Hard Currency

ELEVEN

Sasha Tkach had a cold. There was no denying it, no avoiding it, and no hiding it from Maya, who, Sasha was sure, was growing weary of his recurring bouts with viruses. He stood in the small cubbyhole that was the toilet and shower room of the apartment and looked at his face in the mirror. His nose was slightly red. His eyes looked moist. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to cough. He was certain, however, that he had a cold.

The prospect for the rest of the evening and the next morning was bleak. Neither Maya, his mother, nor the baby had any symptoms, but Pulcharia had a slight fever. He was the carrier. And that meant that certain things were inevitable. First, he had passed his cold on to his daughter, and the two of them would pass it on to the rest of the family if they had not already done so. Second, he would have to accept and swallow at least two of the vile little balls of Chinese medicine that his mother kept in a jar in her drawer.

He would have liked a shower but the water was, as always, tepid. Since there was no heat in the apartment and the weather was cold, he was afraid of risking a chill in spite of his mother’s repeated assurances that one did not make a cold worse by being cold. On the contrary, keeping cold kept one’s temperature down.

Yes, no doubt. Sasha now had the first sign of chills. He checked his shaved face, looked at his reasonably clean teeth, put on his robe, brushed his unruly hair back, and stepped out to face Maya, who was waiting her turn for the washroom.

“Yah plokhah syeebyah choostvooyoo. I’m not feeling well,” he announced in the next room, the only other room in the apartment, he could hear his mother urging Pulcharia to eat something.

Maya, who was sitting on the edge of the bed in her purple Chinese robe, stood and moved toward him.

“You are warm,” she said, touching his face.

“Because I am ill,” he said. “I just-”

“Yah nye galohdnah. I’m not hungry,” came Pulcharia’s small voice from the next room.

“Shh,” Maya said, touching her husband’s lips with her finger and then speaking softly. “I am not going to make you take care of the baby. I’m not going to ask you to make love. I am not going to give you a reason to fight with me because you don’t feel well.”

He had to admit that he had armed himself with anger, but that didn’t stop him from saying, “I’m not looking for a fight. Why would I look for a fight? I’m just …”

Maya’s soft round face moved to his and kissed him softly.

“Thank you,” he said. “But now you are certain to catch my cold.”

“It was inevitable,” she said.

Maya leaned against him.

“Why are you in such a good mood?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “I have as many reasons to be as discontent as you and as many reasons to be in a good mood. We have too little money and no privacy and no likelihood that it will change. But we have the children, a place to live, and each other.”

“I must work tonight,” he said. “And maybe for many nights.”

Maya stepped back and looked at him, her cool palms against his cheeks.

“I doubt if you will be much use to anyone as you are.”

“And …?”

“And nothing.” She moved past him to turn on the shower. “I have learned not to argue with you about such things. You will do them anyway.”

“The water is cold,” Sasha said.

“Invigorating,” she said.

Sasha smiled.

“It’s just potato soup,” Lydia’s voice crackled from the other room over the beat of the shower water. “It will make you well.”

Maya took off her robe, moved behind her husband, and put her arms around his waist.

“I just told you, I’m sick,” Sasha said, sniffling.

“Then there is no way to avoid it. It is better to get it quickly and get it over than try to hide from the inevitable.”

“Now you are a philosopher,” he said, putting his warm cheek against her cool one as she moved in front of him.

“I’ve always been a philosopher,” she said. “What I lack is recognition.”

“Perhaps I should pay closer attention.”

“There is no ‘perhaps’ about it.”

“A little. I eat a little,” said Pulcharia from the next room.

Maya smiled, her face inches from Sasha’s nose.

“You know you are depriving me of my righteous self-pity and anger,” he said.

She nodded.

“I could sulk and be angry about that.”

“Not once you have recognized it,” she said.

“Philosophy and psychology,” he said with a sigh. Then he stepped back from her. “I think I am going to sneeze.”

And, indeed, he did sneeze, a serious, moist, loud sneeze that brought his mother running into the room, Ilya in her arms clinging to her neck.

“Sasha, you are ill,” she announced in the loud monotone that confirmed her growing deafness.

“I sneezed one time,” he said, holding up a finger for her to see. “One time. One sneeze. One-”

And he sneezed again.

Triumph and disapproval clouded Lydia Tkach’s face as she looked at her naked daughter-in-law.

“Here, take,” Lydia said, handing the baby to Maya.

Pulcharia came padding barefoot into the bedroom. She wore a small T-shirt that advertised a French movie called La Triste.

Lydia was scurrying toward the dresser in the corner.

“Shto, what?” asked Pulcharia.

“Your father is sick,” bellowed Lydia. “Sick like you. Probably gave it to you.”

Sasha looked at Maya, who stroked the confused baby and shrugged helplessly at her husband. Pulcharia began to cry.

“Found it, here,” said Lydia, stepping back from the open drawer and holding up the milky bottle. For all Sasha knew, the marble-sized gray-white pellets that rattled around in it contained powdered excrement of eel.

“I am not ill,” Sasha insisted as his mother advanced on him, opening the bottle and paying no attention to his protest.

Considering the fact that he would spend all of the next day and who knew how many days beyond wandering through crowded, drafty Metro stations in the hope of attracting a serial murderer, Sasha looked at his wife and baby and then at the face of his red-nosed daughter and had the sudden urge to laugh. It made no sense. Only moments before he had been filled with anger and self-pity, but now it all seemed so absurd.

“Here,” Lydia said. In her outstretched palm rested two round pellets.

Sasha took them and winked at Pulcharia. The little girl appeared amazed at the size of the objects in her father’s hand and at the fact that he was putting them in his mouth.

“Water,” Lydia said. “Wait.”

She ran toward the outer room as Pulcharia ran after her.

“Why am I going to laugh?” he asked Maya.

“Because you are a Russian,” she said.

“And why am I taking these things?” he said.

“Because you love your mother, who drives you mad,” she said, rocking the baby on her shoulder.

Lydia returned holding up the half-full glass of water. He put the pills in his mouth, washed them down without gagging, grimaced at the strange bitter aftertaste, and handed his mother the empty glass. Maya laughed and Lydia looked at her.

“What is she laughing about?” asked Lydia. “And why doesn’t she have any clothes on?”

“She’s a Ukrainian,” said Sasha. “They laugh about things that are the pain of others and they have strange and ancient urges to run naked in the woods.”

“I hope my grandchildren do not inherit this,” Lydia said, turning her back and walking toward the door.

Sasha shook his head and looked at Maya.

“I hope they do,” he said quietly.

Then he sneezed again.

The woman on the low stage was very fat and very black. She wore a dress the color of pyehrseekee, peaches, a fruit of which Porfiry Petrovich was particularly fond.

The woman threw her head back and sang in this huge room filled with the smoke of cigars and the sweat of many bodies pressed around too few tables. She sang loud and deep with a trill in her voice of “Mariquita Linda, La Paloma.” She sang “Yo Te Quiero Mucho,” and though he could understand almost none of the words, Rostnikov was sure the songs were sad and plaintive; they could be nothing else.

There were several hundred people in the room, most of them Cubans who joined the wailing black woman in choruses and sometimes for an entire song. The men smoked, looked sad, smiled knowingly, and sang with emotion, their arms thrown around each other as they grew more drunk from the bottles of rum, wine, and vodka that were brought to the tables by sweating, mirthless waiters with rolled-up sleeves.

“What do you think, Porfiry Petrovich?” asked Major Fernando Sanchez, who was dressed for the evening in a pale green button-down shirt with an open collar. Since Rostnikov was seated across from Sanchez, the major had to raise his voice.

“She sounds Russian,” said Rostnikov.

Sanchez grinned, puffed on his cigar, and looked at Elena Timofeyeva, who sat to his right. She had attempted to sit next to Rostnikov but Sanchez had insisted that she would have a far better view of the singer from his side of the table. With a nod to the dour blond man at the door Sanchez had managed to get a table very close to the low stage.

Elena wore her flower-print dress, a green background with small red-and-orange multipetaled flowers. She also wore the imitation pearls she had tucked into the bottom of her travel case. The decision to put them on had taken her five trips to the mirror and moments of near agony. When it had been time to join Rostnikov in the lobby, she walked to the door of her room, hesitated, removed the pearls, placed them on a chair, and left the room. When she got to the elevator, she changed her mind again and went back for the pearls. A young couple, probably Canadians, had held the elevator for her.

Now she sat next to Sanchez, who looked at her approvingly, evidently pleased that they were color-coordinated. On Sanchez’s left was Antonio Rodriguez, the little journalist with the thick glasses. Rodriguez seemed to be deeply moved by the music and, from time to time, he redirected Rostnikov’s attention from the stage to a new singer or group of singers waiting to come on.

It was awkward for Rostnikov to face the performers since his back was to the stage. The chairs and tables were packed so tightly together that he could turn his chair only about one quarter of the way to glimpse the stage over his shoulder.

Povlevich, the thin KGB man with spaniel eyes, sat between Rodriguez and Rostnikov. Povlevich’s eyes seldom left the black singer as he drank steadily and deeply. Though he was attentive, his face betrayed no emotion.

A tap of wood against metal and the pointing of Rodriguez turned Rostnikov awkwardly once again to the stage, where a drummer, a guitar player, and the fat black woman prepared to sing again. The drummer and guitar player were dressed in identical white shirts and pants stained with perspiration even before they began. Both men, who looked like brothers, were dark and narrow of face and body.

The low level of chatter in the room stopped almost completely and the drum began a slow beat picked up by a languid tune on the guitar. Most of the patrons already knew the song and sighed in anticipation. Then the woman began to sing “Bésame Mucho.”

“That’s American,” Povlevich said softly under the music. “I heard the Beatles sing it.”

“The Beatles aren’t American,” said Rodriguez. “And what does it matter? American, Brazilian, Chinese.”

Povlevich shook his head and drank. Though he was turned partly toward the stage, Rostnikov was aware of Major Sanchez’s arm as it moved to the back of Elena Timofeyeva’s chair. She shifted uncomfortably as the audience joined in the chorus of the song and brought it through to an emotional conclusion.

The applause was wild, sincere. The trio onstage bowed and wiped their brows. Rostnikov turned, caught Elena’s eye, and then began to get up.

“What?” asked Major Sanchez, his arm coming down from Elena Timofeyeva’s chair.

“The rest room,” said Rostnikov.

“You just went to the rest room,” said Rodriguez.

“Perhaps an hour ago,” said Rostnikov, plotting a path through the chairs and tables. “I can only apologize for my inherited insufficiently small bladder.”

Rodriguez’s thick lenses turned toward Sanchez. The major looked at the little man with no movement of his head and no change of expression.

“I think I go with you,” said Rodriguez. “My bladder is also a small one.”

Povlevich hardly looked up as the two men made their way through the maze of people and furniture. The trio on the platform launched into “Todos Vuelven.”

The rest rooms were near the front of the club in an alcove of three doors, one marked with a dark cutout of a man, one with the cutout of a woman, and the third unmarked. A bored-looking man with broad shoulders and dark hair combed straight back leaned against the wall watching people enter and leave. He wore a black long-sleeved shirt with a turtleneck and black pants and shoes.

Rostnikov pushed ahead of the little journalist and went into the one-seat toilet. He put the flimsy hook into the eye screwed into the molding and moved to the commode.

Earlier he had examined the rest room and for the instant that he had been alone in the alcove, he had opened the door that was not marked. It had been dark, and he saw only that it led to a room beyond, in which he could see a faint light.

Rostnikov used the toilet, rinsed his hands in water at the small sink, and then shook them rapidly to partly dry them. There was neither soap nor towel in the rest room and the toilet paper was narrow strips of old newspaper.

He opened the door and let Rodriguez, who would have to at least make a pretense of using the toilet, enter.

“I will be just a moment,” said the little man over the wail of the black woman and a loud riff on the drum.

Rostnikov nodded.

The instant the washroom door was closed, Rostnikov went through the unmarked door, closed it, and groped into the dark for a lock or latch. There was none. His hand found a low table or cabinet. He pulled at it and full bottles rattled inside it. He got a grip with both hands and pulled hard. The cabinet reluctantly moved across the floor and Rostnikov dragged it in front of the door through which he had come.

The music beyond the door stopped. Applause. Then the flushing of a toilet.

Rostnikov looked around in search of the distant light he had seen earlier. For an instant he did not see it and then something moved and the light was there.

“This way,” a voice said in English.

Rostnikov took a step forward. His knee hit something solid.

“Wait,” came the voice, and Rostnikov could hear chain rattling against glass before the light came on, a single dangling bulb under which stood a lean, erect, young black man in jeans and a red T-shirt. The young man was eating a sandwich and seemed to be in no hurry.

“Take a bottle,” the young man said, nodding to his right.

Rostnikov looked at the boxes full of bottles that lined the room and moved to one of the boxes.

“Next one,” said the young man. “Better rum.”

Rostnikov obeyed. Out of the next box he pulled a dark brown bottle.

Someone tried the handle of the door through which Rostnikov had come. The door did not move.

“Strong,” said the young man softly, looking at the cabinet Rostnikov had moved. “Come.”

The man finished his sandwich, reached up, and turned off the light.

Colonel Snitkonoy slept in pajamas. He owned five pairs, all two-piece cotton with drawstring pants, all in muted solid colors, all made in Nigeria. The Wolfhound shaved each night before going to bed and again in the morning when he awakened. He brushed his teeth both morning and night.

He would have preferred to shave in the morning and sleep in the nude. He would have preferred to have a woman in the bed next to him. But the Wolfhound had decided long ago that he would share his life with no one lest he be vulnerable. He had also decided that he would go to bed each night fully prepared to be awakened in the core of darkness by a group of men in uniform accusing him of treachery.

Colonel Snitkonoy was a man who went through life immaculately prepared for disaster and reasonably confident that he was skillful enough to keep that disaster from taking place.

Today had been a supreme test of his skill.

As he sat in the chair of his small bedroom drinking the nightly cup of herbal tea his aide had prepared for him, the colonel went over the fifteen minutes he had spent in the Kremlin boardroom that had once been Stalin’s private sitting room.

He had entered, folder in hand, to face a dark wooden table at which sat ten weary-looking people, three of whom were women. Though the Wolfhound knew that four of the men were in the military, no one wore a uniform.

In front of each of the ten was a pile of papers, an ashtray, a coffee cup, a glass, and a carafe of water. The papers were disheveled, the ashtrays full, the coffee cups empty, and the water that remained in the carafes dusty.

There was an empty chair at the end of the table. General Karsnikov, once a bureau head in the KGB and now a military adviser, nodded to the empty seat. Colonel Snitkonoy took the chair, placed his files before him, and met the eyes of each of the ten with a sad, very small smile that he had practiced before his mirror. The smile was meant to convey the sense that he had bad news that it pained him greatly to present to these already sorely tried patriots, but that he felt was his duty to pass on for them to deal with in their greater knowledge and wisdom. Further, he wanted the smile to say that he was but their servant in this difficult situation. It was a lot to ask of a smile, but the Wolfhound was confident that he had succeeded.

General Karsnikov, a white-haired bull of a man with a too-tight collar and small round glasses, cleared his throat and looked at the colonel.

“We have read your report, Colonel Snitkonoy,” he said. “You and the Special Investigation Office are commended for your zealous efforts.”

This, the Wolfhound knew, was a bad start. Praise, especially from the man whom the Wolfhound knew would dearly love to take over the Special Investigations operation with one of his own people, meant only that condemnation was coming. It would have been better had they come at him with questions.

“I will convey the commendation of the committee to my staff,” he said.

There was a pause during which those around the table looked at the colonel, searched for something in the stacks before them, made notes, or did something of no consequence to keep from having to look at each other. These were people, as Colonel Snitkonoy well knew, with power but no consensus. The new Russia had not yet been defined. Those who ran it came mainly from the ranks of those who had run the Soviet Union before. There was little choice. To avoid complete chaos, Yeltsin had been forced to accept the hasty democratic conversion of thousands of former Party members. Among them, even in this room, were a smattering of true believers in the hope of a new Russia, believers without experience who had never participated in the apparatus. Though they were learning, the wisest of them were insecure. There were also those around the table whose uniforms and Party memberships lay neatly folded and ready in closets.

“The report presents several problems,” came a woman’s voice from the far end of the table. It was Olga Dimitkova, the youngest person in the room, an economist who along with her husband, a journalist, had stood with Yeltsin during the siege of the White House, the Parliament Building. She was thin, had short hair, and was rather pretty.

The Wolfhound dutifully opened his copy of the report.

“If what the report implies is true,” she said carefully, “it could have very severe consequences for Russia at a time when we are dependent on a sincere though fragile alliance of neighbors.”

She had prepared well and, the colonel was certain, had memorized what she was now saying. It would not be a good idea to interrupt or even imply by a nod that he had something to say. Snitkonoy folded his hands on the table and gave Olga Dimitkova his full attention.

“Our interests generally coincide with those who surround us,” she went on. “But there are tensions. There are also many Russians residing within the borders of sister states. One of those harboring a significant number of Russians is Kazakhstan. As you know, there have been ethnic conflicts throughout the former republics. Many thousands have been killed. This is perhaps inevitable as ethnic identities resurface. Were it to be thought that the foreign minister of Kazakhstan had been murdered while on a mission to Moscow the safety of several million Russians within Kazakhstan would be uncertain.”

“And,” came the voice of a tall, erect man in his late sixties, “if a minister from one of the former republics had been murdered while under our protection and it became known that we had not immediately disclosed the fact, other republics would view us with suspicion. The entire fragile network of the continuing alliance would be in jeopardy.”

The speaker, Maxim Popolov, had been carefully chosen to speak at this point. Popolov was the closest thing to an old friend the Wolfhound had around the table. Popolov had at one time been information director in the Ministry of the Interior. He and Colonel Snitkonoy had eaten together, exchanged information, and even, on occasions when it was mutually beneficial, supported each other’s careers. Now, Maxim Popolov’s eyes met those of the colonel and urged him to make no mistake.

“We are inextricably tied together in the collective minds of the Western nations,” Popolov went on, “and we are desperately in need of the financial support and goodwill of these nations if the new Russia is to survive.”

Popolov paused and reached for his cigarettes. Someone coughed.

“Therefore,” Popolov went on, “if a force within Russia, perhaps even within a government in transition, wished to cause upheaval by murdering the Kazakhstan foreign minister, it would not be in the best interest of the State to play into the hands of such a force by announcing to the world that the murder had taken place.”

Now General Karsnikov spoke. “The original report on the death of Kumad Kustan states that he died of a heart attack,” said the general. “The contradicting report comes from a single laboratory technician whose results in the past have ranged from the extraordinary to the eccentric. A panel of distinguished physicians has reaffirmed that the original finding of death by heart failure is accurate. The body of the deceased and all of its organs, with the agreement of the Kazakhstani parliament, have been cremated according to the wishes of the foreign minister’s family. You may now make your presentation of evidence and speculation to this panel for review and disposition.”

The Wolfhound looked around the room at each of the ten who had put him in this awkward position. No, that was not fair. He had put himself in this position, but he had had no choice. If someone had found that Karpo had presented him with a report concerning the possible murder of a foreign minister and he had chosen to suppress the report, it would surely have been held against him in the future. In years past it could have led to his imprisonment or execution. Now, who knew?

Some around the table looked at him with a challenge, almost willing him to put his neck in the noose. A few, including Popolov and Dimitkova, urged him with their looks to retreat with dignity. Others did not meet his eyes at all.

“I am here,” said the Wolfhound, in the deep, confident baritone he had perfected, “solely to inform this committee that such speculation exists and should be taken into account, dealt with as you see fit. I will support and execute any decisions you make.”

There was a rustling of papers and a sense of relief around the table before Popolov spoke again.

“We would like all copies of your report, all computer disks, and all information relating to it.”

“My assistant will have it in your hands by four o’clock,” said the Wolfhound.

“If you do not mind,” said General Karsnikov, “a member of my staff and an associate of member Olga Dimitkova will accompany you to your office immediately following this meeting to expedite this relay of information.”

The Wolfhound knew this meant that those around the table distrusted not only him but each other. He said, “I welcome and appreciate the committee’s willingness to act so quickly in resolving this issue so that I can get back to the mission of my office.”

“Your vigilance is appreciated,” said the general. “Please continue to bring to our attention any problem that might have serious consequences inside or outside our borders.”

In his mind, the Wolfhound translated this as, “If you put us in an awkward position like this again, you shall suffer for it.”

“Unless there is additional business,” said the general, turning to those at the table, “we shall now adjourn.”

“One question,” said Popolov, examining the burning end of his cigarette. “Colonel Snitkonoy, what progress has there been in identifying and apprehending the multiple murderer or murderers known as Tahpor?”

“Our office, in coordination with all other security services, is working to bring Case 341 successfully to a close,” said the Wolfhound. “We have a new initiative which we have reason to believe will soon lead us to the murderer.”

“Our security apparatus has suffered in prestige,” said Popolov, glancing at General Karsnikov and then back to Colonel Snitkonoy. “Failure to resolve such a loathsome string of killings could also have political and international consequences.”

“I understand,” said the Wolfhound. “And with that foremost in mind I request additional manpower from the MVD and other services for a one-week surveillance.”

“How many people will you need?” asked the general.

“At least one hundred armed officers.”

“And this is your idea, Colonel?” It was a new voice, the voice of General Lugharev of Military Investigation.

“No,” said the Wolfhound, “it is the idea of one of my men who has been on the case for several months.”

“Karpo,” said General Lugharev.

“Yes.”

“The same one who prepared the report on the alleged murder of Minister Kumad Kustan?”

“That is correct,” said the colonel.

“And you agree with his suggestion?”

“I believe it has merit,” said the colonel, “and that is why I presented it to you.”

“Given the current crisis in Moscow,” said Lugharev, “the gangs, the possibility of riots, I do not see how we can commit a small army of men and women without a stronger case for taking them from present important tasks.”

“I am afraid,” said General Karsnikov, “that you will have to tell your staff to engage in this speculative venture with whatever help the Metro division can give.”

“We will make do,” said Colonel Snitkonoy. It was what he had expected, no more, no less.

“We are adjourned,” General Karsnikov said abruptly.

Colonel Snitkonoy had waited for the members to begin rising before he got up, gathered his files, and allowed himself a moment of relief for having escaped with only a rap on the knuckles.

Following the meeting, Olga Dimitkova and a nonuniformed captain from General Karsnikov’s staff accompanied Colonel Snitkonoy back to Petrovka. They refused his offer of tea and waited in his office for Pankov to gather the records and both the original disk of Karpo’s report and his own backup, plus original “and file copies of the autopsy report on the foreign minister and the conflicting report on vital organs.

Conversation had been brief and Pankov had scrambled as quickly as he could to furnish the information.

Now, in the familiarity of his bedroom five hours later, Colonel Snitkonoy assessed the events of the day and concluded that he had done well. Everyone on the committee would assume that he had another copy of the evidence. But he had gone on record as having turned everything over to the committee. He had assured the committee that he understood the stakes and was prepared to cooperate.

The Wolfhound was confident that General Karsnikov had been a party to the death of the Kazakhstani minister, and he knew the general would appreciate his not forcing an issue that, at best, would lead to the general’s embarrassment.

The colonel finished his tea and looked at his lamp, an ancient stained-glass and lead monstrosity that had belonged to a member of the Czar’s private guard before the revolution. The problem was no longer the committee. The problem was Emil Karpo. The Wolfhound did not relish the prospect of conveying the committee’s decision to Karpo.

As the colonel turned off the light and climbed into bed, he considered the ways in which he might turn the events of the day into the promotion that would mark the successful culmination of a lifetime of service, success, and, above all, survival.

He was not quite asleep when he heard the rap on his door. The rap was followed by a louder rap, and Colonel Snitkonoy sat up and turned on the light. He automatically smoothed his hair back with his hands and straightened his pajamas.

“Come in,” he called out.

“Telephone,” came the voice of the colonel’s man. “General Lugharev. He says it is urgent.”

The Wolfhound got out of bed and picked up the phone from the bedside table. Outside the door he heard his aide padding away.

“Colonel Snitkonoy,” he said.

“Lugharev,” came the general’s tired voice. “I have good news. My men have found the killer of the Kazakhstani foreign minister. A Moslem separatist, from Kazakhstan, who was working as a waiter at the Hotel Russia the night of the reception. We have a full confession. He was given the drugs and the syringe by a radical group. We have the name of the Moslem doctor who prepared the injection and instructed the waiter.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” said the Wolfhound.

“Your information was invaluable,” said Lugharev with perhaps a hint of sarcasm. “The confession and the name of the Moslem doctor have been turned over to the Kazakhstani government with our assurances of cooperation should the man still be in Russia.”

“The waiter,” said the Wolfhound.

“Unfortunately,” said General Lugharev with a sigh, “he is dead. Threw himself through a window after he signed the confession. But do not worry. We have four witnesses to the confession.”

“Į had no fear, General. I am certain that you and your staff know what you are doing.”

“Your office will receive an official commendation from the committee,” said Lugharev. “Possibly another medal if we can ever agree about what our medals will look like from now on.”

“My staff and I need no medals,” said Colonel Snitkonoy. “It is sufficient that we have contributed to the apprehension of a criminal whose crime could have embarrassed many people.”

“You have always been adept at understanding political reality, Colonel,” said the general.

“Thank you, General. About those additional men …”

“I’m sorry,” said the general. “As much as I would like to contribute to your office having two major successes in a short period, I cannot release any officers. There are needs … I hope you understand.”

“Completely,” said the Wolfhound.

“Sleep well, Colonel.”

“And you too, General.”

When he hung up the phone, Colonel Snitkonoy got back into bed, allowed himself a small smile in the dark, and went instantly to sleep.

Yevgeny Odom stood at the window of his apartment looking at the apartment building across the way. He held a pair of binoculars in his right hand as he scanned the windows, secure in the knowledge that with his lights out he would not be seen.

Since he had arrived at the perfectly logical decision to make his next attack in a Metro station, he had been uneasy. He knew he should wait at least a week, but Kola pounded in the cage of Yevgeny’s chest, urging him to go out now, find a victim, and let the beast free to attack, to feed, to gorge on a young body.

Planning was essential. The charts were essential. But it was impossible to keep track of his records with Kola in a near-constant frenzy now. Yevgeny even had difficulty remembering whether the last one had been the young man with the backpack behind the opera or the blond girl in the park.

In the past, Kola had been content between killings to be thrown chunks of imagined horror. Eva at the clinic had once asked Yevgeny what he was smiling about after he had drawn blood from a pretty young woman. He had been smiling because he had imagined plunging the needle deeply into the woman’s arm and breaking it off for Kola, letting him watch her face as the horror came to her. He would never have actually done such a thing to someone at the clinic. He would always be gentle and give the least possible pain, so that returnees would ask for the nice man who didn’t hurt them and always had something cheerful to say.

But that impulse throbbed in him so powerfully now that Yevgeny Odom considered selecting one of the people he could now see across the street. He would charm his way in, let Kola kill them, and leave a note or a clue. It would put the beast to sleep for a while and give Yevgeny at least a night of rest. In the next apartment building, a woman and baby were alone because her husband worked nights. There was the young man who came home early from work before his sister, mother, and father. There were so many.

After Kola had killed one of them he would come back here and watch from the darkness as they discovered the body. There would be no danger in an attack so near his home. After the first four or five attacks he was sure the police had wasted no more effort on the assumption that the killer might be someone who lived or worked nearby. They simply didn’t have the resources. It would have been a waste.

Yevgeny tried to focus on the chart on the wall, but it was no use. Before he could change his mind, he went to the door of his apartment, stepped out, locked the door, and hurried down the stairs whistling something from Prokofiev to drown out the cries of Kola throbbing through him.

The rain had stopped and the sky was clear, but it was growing cold and the streets were slick and icy.

Near the Metro station he found an outdoor phone that worked. They might try to trace the call, and Yevgeny knew enough from technical journals to be sure that they could do it in seconds with the proper equipment. He would make no mistake.

He put in his kopecks, dialed 02, and waited for the three rings and the voice of a woman who said, “Police.”

“I wish to speak to someone in charge of the Tahpor investigation,” he said, raising his voice to near falsetto.

“One moment,” the woman answered.

Yevgeny had decided that he would wait no more than ten seconds for someone to answer. Then he would hang up. Perhaps Kola would be quiet and let Yevgeny rest. The urge would leave him by morning, and he would not feel the need to call, but …

“Special Security,” came a hollow voice.

“You are in charge of the Tahpor murders?” Yevgeny asked.

“I am an investigator,” the man said slowly, much too slowly for Yevgeny.

“My name is Igor Polynetsin,” said Yevgeny. “And you are …?”

“Deputy Inspector Karpo.”

Yevgeny hung up. It was enough. He had the name of an investigator. There could not be many Karpos in Moscow. It might take an hour or two to locate the right one, but when he did, he could call him at home in the middle of the night.

He stood shivering in the night wind, feeling the return of some control. The sense of exhilaration continued as he bounded away from the telephone, nodded to passersby in an un-Russian show of street goodwill, and considered what he might now eat since he was suddenly very hungry.

He also considered, and not for the very first time, that he might be mad.