the little man answered, putting his finger to his nose. “I wanted to be dramatic, you know. But, let’s go.”
He pulled the car back onto the Prado, made two left turns, and found a parking spot.
“We are lucky,” he said, backing into the space with a grinding of worn-out gears. “Tourists-Germans, Canadians-usually take all the spaces.”
When they got out, Rodriguez said, “This way.” Rostnikov followed him to a corner where they stood in front of a bar.
“La Floridita,” said Rodriguez proudly. “Hemingway’s favorite bar, where the daiquiri was invented. They have keeped it up for the tourists. Don’t get anything to eat. Just a drink. Overpriced. Next door is a good Cuban restaurant if you want to eat. That’s overpriced too, but not like La Floridita.”
Rodriguez led the way inside and they were met by the sound of an accordion playing “Fascination.”
To the left was a bar with a line of white-seated stools before it. The array of amber, white, and green bottles in front of the bar mirror was the most extensive Rostnikov had ever seen. On the wall was a large photograph of Ernest Hemingway. The small round tables in front of the bar were red with metal chairs around them. The metal chairs had white plastic seats and Rostnikov saw that the back supports for each chair were upright metal arrows.
The floor beneath their feet was black with small white squares embedded in it. To their right, the windows were closed, and each had a box in front of it filled with plants.
“As it was when Hemingway himself he sit on that very stool,” said Rodriguez. “I saw him myself in here one time. Or I think I did. Who remembers when history, memory, and wishes come together. You know?”
“I know,” said Rostnikov.
The accordion was joined by a violin and a bass. Rostnikov could see the musicians on a small platform in the next room, the room he assumed was the dining room of La Floridita. There were a few other people in the bar. Rodriguez moved as far from them as he could and indicated one of the small tables to Rostnikov. The moment they were seated a waiter dressed in white with a red tie appeared before them.
“Daiquiris,” said Rodriguez.
When the waiter had gone, Rodriguez adjusted his seat and said, “So?”
“So, indeed.”
“Tomorrow I take you to the Miramar,” said Rodriguez, looking around the room. “Used to be very exclusive in the 1930s, even the 1950s. Then the Russians took over. Russians and Bulgarians.”
Rostnikov sat stoically looking at the little man, who grinned back at him.
“I’m joking,” said Rodriguez. “Teasing. Forgive me. Our Cuban sense of humor it grows strange in isolation.”
“As ours has grown strange with the opening of borders,” said Rostnikov. “Why are we here?”
“The band,” Rodriguez said, leaning forward to whisper.
“They are adequate, but hardly memorable.”
“Wrong,” whispered Rodriguez. “Look at them.”
The trio were blacks with more than a trace of both Spanish and Indian blood. The violinist was a man of about forty with a round smiling face and a full mustache. The accordion player was a woman about the same age with very long, dark hair pulled back in a knot. The bass player was tall, perhaps fifty, with a flat African nose. Both men wore gray slacks and white short-sleeved shirts with black ties. The woman’s dress was colorful, a splash of orange, yellow, and red.
“I have looked,” said Rostnikov, turning to Rodriguez.
