Rostnikov vacation

TEN

There had been no time to confess to Maya.

When they reached the apartment, she had put Pulcharia in her crib for a nap and then helped Sasha cleanse the wound on his head.

"You should go to the clinic," she said. "I think it needs stitches."

But she made it a suggestion, not a demand. There was something more important going on than concern over a physical scar.

"Zelach is in the hospital,'' he said as she cut away a small patch of his hair so she could close and tape the wound. "He may lose an eye."

"I'm sorry," Maya said with more concern for her husband's anguish than for what had happened to his partner. Maya had met Zelach only twice, and both times very briefly. What little her husband had said about the man had not been particularly complimentary, but the effect of what had happened was clear in the vacant pain in her husband's face. For the first time since she had met him, he looked every day of his age and perhaps even more.

"I must tell you, Maya," he said. "It was my fault."

Maya considered asking him to take his clothes off and get into bed with her.

Pulcharia was sleeping. He obviously had some time, and they had not been together for days. Maya was in her fourth month, and the roundness of her tummy was just beginning. When she was carrying Pulcharia, she and Sasha had made love right to the final month, the few times they were able, when Sasha's mother was not in the next room.

Now that they had their own apartment they made love about as frequently as they had when Lydia was around, but they did it with a sense of freedom. But Maya was certain that if she suggested that they now take off their clothes and get in bed, he would reject the idea.

The phone rang. There were two small rooms in the apartment. One was the bedroom with their bed and Pulcharia's. The other was the combination living room and kitchen in which they now sat near the small sink. In the next room the baby stirred, and Maya dashed across the room to answer the phone before it rang again.

Something in her dash, the swish of her dress, stirred a memory within Sasha and made him want to weep.

"It's Karpo," Maya said, holding out the phone to him.

Sasha's knees felt weak beneath him, but he rose and took the phone.

"Yes," said Sasha, looking at Maya, who had crossed back to the sink to clean up.

' 'Can you be in front of your apartment in three minutes?'' "Three… but…"

"I am unable to call anyone else," said Karpo. "I am not supposed to be in Moscow. I will explain if you can come. If you cannot, let us terminate this conversation."

"I'll be down in three minutes," Sasha said, and hung up the phone.

Maya looked at him. She was framed against the window. She looked soft, round, and her voice was gentle, with that slight touch of Georgia that always stirred him.

"You are in no condition to do anything or go anywhere, Sasha," she said. But she spoke knowing that he was going, even considering that it might be best for him to go rather

than say what he planned to say, for surely now, though he felt the need to speak, she did not feel the need to hear.

"I… it will be. I'll be back as soon as I can," he said.

She stepped forward and put her arms around him, her belly against his, and he felt or imagined he felt the baby kick.

"Have you eaten anything today?" she asked, stepping back to look at his face.

"No," he said.

Maya went to the cabinet and took a piece of bread from the enamel bread box with the little flowers, a wedding gift from her mother.

"Thank you," he said, holding the bread in two hands as if it were a precious gift.

' 'Sasha, it's just a piece of bread.'' "I'll stop and see Arkady before I come home," he said, moving to the door.

For a moment she didn't know who her husband was talking about, but then she realized it must be Zelach. She had never before heard his first name.

It was the city of Chekhov, so Rostnikov decided to stage the scene as if it were the end of the second act of one of the master's plays. Misha Ivanov had arranged for the quiet removal from the woods of the bodies of both Pato and Yuri and, after they examined the contents of the notebook Rostnikov had removed from under the rotunda, had agreed to Rostnikov's proposal to stage the scene.

The notebook had contained a list of names and notations. Some of the names had lines through them, others had notes after them, and neatly penned speculations were at the bottom of almost every sheet.

"How many do you count?" Ivanov had said as they sat on a bench near the entrance to the woods. From the bench they could watch the nearby traffic on the road and look up the hill toward the Lermontov Hotel. A gray van was parked

no more than ten feet from them, partly blocking their view of the road toward town.

"In Yalta?" Rostnikov answered. "Seventeen. That includes both you, me, and Georgi himself."

"Conspiracy?" asked Ivanov, pulling his jacket around him, though Rostnikov felt no surge of cold air.

"That was clearly Vasilievich's belief," said Rostnikov.

"Confirmed by his death and the interest of those two to obtain this book," said Ivanov.

As he said "those two," the body of Pato was being carried past them on a stretcher by two men, who strained under the weight.

"Something is going to happen in Moscow," said Rostnikov.

Ivanov sighed deeply in answer.

"If Vasilievich was correct, the senior investigators from all branches, KGB, MVD, GRU, who would be most likely to uncover and disrupt this thing, were sent on vacation away from Moscow at the same time."

"Or," added Ivanov, "sent on the pretext of watching one of the investigators.

And who knows how many were sent places other than Yalta. When will it happen?"

Rostnikov looked at the notebook.

"Soon, very soon. According to Vasilievich, five of these vacations end the day after tomorrow."

"All right," said Ivanov, standing and brushing fallen leaves from his lap. "The American."

"Yes," said Rostnikov, also rising as the two men took their now empty stretcher back into the woods for the second body.

And that had led them to the scene that Porfiry Petrovich was now playing out with the American. Rostnikov had gone to his room and knocked, and McQuinton had answered, a book in his hand, fully dressed. His white hair was brushed back, but he needed a shave. Little white bristles caught the dim light of the hall.

' 'Have the women returned?'' Rostnikov said.

"Haven't seen them," said McQuinton. "You all right? You look a little-"

"I am, a bit, what is the word? Is it 'disgruntled'?"

"Probably not," said McQuinton. "You want to come in?"

"Yes, thank you."

McQuinton stepped back. Rostnikov entered, and the American closed the door behind him.

"Not much room," said McQuinton, looking at the bed, wooden cabinet, and single straight-backed chair. ' 'Take the chair. Mind if I shave?"

"Thank you," said Rostnikov, "but I would prefer to stand. My leg is misbehaving a bit."

"Suit yourself," said McQuinton, moving to the washroom.

Rostnikov followed him and watched from outside the door. There wasn't enough room inside for two people.

McQuinton ran the water and found his razors in a leather case.

"Damned water never gets warm," he said, wrapping a towel around his neck and patting his face.

"What are those?" asked Rostnikov.

"Disposable razors. Here, take a couple. I brought plenty from the States."

He handed three blue-handled plastic razors to Rostnikov, who put them in his jacket pocket.

"Thank you," he said. "And I have something for you, but it is less in the form of a gift than a burden.''

McQuinton was examining himself in the small mirror over the sink as he shaved.

Rostnikov removed Vasilievich's notebook from his pocket and held it up where McQuinton could see it in the mirror. The American's hand did not waver. The stroke from neck to chin was smooth.

"What is it?" he asked.

"A notebook," said Rostnikov.

"What do you want me to do with this burden?" asked McQuinton, turning his head to one side to inspect the progress of his effort. He seemed satisfied.

"Take it with you," said Rostnikov. "Turn it over to the CIA when your plane refuels in Paris."

McQuinton removed the towel from his neck, wiped the remaining soap from his face with it, examined himself in the mirror once more, and turned to face Rostnikov.

"What is it?"

"It contains a list of names of senior Soviet investigators,' ' said Rostnikov.'

'It documents their ordered departure from Moscow and includes speculation by the senior investigator who compiled the list that all of these men were ordered to take vacations at the same time. It was his belief that something was about to take place in Moscow, something that some high-ranking figures do not want to be stopped by anyone who might be capable of determining what was taking place."

McQuinton looked at Rostnikov and the book and moved out of the small bathroom and to the bed, where he propped up the two pillows and sat against them.

"I don't follow," said the American.

"If something does take place within that period," Rostnikov went on, facing the lounging but attentive American, "this notebook will be evidence that a conspiracy exists."

"And you want me to smuggle the notebook out of the country and turn it over to the CIA? Why?"

"You are leaving. It is possible the CIA will be able to use channels to stop the event, to expose it. If not, they can reveal that the event, which might be made to look like an individual-"

"Rostnikov," said the American. "Spit it out."

"I don't-" ' 'What's going on?'' "I think an attempt will be made to kill Mikhail Gorbachev within the next two days," said Rostnikov, looking at the notebook. "I think it will be made to look not like a coup from within but a random mad act, probably from a foreigner."

"Holy Christ," said McQuinton, sitting up. "You're not kidding."

"I am not kidding," said Rostnikov.

"Why can't you just take this book to Moscow?"

"I can," said Rostnikov. "I may or may not be believed. I may or may not be allowed to live long enough to air my suspicions. My credibility as an investigator is secure, but my relationship to the KGB, which would have jurisdiction, is weak, and I am not sure which elements of the KGB might be involved. I am being frank with you."

"I appreciate that," said McQuinton, getting off the bed and starting to pace around the room. "But, hell. I'm on vacation with a sick wife. I'm not sure I can risk getting caught with this thing."

"I appreciate your concern," said Rostnikov. "If you would rather not, I fully understand."

"Hold it. I didn't say I wouldn't. Okay." The sigh was enormous, as if the American were about to take on the responsibilities of the world. He held out his hand for the book.

"You should know that the man who wrote this notebook is dead," said Rostnikov.

"I'm in," said McQuinton, shaking his head.

"Would you like to know who killed him?" Rostnikov asked.

"Yes, it might help cover my ass."

"You killed him," said Rostnikov.

McQuinton's hand wavered inches away from the notebook that Rostnikov held out.

Several possibilities went through Lester McQuinton's mind. All were evident in a series of looks that quickly crossed his face. He considered a smile, an assertion that the idea was absurd. He considered violence, a grab for the book and an attempt to overpower and possibly kill Porfiry Petrovich. He may even have considered the possibility of simply running, for Rostnikov could certainly not follow, but where would he run, and besides…

Rostnikov had moved to the door, which he opened. Misha Ivanov was standing in the hall, his hands folded in front of him. He stepped into the room, and Rostnikov closed the door.

McQuinton shook his head and sat heavily on the bed.

"Andy really likes your wife," McQuinton said, looking up at Rostnikov. "Hell, what difference does that make, right?"

"Sarah likes your wife also," said Rostnikov. "She is not…?"

"No," said the American. "As far as she knows, we're just here on a vacation. I saved the money, and here we are."

"My English is terrible, Rostnikov," Misha Ivanov said in Russian. "Ask him."

"Are you an American?" Rostnikov asked, moving back to lean against the low wooden cabinet.

"I'm an American. I'm a cop. No lies. That's about all you get from me unless we deal," said McQuinton.

Rostnikov translated for Ivanov, who said, "Tell him we make no deals."

"Gentlemen," said McQuinton, "I'm an American tourist. I don't know what you've got or think you've got on me, but accusing an American of killing Soviet citizens isn't going to do relations between our countries very much good."

"We both heard Yuri identify you as the man who hired him and Pato to kill Georgi Vasilievich," said Rostnikov. "He and the man called Pato are quite willing to confess both to the murder itself and your responsibility."

"Come on. No motive, no evidence," said McQuinton, but he did not say it with confidence.

"Motive?" asked Rostnikov.

"Reason to want your Vasilievich killed. Did I pronounce the name right?"

"What is he saying?" asked Misha Ivanov impatiently.

"We have no motive, no evidence," Porfiry Petrovich said.

"Tell him I'll shoot him in the face if he doesn't talk," said Ivanov, opening his jacket and pulling out his gun.

Lester McQuinton looked at it but showed no sign of being frightened.

"No, I have a better idea," Misha Ivanov said brightly. "Tell him I will shoot his wife and then I will shoot him." ' 'Ivanov,*' Rostnikov said softly, looking at the KGB man, but Rostnikov could see in the man's gentle grin that he meant what he said.

"Tell him," Ivanov insisted.

"He's threatening Andy, isn't he?" McQuinton said.

"Yes," Rostnikov confirmed. "But I would not let him do that."

"You might not be able to stop him," McQuinton said with a sigh. "Good guys, and bad guys. Hell. Let's work a deal here. I tell you what I know, you let me get on the plane tonight and go home with my wife. If you think I'm holding back or lying, you arrest me, shoot my ass, or whatever you guys do."

"You would trust us?" asked Rostnikov.

Lester McQuinton ran his thick right hand through his white hair. "I got a choice?"

"Rostnikov, I grow weary," said Ivanov.

Rostnikov explained what McQuinton had said.

"Make the agreement, Porfiry Petrovich," said Misha.

"We honor it," Rostnikov said.

"And we decide if he should be arrested when he is finished," Ivanov said.

Rostnikov nodded at McQuinton.

"I want this done one way or the other before Andy and your wife get back."

"Then speak quickly," said Rostnikov.

"I go to this bar back home," said McQuinton. "Place on Fiftieth Street called On the Way Home."

"I don't…" Rostnikov began.

"Bars back home sometimes have these cute names. Idea is that you can call your wife and say you're On the Way Home."

"And that is humorous?"

"Some think so," said McQuinton. "I could use a drink now. Just a beer. Beer in your country stinks."

"I thought you wanted to get this told quickly," said Rostnikov.

And McQuinton changed modes. He spoke quickly and clearly. He was suddenly a policeman, and he gave a policeman's report.

"Guy in this bar got friendly with me, other cops," he said. "Asked questions, said he used to be a cop in Russia. Accent was right, but he didn't look like a cop, not a cop like me or you two. I thought he was full of shit, but he bought drinks. Long story short. One night I told this guy, said his name was Oleg, that Andy was sick and I was broke and getting close to retirement, that I hadn't saved anything and that the pension wouldn't cover… You know. Cop grousing."

" Yes,'' said Rostnikov. He translated the essence to Misha and nodded for McQuinton to go on.

"Oleg says, 'What if?' You know. What if someone handed me fifty thousand dollars. Cash. Tax-free. Plus a free trip to Russia. What would I do for that? I still thought he was full of shit. I said I'd kill for it. Few nights later Oleg came back with the same thing. I said I didn't find it funny anymore. He handed me a package. I figured it was a setup, Internal Affairs. I gave it back and told him to follow me into the John."

"John?"

"Toilet. I checked him out for wires. None. I checked the John. Clear. I told him to open the envelope. He did. It was full of bills. I still wasn't buying it, but I wanted to. I made him take out the bills, wipe 'em clean with his handkerchief, and lay 'em on the sink. When he reached ten thousand dollars, he had my interest. You know what's crazy? I stopped smoking twenty years ago. It'd kill me if I started again, but I need a cigarette now.

Crazy."

Rostnikov translated. Misha nodded and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, which he handed to McQuinton, who took one, accepted a light from Ivanov, and inhaled deeply.

"Tastes like I never stopped," McQuinton said, and then he coughed, a terrible cough. He looked at the cigarette as the coughing subsided and continued to smoke as he talked.

"Oleg told me I could take what he had with him and get the rest before we left the States. He would trust me. And he said it was possible I might get to keep the money and not do anything for it. But if anyone approached me and gave me the right word, I was to do what he told me. Oleg said I wouldn't have to kill anyone myself, just call a number and some guys would come. And I'd give these guys the name of the guy to hit. Like I said before, sounded like bullshit, but the money was real, and Andy ain't well, and it wouldn't be the first crap I pulled. Thirty years a cop is a long time."

Once again, McQuinton paused and smoked while Rostnikov translated and Ivanov responded.

"The man who approached you?" Rostnikov prodded.

"Woman," corrected McQuinton. "About forty, plain, dark suit. In the lobby when we got to the hotel here. Haven't seen her since. She said she had been sent to see me by St. John the Baptist. That was it. She gave me a name and a phone number and said I should tell the guys I hired that the hit might have notes or a book. They were to bring the notes to me. Woman said the money would be in my room under the bed. It was. You saw the two I hired. Fifth-rate. Amateurs, and bad ones at that. That's the story."

McQuinton finished his cigarette, crushed the butt in an ashtray on the table near the bed, and said, "Got to remember to clean that before Andy shows up."

Misha Ivanov heard the rest of McQuinton's tale from Rostnikov and rubbed the tip of his nose gently.

"It's a ridiculous story," Ivanov said, looking at the American. "Why would anyone go through the trouble of hiring an American to do this? Why not do it themselves? It makes no sense."

"You think he is lying?" asked Rostnikov.

"No," said Ivanov. "Conclusion?"

"He's a scapegoat," said Rostnikov. "If this were discovered, as it has been, someone wanted an American blamed. I think Lester McQuinton is fortunate that we got to him before he conveniently had an accident."

"Or conveniently committed suicide," said Ivanov.

There was no knock at the door. It came open, and Misha Ivanov turned toward it, gun in hand.

Andy McQuinton was in the middle of a laugh when she saw the gun. Behind her, Sarah Rostnikov, who had not seen the weapon, was still laughing, but when Andy went silent, she knew something was wrong.

Ivanov put the gun away and moved to close the door behind Sarah as she and Andy stepped in.

"Lester?" the frail woman asked, looking at her husband, who had definitely changed quite a bit in the few hours since she had gone out.

Lester sat up at the edge of the bed.

"Cop talk," said Lester. "Man here's a KGB officer. Showing me his weapon."

"I am sorry," said Misha Ivanov in English with a smile.

Sarah looked at Porfiry Petrovich and knew, not the details, but she knew that something was very wrong in this room. Andy McQuinton was carrying a small package. She put it on the bed and moved to her husband, who took her hand and gave her a false wink of confidence. The frail woman's nose crinkled, and she looked at the dirty ashtray.

"Lester?" she repeated gently, afraid.

"Later, Andy," he said softly.

"Let us go, Misha," said Rostnikov. "The McQuintons have packing to do. There is a plane for Paris in two hours. Perhaps we can all drive them to the airport and sit with them till they leave."

Ivanov looked at the Americans and shook his head a few times before heading for the door. Sarah moved to Andy's side and put her hand on the little woman's shoulder. Without looking back at her, Andy McQuinton touched Sarah's hand. The strong man on the bed was now quite weak, and the weak woman who stood before him had found within her a great strength.

When they had gone into the hall and left the Americans to their packing, Ivanov turned to Rostnikov. Sarah took her husband's hand.

"All right," said Ivanov. "We get them on the plane and then…"

"I fly to Moscow and give this book to my division commander," said Rostnikov.

"And he will believe you?" ' 'He will believe me," said Rostnikov, looking at his wife, who was quite pale.

"And he will act?"

"I do not know," said Rostnikov.

"Porfiry Petrovich, I think we have stepped into something deep and very dirty.

I'll arrange for a flight for you tonight. Get ready. I'll wait here till the Americans are prepared to go."

Sarah had not said a word, and she did not do so even when they were back in their room.

"Sarah," he said. "I won't even pack. I'll change clothes at home in Moscow and be back here tomorrow, the next day at the latest."

Sarah Rostnikov was sitting on the chair in the corner.

"Are you all right?" he asked, moving to her side. "Do you have a headache? You want your medication?"

"It follows you wherever you go, Porfiry Petrovich," she said, looking at him.

"Yes, "he admitted.

"It is not an accident, is it?"

He was not sure what she meant, but he answered what he understood.

"I do not think so."

"I like the American woman," said Sarah.

"So do I," said Rostnikov.