Hard Currency

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.

Anatoli didn’t move. His bodyguards reached back to where, both Karpo and Tkach were sure, they had weapons in their belts.

Karpo held up his right hand and motioned for Tkach to step back. Tkach wiped his nose again, pocketed the rumpled handkerchief, and stepped back reluctantly.

“I don’t like sick people,” said Anatoli. “We’ve got our own doctor. I don’t like sick people.”

“The person who killed Yellow Angel is sick,” said Karpo.

“I didn’t like him even when I thought he wasn’t sick,” said Anatoli. “What do you want?”

Karpo told him.

“And what do I get for this?”

“The killer of the girl is caught. Your people are safe from him.”

“And,” said Anatoli, “your bosses owe me. You owe me.

“No,” said Karpo emphatically. “We owe you nothing. My superiors will not even be told of your assistance.”

Anatoli laughed and looked back at his two bodyguards. They did not laugh.

It struck Tkach that the strutting little animal before them was imitating someone, a movie star or a television actor, but the imitation was so bad that he couldn’t tell who it was.

“You could have lied to me,” Anatoli said to Karpo.

“No, I could not,” replied Karpo.

“All right,” said Anatoli. “You’re honest with me. I’m honest with you. We do this and you owe us. Maybe one favor. Maybe two.”

“None,” said Karpo.

It was Sasha’s turn to smile at Anatoli, who met his eyes with hatred. These two policemen were fools. They should have known better than to turn him down in front of his bodyguards. Anatoli had a reputation. The problem was that he wanted to get Tahpor. He wanted to have the man in front of him begging for his life. He wanted to kill him before a gathering of Capones.

“We’ll do it,” he said. “What do you need and when?”

Karpo outlined his plan and was greeted with nods of approval.

“Then we are agreed,” said Karpo.

“We’ll use two-way radios,” said Anatoli.

“We do not have radios which can be assigned to you,” Karpo said.

“We have our own,” said Anatoli with a smile. “And ours are better than yours. Japanese.”

“No two-way radios,” said Karpo. “He would notice. I expect him to check very carefully before he acts. I want him led to Sasha Tkach and only to Sasha Tkach.”

Anatoli nodded.

“We use telephones,” he agreed. “Tour number?”

Karpo stepped forward and handed Anatoli a card on which he had written the number of the Metro station phone where he would be stationed. Anatoli glanced at the card and put it in his shirt pocket.

“We’ll lead him to your friend,” said Anatoli. He rose and looked at Tkach. “It’s our duty as good citizens.”

He suddenly leaped over the bench and walked between the two bodyguards, who kept their eyes on Karpo and Tkach as they backed away. When the trio had disappeared into the bushes, Tkach said, “Now we make deals with killers. One killer becomes better than the other. Then we find another better killer to kill this one.”

Karpo nodded and walked past Tkach to the path. There was no denying what Tkach had said, but Karpo believed that what they had just done was no different from what Colonel Snitkonoy had done the day before. The colonel had made a pact with the killers of the foreign minister of an allied country.

Expediency, he thought.

Tkach, his voice weak with congestion, repeated, “Expediency?”

Karpo had been unaware that he had spoken aloud. The revelation troubled him.

“Now we justify ourselves by saying we can deal with murderers because it is expedient?” rasped Tkach.

“It appears so,” said Karpo. As they walked, people parted in front of them to avoid the gaunt specter and the obviously ill young man.

“We have four hours. I’m taking you to see a doctor.”

Tkach grew suddenly angry, but he also felt something rattle in his chest and a surge of bile rise to his mouth. He said nothing more and followed Karpo toward the long night.

Porfiry Petrovich and Elena Timofeyeva ate a late breakfast in the main-floor restaurant of the El Presidente. The breakfast consisted of oranges, warm rolls, something that tasted like butter, almost black coffee, and silence. They were the only customers. Others had eaten and departed long ago. On a few white-tableclothed tables rested dirty plates and crumbs.

Rostnikov told her about his encounters of the night before and then asked her for her report. She shook her head as if to clear away annoying hair and then told him. Her account ended with the statement that she had been driven back to the hotel and had gone to bed.

“If you do not mind, Inspector,” she said when it was clear that they were finished, “I’d like to remain here and prepare my notes.”

Rostnikov, who had partly risen from his chair, looked at her. She made an effort to meet his eyes.

“I may need you, Elena Timofeyeva,” he said. “I don’t want anyone speaking Spanish in front of me today, at least not speaking it in the belief that I do not understand through you.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Elena, is there something you wish to tell me?”

“No, why?”

He shrugged and said nothing. Together they walked out of the restaurant and into the lobby. There among others were the haggard KGB shadow and the little journalist Antonio Rodriguez.

Rostnikov guided Elena to the door as the little man with the thick glasses leaped forward to intercept them.

“What happened to you?” the man said as Rostnikov continued to the door and opened it. “I mean last night.”

“Nothing,” said Rostnikov. “I drank too much.”

“Yes, yes,” said the man, “but there is much you should know about. I told you I would help you.”

They were out on the stone deck in front of the hotel now and the man continued to buzz around them.

“You need a ride? My car is right there, see? Not much, the Packard, but it runs. I’ll take you anywhere.”

“One condition,” said Rostnikov.

“Yes?” asked the little man eagerly.

“You do not speak. Inspector Timofeyeva is suffering a malady from her experiences last night.”

“But,” he said, “she seemed well when Major Sanchez took her back to the hotel. Maybe it was too much vodka.”

“The condition,” Rostnikov said.

“As you wish,” the man said. He looked at Elena with something that might have been concern. “I’ll be silent.”

And he was silent as he drove them to the police station where Major Sanchez could be seen looking out at them from his office window.

“Thank you,” said Rostnikov, holding the door open for Elena Timofeyeva, who looked decidedly pale.

“I’ll wait,” said Rodriguez.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Rostnikov. “I’m sure the major will see to it that we are driven back to the hotel.”

“But,” the little man said, moving close to Rostnikov, “there are things I want to show you.”

“Another time, perhaps,” said Rostnikov, walking toward the station.

Though his leg continued to feel better, Rostnikov did not move swiftly, but Elena Timofeyeva was moving even more slowly. Then, decisively, she moved forward ahead of him and held the door open as he joined her.

When they entered Major Sanchez’s office, he greeted them with an offer of coffee, which both Rostnikov and Elena accepted.

Sanchez was wearing a neatly pressed uniform. He smiled, pointed to open seats in front of his desk, and said, “And now, Inspector Rostnikov?”

“We close the case.” The moment Rostnikov spoke a familiar pain shot through his leg.

“Close it? How?” asked Sanchez, looking at the two Russians expectantly.

“The Santería, of course,” said Rostnikov. “Shemenkov and Maria Fernandez made the mistake of offending an important Santería. He had Maria murdered and made it look as if Shemenkov did it. And the woman in prison, Victoria Oliveras, they bribed or threatened her.”

“All very simple,” said Sanchez with a shake of his head. “A word here, a conclusion there, and your Russian is innocent.”

“We have gathered evidence and depositions,” said Rostnikov.

“And you are both satisfied that this is the case? You have enough evidence to clear your countryman?”

“We are satisfied,” said Rostnikov before Elena could answer.

“And you expect us to simply let your Russian free on your statement?” Sanchez asked.

“Inspector Timofeyeva will prepare a report,” Rostnikov said. “The report will be sent to you from Moscow. Evidence at the house of the Carerras, scratches, a ladder, all this should help to convince you.”

Sanchez held up both hands and said, “I am not convinced, but I will need the report. I will also need to reexamine the murder site. It is possible our investigators were a little less than zealous in their efforts because a Russian was accused. I’ll admit, just in this room, of course, that some members of this department might have been a bit too willing to think the worst of a Russian. But those are small possibilities. If your report is confirmed, and I doubt that it will be, Shemenkov will be freed when my superiors are convinced of his innocence. I assume you will now be returning to Moscow.”

“As quickly as possible,” said Rostnikov. “I would prefer to complete my report in Moscow.”

“As you wish. You have been difficult but in many ways I shall miss you.” Sanchez looked at Elena, who looked at Rostnikov.

“You have no more questions?” asked Rostnikov.

“At the moment, none,” said Sanchez. “Should I?”

Rostnikov shrugged.

“Well,” said Sanchez, “we await the report of your investigation and its conclusions.”

Rostnikov grunted.

“If there is anything …” Sanchez began.

“I would like to see Igor Shemenkov before we go,” said Rostnikov.

“Of course,” said Sanchez. He put down his coffee and picked up the phone.

“Shemenkov aquí inmediatamente,” he said, and hung up.

“Thank you,” said Rostnikov. “And if you don’t mind, I would like to see him alone.”

Sanchez rose, bowed his head slightly, and moved to the door.

“Perhaps Inspector Timofeyeva would like to step outside with me and continue our interesting conversation of this morning. I mean last night.”

“No,” said Elena. She glanced at Rostnikov, who was occupied with the darkness of the liquid in his coffee cup.

Sanchez shrugged and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Rostnikov avoided looking at Elena, though he was sure her eyes were now moist. The door opened and Igor Shemenkov lumbered in.

The door closed behind him and he stood there looking at his two fellow Russians. There was hope in his sunken eyes. He had shaved badly; he had cut himself just below the nose.

“We will file a report from Moscow,” said Rostnikov. “The report will provide evidence and reasonable speculation that you are innocent of the murder of Maria Fernandez. Major Sanchez has said that he believes the evidence will not be accepted. We shall see. Meanwhile, you will remain in the custody of the Cuban police.”

“I will be free?” Shemenkov said, looking first at Rostnikov and then at Elena.

“If the Cuban government is convinced by our evidence,” said Rostnikov. “And I believe they have reason to be convinced.”

Shemenkov looked stunned, but a broad smile came to his face. He moved heavily forward with arms open, perhaps to embrace Rostnikov with gratitude, but before Shemenkov could reach them, Rostnikov slapped the Russian twice. As Shemenkov staggered backward, Rostnikov took Elena Timofeyeva by the arm and led her out of the office and toward the street.