As he pulled into the Academicheskaya Station, he realized that after he had lured the victim into one of the storerooms or tunnel alcoves, he would have to move the body to someplace more public, someplace the police wouldn’t connect with someone who knew the system well.
Although he was well aware that people would not notice a uniformed man who minded his business, he did not want to be seen simply wandering the outlying stations. Someone, perhaps even a Metro police officer, might remember his odd behavior after the body was found.
Inside of Yevgeny Odom the animal pulled and demanded release. Yevgeny resisted, but the effort was greater than had ever been required before. Kola had desires, appetites that Yevgeny did not understand, but he knew they were part of him. He knew that Kola had to be cared for.
Yevgeny Odom closed his eyes, took a deep breath to soothe the animal, and opened his eyes again as the train slowed and stopped at the Profsoyusnaya Station. On the almost empty platform stood a figure in black, a gaunt, pale figure with unblinking eyes. The figure turned his eyes to the arriving train and looked directly at Yevgeny Odom. In that moment as the train stopped and the doors opened, it seemed to Yevgeny Odom that the ghost on the platform looked into him, saw the snarling animal within him, and understood. The creature on the platform had such an animal within him too. It was like looking into a mirror and seeing one’s own darkness.
Then the doors closed and the train pulled away slowly, smoothly building up speed. Yevgeny commanded his body and face to show nothing, his mind to feel nothing. Yet he had the feeling that someone else was looking at him.
Through the small window behind him, Yevgeny saw him, a jowly man in a cap. The man nodded dreamily as he looked across the rows of seats at Yevgeny Odom, who responded with a sincere grin.
The man in the cap did not grin back. He had been awakened from a dream of demons by the lurching of the train car leaving the station. He was going to Belyayevo, the end of the line, so he had no worries about falling asleep. But then his eyes had opened and he found himself looking at a devil dressed as a Metro trainman, a devil grinning at him ready to leap forward through the door and over the seats to rip out his eyes. The man sat upright, careful not to look at the devil again, and resolved not to fall back asleep. He adjusted his cap, checked his watch, and pulled a battered paperback novel from his pocket. He pretended to read for four stops and then, unable to help himself, he glanced up to find that the devil had turned his back.
Emil Karpo had spent the night riding the Metro, getting off at outlying stations, determining which ones were least used late at night. A Metro police officer, a woman named Katrina Vross, had been assigned to show him the stations, point out the likely areas of attack, tell him about security, the nature of crimes encountered, the recent history of bizarre underground behavior and outbreaks of madness.
Karpo had listened to her without response for over an hour and then indicated that he wished to proceed on his own. This was fine with Katrina Vross, a weary, short, baggy-eyed chain-smoker with the put-upon air of many Russian bureaucrats whose attitude suggested that any question you might ask was a major imposition on their time, a reflection of your own stupidity, and a confirmation that life was an endless series of debilitating repetitions.
Karpo had considered bringing Sasha Tkach on his rounds but there were many good reasons why this was a bad idea. One reason was that Tkach’s cold had gotten much worse and he needed rest and a quick and at least partial recovery to put Karpo’s plan into action. Another reason was that Tkach should not be seen with Karpo or any other members of the police. A third reason was that Sasha Tkach had no faith in Emil Karpo’s plan.
“Your evidence is weak,” Sasha had said as they drank tea at the kiosk near the small park across from Petrovka.
The tea had been Karpo’s idea and as soon as the morning rain had stopped, they had walked across Petrovka Street between the cars and headed toward the kiosk.
“It is not a matter of evidence. I have a conviction now that I understand something about 341’s processes,” Karpo had answered.
After he had sneezed and wiped his nose, Sasha had said, “Karpo, have you abandoned logic for mysticism? Even if you are right, even if he will strike next time or the time after that in the Metro, we can’t possibly have any idea of when it will be.”
Karpo looked down the street at the cars sloshing through the puddles of rainwater and shook his head.
“Intuition is a form of logical empathy, not mysticism,” he said.
“Karl Marx?” Tkach guessed.
“Pavlov.”
“And so”-Tkach sniffled with some disdain-“we are to haunt the tunnels and stations because you have a bond with 341. I would prefer some evidence. You are the one who always demands evidence.”
Karpo did not answer. Sasha shook his head and blew his nose.
The rain began again. Not hard but dank, cold, and oppressive from the gray sky. They took refuge under a broad tree, Sasha clutching his tea in two hands and looking quite miserable.
“Alternatives, as you well know, are being pursued. Park patrols with plainclothes officers are doubled. Sites of previous attacks are being patrolled by cars on their rounds.”
“And so,” said Tkach with some sarcasm, “you do not fully trust your intuition.”
“It would be a mistake to do so. Here.”
He handed Sasha Tkach a small amber bottle. Sasha took it.
“Paulinin said that you should take one every three hours with food,” said Karpo.
Tkach looked at the unmarked bottle.
“What is it? Where did he …?”
“He got it from the pocket of a dead prostitute,” explained Karpo. “He analyzed it and found that it was English, a new antibiotic. It should help you.”
“Your concern for my health is touching,” said Tkach, pocketing the pills.
“I need you healthy and quickly,” answered Karpo. “The rain is stopping. We must get back.”
Sasha nodded and returned his plastic teacup to the kiosk manager, a short, fat man with an enormous nose.
And so Emil Karpo, after meeting with the deputy director of the Metro police and setting up a special-force low-profile patrol plan, had wandered the trains and stations listening to the subterranean rush of the cool air, watching faces, considering contingencies, and taking notes when he was alone.
It was on the platform of the Profsoyusnaya Station that he was observing an incoming train, scanning it to determine the number of passengers at this hour, when he saw the uniformed operator on the train.
The man wore a trainman’s cap that cast a shadow over his eyes, but Karpo knew the man was meeting his gaze. It was not unusual for people to stare at the vampire image of Emil Karpo if they felt it was safe to do so, as the girl Ginka in the owl makeup had done this morning. Occasionally, a person, usually a child, would look at him transfixed, wondering who this creature might be, their curiosity overcoming their fear.
But the man in the train, the man in the uniform, had looked at Karpo as if he recognized him, as if he had a question to ask, an important question. As the train had pulled away, his own reflection in the window was superimposed over that of the man within and Karpo had the fleeting impression that he was looking into himself at something he preferred not to see. Then the reflection, the man, and the train were gone.
Emil Karpo was not a man of great imagination. In fact, though he could see the occasional value of imagination in the methods of Porfiry Petrovich, his own strength had come through determination and a dogged loyalty to the law.
But Rostnikov was in Cuba. Mathilde, who had both imagination and a sense of humor he did not understand, was in Odessa. Paulinin had no interest in the living, and Tkach was too emotional and unfocused.
Karpo, therefore, was forced to rely on his own rudimentary imagination and was not sure whether his attempts were helpful or an impediment.
He stood on the platform, late-night commuters, Gypsy beggars, and occasional tourists giving him a great deal of room, as he tried to imagine the act of murder itself, tried to imagine himself in the park three days ago standing over the kneeling, perhaps pleading victim, Iliana Ivanova. He focused on a brick in the wall across the tracks, but the image that came was of Sasha Tkach’s daughter, Pulcharia.
Weeks ago, at a party for Tkach’s thirtieth birthday at Rostnikov’s apartment, Pulcharia Tkach had suddenly
