Madness Treads Lightly

CHAPTER 23

“I’m from Criminal Investigations,” Misha Sichkin said, showing the guard his ID.

The guard studied it carefully and silently. Finally, without saying a word, he stepped back and let Misha through the door.

The offices of the men’s magazine Wild Honey occupied one whole floor of a four-story prefab building on the outskirts of Moscow. Once upon a time there’d been a kindergarten here. There were still swings, slides, and fairy houses in the courtyard.

“Hello. Where might I find Irina Moskvina?” Misha asked a heavily made-up young woman with a shaved head sitting at the computer in the reception area.

“End of the hall on the right,” she replied without tearing her eyes from the screen.

“Irina! Watch your face!” A booming bass voice thundered from behind a partly open door at the end of the hall. “Hold your head. Hold it, I said! Smile! I don’t mean bare your teeth like a stray dog looking at a cat! Nicer, Irina. Nicer!”

Misha glanced cautiously through the door. In the middle of a large room brightly lit by a bank of lights, a big-breasted blonde was half-lying on a striped mattress, wearing nothing but an unbuttoned lance corporal’s tunic with badges and medals and a service cap tipped flirtatiously over one eyebrow.

Hopping around a tripod and camera with his back to the door was a short-legged man in black jeans.

“Who do you need, young man?” the young lady asked.

“Excuse me.” Misha coughed. “I’m from Criminal Investigations. I need to speak with Irina Moskvina.”

“Show me your documents,” the photographer said.

Misha held out his ID.

“I’m Irina Moskvina,” the young woman said. Rising lazily from the mattress, she shrugged off the tunic and stretched. The cap fell to the floor, and the model kicked it with her bare foot. Just like that, in her birthday suit, she started walking toward Misha, who had stopped by the door.

“To what do I owe this visit?” she asked in a serious voice.

“Irina Sergeyevna, I have to ask you a few questions,” Misha murmured, not knowing where to look.

“Go ahead.”

“Where can we go to speak privately?” Misha asked, looking to the side. “And forgive me, but would you mind putting some clothes on?”

“Oh!” the model suddenly remembered. “Pardon me.”

She disappeared behind a screen in the corner of the room and appeared a minute later, wearing a floor-length white robe.

“Let’s go into the next office,” she invited Misha.

“Is this going to take long?” the photographer asked.

“No more than twenty minutes,” Misha promised.

The office turned out to be a tiny room filled with equipment. Two armchairs and a coffee table were perched in the corner.

“Irina Sergeyevna,” Misha began, seating himself. “Did you know the singer Yuri Azarov?”

“So that’s what this is. You’re here about that. Yes, I knew Yuri.”

“How long and how well?”

“Veronika Rogovets introduced us six months ago.”

“Veronika is a friend?”

“Yes.”

Irina took a pack of More menthols from her robe pocket. Misha took out his Rothmans, and he flicked his lighter, lighting the lady’s cigarette.

“Tell me, had she and Azarov been having any serious problems lately? Any fights?”

“I don’t like to meddle into other people’s business.” Irina shrugged.

Unlike her friend Veronika Rogovets, this young woman behaved perfectly naturally. She didn’t care what kind of impression she made on the investigator. She answered his questions politely, without batting her eyelashes or pooching her lower lip. She just sat across from him, smoked, and looked Misha in the eye.

“I see.” He nodded. “You yourself said that Veronika is your friend. She must have shared some of her problems with you.”

“Yes, Veronika does like to rattle on. She shares all kinds of things.”

“Did she tell you about her fights with Azarov?”

“They didn’t fight seriously. They’d bicker occasionally over little things. You know, Veronika’s like soda water. Lots of fizz, but she settles down fast.”

“Does she have problems in her relations with men in general?”

“Veronika?” Irina laughed. “She has no problems with men. Where did you get that idea?”

“I assume a woman who sees a psychotherapist must have some problems,” Misha mumbled reflectively.

“Are you talking about Gradskaya?” Irina guessed. “To be honest, I don’t understand why Veronika needs her. She’s gone batty over all this mystic shit. That’s all I hear: ‘karma,’ ‘astral.’ She’s started reading books.”

“Do you know Gradskaya?”

“Only in passing.”

“Have you ever had occasion to be around her, to talk with her?”

“Oh, you know, just to say hello. Occasionally we see each other at parties. Sometimes she recognizes me and sometimes she looks right past me. Try to keep in mind who she is and who I am.”

“But your friend is fairly tight with Gradskaya,” Misha reminded her.

“Veronika’s gone to a completely different level.” Irina grinned.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know much about show business. I may be asking you a silly and tactless question. Going to ‘a completely different level,’ as you put it, does that depend on personality, luck, what?”

“Stupidity.”

“Meaning?”

“You don’t understand?” Irina sighed wearily and tapped another cigarette out of the pack. “The higher the level, the shorter the life. Go a couple of steps higher and bang, you’re dead. It’s good if it’s someone close to you and not you. But tomorrow it might be you.”

“Tell me, did Veronika take Azarov’s death hard?”

“Of course she did. She even cried.”

“In her conversations with you, has she expressed any suspicions about who might have done it?”

“Well, you know”—Irina chuckled disdainfully—“Veronika’s a little fool, of course, but not to that degree. Those things aren’t discussed.”

Misha bit his tongue. In that circle there was probably no doubt that Azarov had been offed by friends of the thugs he’d testified against. And that probably ruled out any conversation on the subject. Blab and you won’t live to see tomorrow.

All right, Misha decided. If those things aren’t discussed, then we won’t discuss them.

“Irina, you said you’ve met Gradskaya at parties. Where and when did you see her last? Do you recall?”

“Why are you so interested in Gradskaya?” Irina squinted. “Is she mixed up in this?”

“You know, in order to solve a murder, we have to look at lots of different people, most of whom turn out to be totally irrelevant. So, part of that means going around collecting gossip on people like Gradskaya.” Misha smiled wearily and confidingly. “At times, even I’m disgusted by it. But there’s nothing I can do. That’s the job. So, can you recall when and where you saw her last?”

“What a foul job you have.” Irina shook her head sympathetically. “Not that mine’s any better. I saw Gradskaya about a month ago at the release party for Yura’s album at the Status Club. There was a little scandal there, too.”

“What exactly?”

“Oh, it was nonsense. Not really worth mentioning.” Irina shrugged it off.

“Nonetheless, I’m interested. What kinds of little scandals are there at release parties? I’ve never been invited to one, nor am I likely to be.”

“Well, some psycho burst in and started badgering Volkov. The guard walked him out two minutes later. That was the sum total of the scandal.”

“And who was this psycho? Do you happen to know?”

“Apparently some singer or composer. I don’t know exactly. If you’re curious, you can ask Veronika.”

Misha found Veronika Rogovets at the Fairy Health Club on Kashirka. She was pedaling an exercise bike and was far from thrilled at another visit from the investigator from Petrovka.

“Some jerk barged in,” Veronika said through clenched teeth as she kept pushing the pedals, “and started shouting something in Volkov’s face.”

“Did you see the man yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Had you ever met him anywhere?”

“I think I may have seen him somewhere. Maybe he’d come for an audition or something? What’s the difference?”

Misha himself didn’t really understand why he’d latched onto this scandal. “You mean he wasn’t a completely random individual? Not just some drunk off the street?” Misha wouldn’t let it go.

“I don’t remember!” Veronika snarled, and she pedaled even more furiously. “There are a ton of losers like him circling around Veniamin Productions!”

“You mean this man was a singer or a composer?”

“Well, he wasn’t a machinist!” Veronika snorted. “Volkov fired a musician. He got tanked and came to have it out.”

“And how did he do that? Was he actually trying to pick a fight?” Misha asked.

“Oh no. He was shouting something.”

“Swearing?”

“No, not swearing. He was just calling Volkov a killer, probably in the sense that he’d killed his career.”

“Any chance you might remember this musician’s name?” Misha asked desperately.

“I don’t even remember your name, even though we’ve met ten times. But hundreds, thousands of people go to Volkov’s for auditions. All I’m saying is that I happened to see the guy. We were shooting a video, and Volkov was in the studio. Then the secretary looked in and said that somebody had come… I don’t remember the name. Volkov stopped the shoot, and told us to take a break. And he went to his audition room. Naturally, we got curious. Who would Volkov interrupt a shoot for? Some of us, me, Yuri, and the cameraman, took turns peeking into the room. I even heard a few of the guy’s songs. But his name?” Veronika frowned irritably. “No, I don’t remember it.”

Irina Moskvina had been right, Misha thought, her friend Veronika really did like to chat and gossip.

“There! See how much you remembered!” Misha smiled delightedly. “It’s good for you to remember. You were telling me how much you suffered because of your forgetfulness. And look how great you did! Well, let’s try a little more.”

“Now, what’s your name?” Veronika even stopped pedaling. She must have liked this memory game Misha had her playing.

“Sichkin.”

“And he was Sinichkin!”

“Maybe Sinitsyn?” Misha asked, feeling his heart sinking and his head clearing.

“Maybe Sinitsyn,” Veronika agreed lightly.

“Veronika, how did Volkov behave while the man was yelling at him?”

“He didn’t. He stood there and didn’t say a word.”

“So, he listened calmly as someone screamed at him?”

“No. Not at all. Yuri said he turned green and started shaking.”

“Was Yuri nearby?”

“Yes. Volkov and Regina Valentinovna were getting ready to leave, and Yuri had gone to see them out. That’s when all this happened.”

“You mean he heard everything Sinitsyn was shouting? Did he tell you about it?”

“No. He just said Volkov turned green and started shaking. That he’d never seen him like that before.”

“But you did ask what the fellow said, right? You must have wondered what had rattled Volkov like that.”

“What kind of a fool do you think I am? That’s not a question you ask.”

“So you never brought the subject up again?”

“There was no point.” Veronika snorted disdainfully.

“Was this scandal ever discussed among the people you know?”

But this question went unanswered. Veronika became gloomy and shut down. She didn’t like the investigator’s game anymore.

Lena entered the Tretyakov with Michael and bought him a guidebook in English and a ticket.

“Do you have rubles?” she asked.

“Oh, I forgot to change money!” Michael slapped his bald head.

There was an exchange office, but it was closed.

“All right, here’s a hundred thousand for you.” Lena handed him a few bills. “You can have a bite to eat in the café. If you decide you want a real meal, go to the restaurant. They take credit cards there.”

“Do they have vegetarian food?”

“Someone there is certain to speak English. Explain what you want and they’ll understand. When you get tired, go home. Here’s the key, and here’s the address. Give the taxi driver this piece of paper. From here to my place shouldn’t be more than thirty thousand.”

“How much is that in dollars?”

“About five. But don’t give them dollars. Here, look, three tens. Understand? You won’t get lost?”

Lena really was worried about Michael. He was so friendly and scatterbrained. He could stumble into trouble so easily. Not only that, his Russian vocabulary was limited to about ten words, two of which were vodka and perestroika.

Olga, Liza, and Vera Fyodorovna were waiting in the car. It was a two-hour drive to Istra. Liza fell asleep in Lena’s lap on the way.

These last two years I haven’t been apart from Liza more than a day, Lena thought. I’m going to feel empty and terrible without her. I don’t want to do anything without her. I’m looking forward to all this being over.

She forbade herself from thinking about what had happened this morning and tried to drive out the cold, sticky fear that had settled over her. Settled over her when, actually? At what moment did she get truly scared? Yesterday, when the stroller blew up? No, before that. Well before that. The fear showed up after the “doctor’s” visit. Volkov’s wife’s name was Regina. She was a doctor. Misha Sichkin mentioned that name when he was talking about Katya Sinitsyna.

Should she call Misha and tell him about her encounter with Volkov? No, that was too much—sharing a story about an admirer with her husband’s subordinate and friend. Should she tell Misha how she and Volkov kissed in the car? And then how they went to buy Liza shoes together?

What could he do to help, anyway? Organize security? He’d already done something major by installing an alarm system in the apartment.

After today’s encounter, this whole story had taken on much darker overtones. If before she could lay everything out to Seryozha, now she’d started to have doubts. Could she tell him everything?

She and her husband had lived together a little more than two years, but she had never figured out whether or not he was jealous. There hadn’t been the slightest grounds for jealousy. They both trusted each other so implicitly that it had never even come up. Lena tried to imagine herself in Seryozha’s place. What if he’d told her that because of work or business or some other reason, he’d had to pretend to be in love, had to kiss another woman. No, he hadn’t felt anything, he’d just pretended he did. Nonetheless, that would have been an extremely nasty piece of information for Lena. She would have understood everything and not condemned him, but she would have been jealous. No matter the circumstances, it would have been nasty.

Lena had gone through with the kiss because her instinct for self-preservation had kicked in. She’d been trying to blow smoke at a dangerous and psychologically unbalanced man. She’d felt nothing but fear. Still…

No, she thought irritably. I have to get this whole question of jealousy out of my head. Jealousy has nothing to do with this. The problem isn’t that Volkov is smitten with passion for me again, after fourteen years. But why all the complications? If for certain reasons I represent a danger to him, why doesn’t he just hire a hitman to take care of me? Given his money and connections, that would have been perfectly logical.

The main thing now is to understand the reason—if there is one. Well, that’s why I’m heading for Siberia and why I’ve been digging through old letters. I doubt anyone but me would do that.

The Istra holiday house was situated in a handsome pine forest. Lena hadn’t been in the countryside for a long time, and when she got out of the car, the fresh air made her head spin. Here it really did smell like spring. The sky had cleared and a gentle blue peeked through the tops of the trees, making her believe that summer would come soon and all would be well.

“Gorgeous!” Olga exclaimed as she climbed out of the car and stretched. “I should send my family here for a week, too. The kids and the old folks. Let them get their fill of fresh air and long walks. Listen, I took the entire day off from work anyway. Let’s stay a little longer. I really don’t feel like leaving right away.”

“And Michael?”

“Lena, he’s not a baby. He’s a grown man. You gave him the key and he has the address. He’ll be fine.”

“She’s right, Lena, dear. You should relax and take a breath, at least for a few hours,” Vera Fyodorovna cut into the conversation. “Look at yourself. Pale, skinny, circles under your eyes.”

Lena didn’t object. She wanted to spend a little more time with Liza.

There were two dozen guards dressed in camo at the holiday house entrance. They were guarding the gates, too, but more formally. These guards instilled trust. The room where Vera Fyodorovna and Liza were to spend the next ten days turned out to be an excellent two-room suite, with a television and refrigerator.

As they strolled down the cleared paths of the park, Lena told Liza a fairy tale which she composed on the fly. In it, bad robbers were chasing a little girl, but she was constantly triumphing over them because she was smarter and stronger than they were. Time and again the robbers would be fooled, but there was nothing they could do about the smart and strong little girl. The fairy tale was supposed to end well, but she just couldn’t find a way to end it.

It started getting dark. Vera Fyodorovna and Liza went off to dinner. Olga and Lena drank coffee in the bar off the dining room. Afterward they walked a little more through the park. It was time to leave.

“Let’s all go up to the room together,” Vera Fyodorovna whispered in Lena’s ear. “While Liza’s watching Nighty Night, you can leave quietly.”

But they couldn’t fool Liza. The minute Lena took a few cautious steps toward the door, the child would rush to her with a desperate wail.

“Mama, don’t leave! Please!”

Vera Fyodorovna picked her up and tried to distract her, but in vain. Liza wept so bitterly, they had to stay another hour so that Lena could put her to bed. Even asleep, Liza held her mama’s hand tightly.

“Enough, girls. Go quietly,” Vera Fyodorovna whispered. “It’s late. Lena, don’t worry. I’ll take good care of her.”

They didn’t get in the car until ten thirty. On the drive back to Moscow, Lena laid everything out for Olga: the doctor, the bomb in her stroller, and the encounter with Volkov. Olga listened silently, only asking the occasional, pertinent question.

“Now try to remember,” Lena asked, having finished her story. “Has anyone tried to start a conversation with you about suicide?”

“There’s nothing to remember.” Olga cut her off. “No one has. And you know why?” She grinned bitterly. “Because no one mentions rope in a hanged man’s house. You don’t have to be a psychologist to guess what my reaction would be. I’d have told them to go to hell—even if that someone was a potential client. And I’d have the right to do that.”

“So it would be impossible for anyone to know who informed you on all this?”

“And there’s no need to. What I do or don’t know is no threat to anyone. It’s only in American action movies that people are so eager to investigate the mysterious circumstances around the death of their close friends and relatives. In real life, that just doesn’t happen. I’m not about to go looking for Mitya’s killer—if there even is one. If I were to run into him face-to-face, in the heat of the moment I’d probably end his life. Or maybe not. I don’t know. What I do know is that it wouldn’t make me feel any better. I have to go on living and get used to the idea that he’s gone, and get my mama, my papa, and my grandmother used to it, too. That’s hard enough, I don’t have the strength for all the rest.”

“I wonder, why do you think they knew I would take up a private investigation into the murder, but that you, his sister, wouldn’t…”

“The deaths of Mitya and Katya haven’t the slightest thing to do with the stroller bomb. At least I don’t see the connection. I think Volkov’s wife is trying to get rid of you.”

“Volkov’s wife?” Lena grinned. “Out of jealousy or something? Do you realize what nonsense that is?”

“Why? Murder out of jealousy is a perfectly real thing. It was no rarity three hundred years ago, and it’s no different today,” Olga said firmly.

“But the stroller blew up yesterday. And I met with Volkov today. We hadn’t seen each other in fourteen years. If we had an affair, if that affair threatened a family’s well-being, then jealousy might be the motive.”

“Why are you ruling out the idea of the wife deciding to get rid of you in advance? She might have sensed something. You have to understand. Losing a husband like Volkov is very serious business. It might not be just about jealousy but about money.”

“Olga, Volkov and I are nothing to each other. I’d completely forgotten he existed.”

“But he didn’t forget you. Maybe he’s been saying your name in his sleep for fourteen years!”

“Even my last name?” Lena chuckled nervously. “In that case, why didn’t she lay a finger on me before?”

“People change.” Olga sighed. “Men have midlife crises. Venya Volkov was living his life, building his career, making his money. But at some point he got fed up. All of a sudden he realized life was passing him by, that he had no love or kindness in his life. But, at one time he was passionately in love with this beautiful, mysterious, and inaccessible young woman named Lena Polyanskaya. And all these years you remained his warmest and purest memory. Especially since he never got you to bed. And he so wanted to. Even I remember that.”

“Uh-huh.” Lena nodded. “And that’s why his wife, one of the richest women in Russia, decided to plant a bomb in a stroller? Olga, quit playing the fool. They nearly killed me and Liza yesterday.”

“And you believe Volkov did it?”

“No… I don’t know. But I don’t think his wife would have done it out of jealousy. Olga, it’s ridiculous! He’s surrounded by the most beautiful women in Russia. He could have any of them. So why me?”

“He’s surrounded by Russia’s best tits and asses”—Olga grinned—“as my brother would have put it. But very few real women.”

“Fine, let’s say Volkov is still in love with me like a sixteen-year-old boy. Why in that case did the mere mention of my name send him into hysterics? He shouted ‘No!’ on that interview tape.”

“That’s exactly why. Too many emotions.”

“Marvelous.” Lena lit a cigarette. “Very logical. And the following morning he arranged that business with the planning meeting because why?”

“Don’t look for logic,” Olga advised. “This is about passions.”

“It is about passion, all right.” Lena nodded. “Volkov’s fallen in love, his wife came to my home pretending to be a doctor, and then she put a bomb in the stroller. To be honest, I don’t trust these Shakespearean passions, but let’s say that’s what’s motivating all this. But, even if that is the case, Volkov’s wife could have easily hired a hitman. Her money and means permit that.”

“Well, maybe it’s not quite that easy. You and I have never hired hitmen, so we don’t know how it’s done. Sure, it seems like it’s just as easy to hire a killer as it is to call a plumber. But what if she’s afraid her husband will find out? Or maybe she’s a control freak and enjoys doing everything herself. Your problem is that you always discount human passions. The simple idea that a man has fallen in love with you and his jealous wife wants you gone doesn’t even enter your mind. It should. If jealousy doesn’t seem a sufficient motive on its own, add money to that. Lots and lots of money. The fact that she attempted to get rid of you before a romance could blaze up between you is also perfectly explainable. If something were to happen to you at the height of an affair with Volkov, she would be the prime suspect.”

“But why does she think an affair is inevitable? I’m married. And I have no intention of being unfaithful my husband. If she’s so smart, why hasn’t that thought occurred to her?”

“Because she’s not interested in your intentions. She’s worried about Volkov. For her, you’re a natural disaster that has to be dealt with, and quickly. She understands that the longer you’re around, the more his passions will be enflamed. She can tell he won’t calm down.”

“What is she, some kind of genius?” Lena grinned.

“You don’t have to be a genius to know that. All it takes is female instinct.”

“So what am I supposed to do now?”

“Nothing. Do as you planned. Fly to Siberia. Maybe she’ll back off from her plans after ten days.”

“And Volkov?”

“Volkov will find you everywhere.” Olga laughed. “And he won’t rest until he’s dragged you to bed. That I guarantee you. But he’s no danger to you. In the sense that he isn’t planning to kill you. Quite the opposite.”

Lena completely disagreed with her good friend. But she wasn’t going to argue. She didn’t like arguing in general. What was the point? Everyone has a right to their own point of view.

They reached Moscow in the middle of the night.

“Listen,” Olga proposed. “Why don’t we go to a club? Honestly, you need to unwind. So do I.”

“What club? It’s the middle of the night!”

“Tramp? The Stanislavsky Club? It’s quiet there.”

Lena shook her head. “I’m embarrassed to say I prefer chips and Coke and a McDonald’s apple pie to any club.”

“I had a friend like you. Once in Paris, in an expensive restaurant, he asked for a hot dog with ketchup.”

“An American?”

“A Russian! Fine. If you want chips and a Coke, then we’ll go to the American bar on Mayakovsky Square.”

“And Michael?”

“There’s a pay phone over there. Call and let him know you’ll be home late. You can start your consultant-interpreter duties first thing tomorrow.”

“What if he’s asleep?”

“Then you can really relax.”

Lena jumped out of the car at the pay phone and dialed her home number. Michael wasn’t asleep. He started right in sharing his impressions of the Tretyakov.

“Don’t wait for me,” Lena said. “Go to bed. I’ll be back late. Lock the lower deadbolt. I have the key.”

“I won’t be going to bed for a long time,” Michael promised. “You have such interesting TV. I don’t understand a word, but I can’t tear myself away.”

“Was it you who took the old Mercedes from the garage?” Regina asked.

“Yes.” Volkov nodded.

“It was? And I was about to give the guards a good dressing-down, thinking it was one of them. By the way, where were you this morning? The bank called.”

“I had business to attend to,” Venya answered calmly, not looking at her.

“Why so gloomy?” Regina smiled. “How do you feel?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” Regina walked up to him and stroked his cheek. “I saw Veronika Rogovets today.”

“Congratulations,” he growled and nearly jerked his head back, shaking her hand off his face.

“You shouldn’t be so cheerful, Venya. That idiot told the investigator from Petrovka about what happened at Status. She even remembered the name Sinitsyn. I don’t remember whether I told you or not, but that investigator is Krotov’s direct subordinate.”

“So what? Who’s Krotov?”

“Venya, Venya.” She shook her head sadly. “Police Colonel Sergei Krotov is Polyanskaya’s husband. He’s in London now, but he’ll be back very soon. And he’s going to get an earful from his wife when he does. Do you think he won’t care?”

“No, Regina, I don’t.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “What do you want from me?”

“Venya, I want you to focus. This is serious. And you’ve shut down at the critical moment. Tomorrow you’re going to go into hysterics when the next journalist shows up. You’ll turn green and whisper, ‘Regina, I’m dying!’ Venya, people are already talking about this. It’s being discussed. Tomorrow morning you have a live broadcast on ORT. Can you the guarantee that you won’t flip out?”

“I won’t,” he said calmly and firmly. “You don’t have to worry.”

“How can you be so sure? Only yesterday…”

“Regina, I won’t flip out on a live broadcast,” he repeated, and he looked her in the eye.

They looked at each other for a second without saying a word, and Regina was surprised to realize that no, he really wasn’t going to flip out. Something had happened. Since that day when Sinitsyn showed up for an audition, Regina hadn’t once seen her husband this calm and confident.

An hour before, painstakingly rummaging through the old Mercedes, she’d found a single woman’s glove. A small, black leather glove that would only fit a very slender hand.

“Venya,” Regina whispered, and her lips grazed his. “How I love you when you’re so…”

“So what?” he asked, moving back a little.

But she didn’t answer. She slowly and gently slid her lips down his chest, undoing his shirt buttons, one after another. At first he sat there like a sculpture, his face frozen and resolute. But eventually she managed to arouse him. He closed his eyes and she felt his heart beating faster and his body coming to life.

He’d never been so gentle and unhurried before. Everything happened as if in slow motion. They fell on the thick carpet, right in the living room, forgetting the door wasn’t locked and that the cook or maid could walk in at any moment. Regina felt time stand still. She was amazed to catch herself thinking that for the first time in years, she didn’t need to control her husband, didn’t need to be on her guard, especially toward the climax, when he started breathing fast and hard and his hands could reach for her throat. For the first time she could truly relax. For all these years, even in bed, she’d been the doctor and he the patient—and a dangerous and unpredictable one at that.

And she did relax. She felt better than she ever had. She whispered senseless words to him, and he whispered something back, but she didn’t listen…

Breathing deeply, feeling nothing but a sweet, soaring weakness, she opened her eyes and saw his face. His eyelids were firmly shut and his mouth half open.

“Lena,” he said, softly but distinctly.

Michael wasn’t asleep. He was watching TV. He didn’t understand a word of what he was watching, but he was laughing almost to the point of tears. He was especially entertained by Russian commercials that were so different from the American ones he was used to. Chocolate and shampoo were advertised by actors with such repulsive faces and voices, you’d think someone was purposely trying to dissuade you from buying them. It was like anti-advertising.

Russians are in such a hurry to make up for what they missed, the professor thought, that they’re forgetting about good sense. They’re rushing headlong after capitalism and democracy, like little kids running and falling and scraping their knees.

Feeling his eyes closing, he glanced at the clock. One forty-five. Michael turned off the TV, took a shower, and as he headed off for bed remembered he needed to turn the lower lock. He went to the door, reached out, and at that moment he thought there was someone on the other side of the door. He heard a quiet scratching in the upper lock.

“Lena?” he called out loudly. “Is that you?” The scratching stopped. It got very quiet.

“Who’s there?” Michael looked through the peephole, but the landing was empty.

In addition to the two locks, there was also a bolt. Michael shot it and then quickly closed the additional lock. Something scratched in the upper keyhole again.

“If you’re a burglar, I’m calling the police!” the professor warned loudly.

No response. Michael started feeling uneasy.

The police? he thought. I don’t know the number, and there’s not likely to be anyone there who speaks English.

The person outside the door didn’t leave.

“Go away right now! Do you hear?”

If this burglar can hear me, he’s hardly likely to understand what I am saying, Michael decided. He’s not likely to know English. I wonder if he’s going to stay there all night. I can’t go to bed until I’m sure he’s gone.

He heard a dog barking. A lock clicked, and Michael went to the peephole again to see what was happening. A man stepped out of the apartment across the way with a fat boxer on a leash. Then he heard the elevator moving. The dog barked once more and the man said a few words in Russian. The elevator door rumbled, and Michael thought he heard a woman’s voice answer the man. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was just the owner talking to his dog. He couldn’t see the area near the elevator through the peephole.

Anyway, the old professor thought, if anyone was standing by the door, the neighbor and his dog probably frightened them off.

Just in case, he looked out the kitchen window, which faced the courtyard. In the bright light of the streetlamp, Michael made out the man with the dog and a tall woman wearing a dark coat. She emerged from the front door with the man but headed in the opposite direction.

When Regina heard English at the door, she grinned nervously. She pictured the confusion if she’d entered the apartment with her gun but had found an American man there instead of Polyanskaya.

A New Yorker, she noted mechanically as she listened to the frightened threats to call the police and cautiously pulled out her picklock. When a man stepped out of the apartment across the way with his boxer, she barely had time to slip the bundle of picklocks into her coat pocket and step toward the elevator.

She rang for the elevator. The boxer tugged at its leash, bared its teeth, and barked. Regina shuddered.

“Harry, stop it!” the owner shouted at the dog. “Don’t be afraid. He doesn’t bite,” he told Regina, politely letting her get in the elevator first.

“Oh, I’m not afraid,” she replied, and tried to smile.

I have to get a grip, she thought. I’ve failed yet again. The idea wasn’t bad—just enter the apartment and shoot her point-blank. Enter and shoot. If only it were that simple! Maybe I was lucky. If that silly American hadn’t come to the door at the very moment I was trying to open it, I would have had my cover blown for good. I might have had to kill a total bystander, a foreigner. Enough with trying to play gangster. It’s time to bring in a professional. And now I have a perfectly reasonable reason to do so. I can’t have my husband carrying a torch for some other woman. Jealousy is a motive for murder any common thug would understand.