Hard Currency

The Wolfhound read the report while Karpo and Tkach waited. Sasha sneezed twice during the wait. He apologized both times, and blew his nose as discreetly as possible.

“Remarkable,” the Wolfhound said finally. “I have managed to free some people from other branches to help you for a few nights, but … but you are confident?” Snitkonoy looked resplendent. He wore a neatly pressed uniform with almost all his ribbons and several of the most impressive-looking medals.

“There is no certainty with a madman,” said Karpo.

Sasha sneezed.

“You should be in bed,” said the colonel.

“Tomorrow, sir,” said Tkach, trying to stifle another sneeze.

“Well,” said the Wolfhound with a sigh. “Proceed.”

Sasha turned and took a step toward the door, but Karpo stood his ground.

“The murder of the Kazakhstani foreign minister,” said Karpo.

The Wolfhound turned his back and strode to the window.

“It has been taken care of,” he said. “The murderer was a Kazakhstani Moslem, an extremist. He confessed and then committed suicide.”

“I see,” said Karpo.

“I believe you do,” said the Wolfhound. “I would appreciate your passing on our thanks to the forensics laboratory.”

“Paulinin,” said Karpo.

Tkach stood by the door, his hand on the knob.

“Emil,” he said as the Wolfhound turned. Karpo had not moved. “Let’s go.”

“You are dismissed, Deputy Inspector,” the Wolfhound said evenly.

“Emil,” Tkach whispered again, and this time Karpo turned without another word and followed Sasha Tkach into the outer office, closing the door gently behind him.

“We won’t get more men,” Tkach said as they sat in a canteen eating greasy vegetable pies and drinking tepid tea. “The Wolfhound is not going to get us any more help.”

Karpo took a bite of his pie, and nodded. People at the other plastic tables did their best to pretend that the man who looked like a vampire was in no way worthy of their attention. They tried, but they failed or left quickly.

“All the more reason we must keep our appointment in Izmailovo Park,” said Karpo.

FOURTEEN

Rostnikov blinked his eyes at the sunlit window, checked his watch, rolled toward the battered table next to the bed, and picked up the telephone.

“Cuarenta y cinco,” he said.

“Qué quiere?” the hotel operator answered.

“Cuarenta y cinco,” he repeated slowly.

“No entiendo,” said the operator.

Rostnikov repeated the number in Russian and English and then a voice came on, a man’s voice, which said, “Cuarenta y cinco.”

“Ah, bueno,” said the operator.

“Thank you,” Rostnikov said to the man who must have been monitoring his phone.

The man didn’t answer, but Elena did on the third ring.

“Elena Timofeyeva, are you dressed?”

“I am dressed,” she said.

“We meet in the lobby in twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes,” she said.

There was something in her voice that he had never heard before, at least never heard in her. It puzzled him.

“Are you well, Elena Timofeyeva?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Are you not going to ask where we are going?”

“Where are we going?”

“To see Major Sanchez about what happened last night,” he explained.

“Last night?” she asked, clearly straining to sound normal.

“Twenty minutes, Elena. You have time for a cold shower.”

He hung up the phone and went into the bathroom. He reached over to turn the hot water on and straightened to examine himself in the mirror.

The face was in need of a shave. The face was in need of sleep. The face was in need of the slap of cold Moscow winter. Cuba was fine for his leg but it was a narcotic against which he had to constantly struggle. The babalau had told him to leave as soon as he could and that was what he pledged to the flat-faced Russian face in the mirror. For an instant, as the steam began to cloud the mirror, Porfiry Petrovich had the impression that his image was grinning.

He moved away from the mirror and considered calling Elena back and telling her to meet him in an hour. He wanted to sink into the heat of the bath and read about some men who had killed Carella’s father. But a call would require him to deal with the operator. He shook his head no and climbed carefully into the bath.

“The Washtub is in Cuba?” asked Anatoli Xeromen. He sat on a park bench looking up at two policemen.

Anatoli had chosen the location for their meeting. On the weekends, Izmailovo Park, five times the size of New York’s Central Park, was the site of a massive market, hundreds of vendors trading goods for rubles and hard currency, goods that had only been dealt with underground a year ago. Caviar, hubcaps, army uniforms, dirty books, automobile parts. The Capones roamed the park on weekends picking up protection money, selling what they had stolen.

Now, though it was not the weekend, Anatoli sat where people would be sure to see him and the two huge bodyguards behind him, young men wearing sunglasses in spite of the overcast day and cold air, one with blue hair, the other with black-black hair. Anatoli himself wore jeans and a pullover long-sleeved soccer shirt of red and green that had the word “Italy” embossed on it in white letters.

Babushkas with strollers, old men carrying sacks and chess boxes, bundled children running for the playground or home passed behind them on the path. Karpo and Tkach had their backs to the path but Anatoli watched the passing parade as he carried on the conversation. Occasionally he would smile as if something seemed amusing.

“He is in Cuba,” Karpo confirmed. “We are authorized in his name to ask your assistance.”

“To do what?”

“Help us catch the man who killed Iliana Ivanova,” said Karpo.

“Her name was Yellow Angel,” Anatoli said.

“Yellow Angel,” Karpo conceded.

Tkach sniffled, wiped his nose, and sneezed.

“What has he got?” Anatoli asked, pointing at Tkach. “If he has something, I want him to stay away from me. AIDS, something like that.”

It had been reported but not confirmed that Anatoli required that all Capones be periodically tested for AIDS. It had also been reported that anyone found to have the virus would be expelled from the gang. It had also been reported that a carrier who concealed his disease was actually beaten to death and thrown in the Moscow River.

“I have a cold,” said Sasha. “A cold. That’s all.”

“Because if you have …” Anatoli began.

“It’s a damn cold,” Sasha shouted, taking a step toward the bench.