Rostnikov vacation

SEVEN

Sasha hated the smell of hospital corridors.He had spent many hours, whole nights, in such corridors waiting for victims and violators to survive and speak or to die. He remembered the night when his father had lain dying in a hospital that smelled like this one while he waited all night with his mother.

The waiting wasn't bad. The sound of people in pain was not pleasant, but it was tolerable. What he couldn't stand was the smell and its memories. He always wondered why others did not seem to have the same reaction to the strong, sweet-acrid odor he could actually taste, like shaved metal in his mouth.

But this time Sasha Tkach welcomed the smell, for it overwhelmed the scent of Tamara on his clothes. He was pleased that the smell of the hospital would not be easy for him. Rostnikov had said he would suffer, and suffer within he would, and he also needed something physical to punish his senses as he sat talking to Zelach's mother.

They sat on a bench in the corridor, a long wooden bench that had been painted pink, probably under the misconception that it would add a touch of color to the gray ness. It did not.

Sasha had tried to call Maya. He wanted to see her and Pulcharia, but he was afraid that his clothes, his look, would betray the awful thing he had done and she would be unable to forgive him. Maya had not answered the phone. With each ring he had hoped she would not answer.

She had already gone to work. After twenty rings, he had hung up, deeply disappointed that she had not been there, his heart beating wildly. And then he had called Rostnikov. Zelach's mother said something. Sasha apologized and asked her to repeat it.

' 'He will not die?'' Zelach's mother asked for the eleventh time in the past hour.

She was a great lump of a woman, and Sasha could see her son in her.

' 'He will not die," Sasha reassured her once again, though he had no idea whether Zelach would survive.

"He is my only child," she said softly. "Have I told you that?"

"I knew," saidTkach.

The woman's large nose and eyes were quite red from a constant, slow stream of weeping and nose blowing. She had entered wearing a babushka but had removed it when Tkach had led her to the bench. Her hair had stood up, gone in all directions, wild, ridiculous. She looked like a clown, but Tkach could neither bring himself to tell her nor ignore her.

"Arkady, let me tell you, is not very smart," she said. "I know that. I am not a fool. But he works hard. He does what he is told."

"I know," said Tkach.

"He does what he is told," she repeated, watching a man in white push a cart down the corridor.

"He is a good man," said Tkach.

"He speaks of you fondly," she said, turning to Sasha with a pained smile.

"I…" Sasha began, knowing that the confession was about to come out unbidden. He bit it back angrily. Confession, he reminded himself, would be a self-serving indulgence.

Zelach's mother was watching him, waiting for him, with her clown face, to fill out the sentence he had begun. He was rescued by a woman in white who emerged from the surgery, pulling a white surgical mask from her face, and moved toward them. Tkach rose and helped Zelach's mother to her feet.

"He will live," the doctor said wearily with a smile. "I think you should go home now, get some rest, and come back in the morning, when he'll be able to talk."

"Thank you," said Zelach's mother, taking the doctor's hand.

"How is he?" Tkach asked.

"Three broken ribs, one in two places," the doctor said, nodding at a pair of men in suits who hurried past. "Concussion, severely lacerated wound on the chin. The left eye was a problem. He will probably have no vision from it.'' "No…" the mother began.

"For how long?" asked Tkach.

"For the rest of his life," said the doctor.

"Did he speak?" asked Tkach. "Say anything?"

"One thing, yes," said the doctor, massaging the bridge of her nose. "He said, 'They had a key.' "

Though he now had someplace to go, Sasha had insisted on taking Zelach's mother to her apartment, where she, in turn, had insisted on feeding him a thin fish soup with bread. The idea of food was repellent, and the smell of the fish as he sat was even more threatening than the hospital odor. But he ate, slowly, silently, reassuringly, trying not to think of how tiny the apartment was, how filled it was with photographs of Zelach at all ages, of mementos of the man's life down to a childish framed painting of Borotvitskaya Gate, complete with pyramid tower topped by what looked like an inverted ice cream cone.

"Arkady painted that when he was fourteen," his mother said proudly when Tkach had entered the room and glanced at the less than skillful but certainly recognizable Kremlin tower.

He ate all of the soup, listened to every word, accepted her offer of her son's razor with which to shave, and gave her reassurances and proper responses. It would be over soon, possibly by morning. Zelach would awaken, would tell the investigators what had happened. Tkach had not lied to the team that had come to the hospital, but neither had he told the truth. He had been too distraught, too anxious to go to Petrovka. He was expected to write a full report before the day ended.

"I must go now," he said, turning from the sink in the corner and handing the old woman the razor he had just rinsed.

The old woman took it.

"This razor was my husband's, Arkady's father's," she said, putting it on an open shelf lined with white paper near the sink. "It was given to him by his captain when the war ended."

"It's very sturdy," said Sasha.

She looked at his freshly shaven face and said, "You are a boy."

He could say nothing, could not even smile. He touched her hand, said, "He will be fine," and hurried out the door.

It was late morning, warm, and the streets were full when Sasha reached the sidewalk. He was filled with a sense of urgency and wondered why he had not felt it before, why he had stumbled through the morning when what he should and must do was quite clear. Perhaps it was too late. He walked quickly, almost ran in the direction of the Engels complex. People stepped out of his way or cursed as he hurried for almost three blocks before he stopped, stood for an instant, and then went to the nearest Metro station.

Twenty minutes later, he was in the clearing beyond the park. He could see the telephone from which he had called Maya the night before. He walked past the bushes where the

two men had watched him, along the path where Tamara had walked with her laughing friends.

Sasha was filled with rage as he crossed the concrete square and entered the building. A woman on the stairway carrying a cardboard box tied with rope put her back to the wall to let him pass and then hurried down the stairs and out the building without looking back.

Sasha ran up the stairs, pushed open the stairwell door, and moved quickly to the door of the apartment. He knocked. There was no answer, but he heard someone stir inside.

"Open up," he shouted.

"Who is it?" a man's voice asked.

"Police," he said. "Open the door or I will kick it in."

Sasha knew in his heart that he would not be able to kick the door down, but if it was not opened very soon, he would vent his rage upon it.

The door opened. A frightened wisp of a man who was only as high as Sasha's chest stood before him, clasping a rumpled blue robe to his bony frame.

"Where is she?"

Sasha pushed the door open and sent the little man sprawling.

"Who?" the man bleated like a sheep.

Sasha said nothing. The room had been completely changed in a few hours. Sasha turned his fury on the little man, who squealed and put his hands up to protect himself.

"Who?" he repeated.

"Tamara," said Sasha, advancing on him.

"Tamara? There's no Tamara here. Oh, the woman, the noisy one," the man said.

"She is below, the apartment below."

Sasha stopped, blood pounding in his head. He was on the wrong floor.

"I'm sorry," he said, and ran into the hallway.

The door slammed behind him before he had taken two steps. He moved quickly to the stairway and hurried down.

Maybe it was too late in the morning. She would be gone, at work. She would have fled. He opened the door to the hallway and moved to the right door. Someone was inside. She was inside. He knocked.

"Yes," she said. "Who is it?"

Sasha opened his mouth to speak, but for an instant he had forgotten the name by which she knew him.

"Me," he said, controlling his voice. "Yon Mandelstem, your little Jew."

"I'm getting ready for work," she said. "I'm late. Come back tonight. Come back at eight."

He could hear her moving away from the door.

"Just for a moment," he said. "I have something for you. I'm late for work, too."

He heard her walk back to the door, and then it opened.

She was wearing a black dress with a thick belt of many colors. Her hair was pulled back, and she was clearly in the process of getting ready. Her face was clear except for the lipstick on her mouth. It gave her a blank look, the look of an android, an unfinished face. She did not look at him but at the large hand mirror she held before her face.

"I look terrible," she said. "But I must go, love. What do you have?"

Sasha was grinning, a wide, awful grin as he pushed past her and closed the door.

"Maybe death," he said, pulling Zelach's gun from his pocket and aiming it at her face.

She backed away from him, looking at him, the red lips of her mime face curled inward in sudden fear.

"What's wrong?" she said. "What's wrong with you?"

He moved toward her, and she backed away till she reached the bed on which they had lain a few hours earlier. She had no room now in which to escape.

"Where are they?"

"They?"

"The two men," he said. "The two men who beat Zelach in my apartment. The two men you work with. The two men you gave my key to."

"Two men?" she said. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm late for work.

I have no time for crazy Jews."

She tried to move past him, tried to show him that in spite of her fear or because of it she was angry and would tolerate no more of his nonsense, even if he had a gun. He grabbed her arm and stopped her. The mirror was in her other hand. She held it like a frying pan and hit Sasha on the forehead. His grip did not loosen.

"The two men," he repeated, tapping the tip of the gun barrel on the edge of the mirror.

She looked into his face and saw madness, and Tamara was afraid. She tightened her grip on the handle of the mirror, ready to hit him again, but he stopped her by saying very softly, "If you hit me again, I will kill you."

And she knew that he meant it. Instead of hitting him with the mirror, she turned it toward him so he could see his face. Blood meandered down from an ugly, raw cut above his right eye, and he saw the look of madness that now made Tamara open her mouth in fear.

"The two men," he said. "I'm a policeman."

"I…" she began.

"Do not lie," he said, putting his forehead to hers, whispering his words.

"Now I know why that man was in your room. They told me about it. If you're a policeman, you could get in trouble for what we did last night," she said. "You could lose your job, go to jail. You can't do anything or say anything. Get out of my way.''

She tried to pull out of his grasp, but he held tightly and said, "If you do not tell me, I will shoot you, and then I will shoot myself."

He let her pull back enough so that she could see his face again. As she looked at him, he reached down, took the mirror from her hand, and held it up so she could look at her

own frightened face, which was now covered with blood from his wound.

"I can't," she said with a sob. "You don't understand."

"You will tell me where they are," he said evenly, forcing her to look into his eyes. "I will get them. You will have enough time to pack whatever you can carry and get out of Moscow. And you will never return to Moscow."

There was no dealing with madness.

She nodded in agreement.

"In the next building," she said. "Engels One. Apartment 304."

Sasha let her go.

"If you call them, I will come back for you," he said, moving to the door.

"I won't call them," she said, reaching up to wipe his blood from her face.

"There's no phone here."

Sasha left the apartment.

He encountered no one on the way down the stairs, but outside in the concrete courtyard a quartet of old men parted for him as he strode toward Engels One.

The old men looked at Sasha's bloody face, saw the gun in his hand, and hurried on.

Emil Karpo was definitely not good for business at the Billy Joel. It wasn't that business was brisk in the afternoon. On the contrary, most of the tables were empty, and the music was provided by unpaid groups trying out in the hope of a paid nighttime engagement.

Yuri Blin, whose real name was Yuri Tripanskoski, tried to pay no attention to the ghostly figure in black who sat unblinking at a small table near the far wall, watching him. Yuri, who was only twenty-eight but whose great bulk disguised his age, watched the Busted Revolution perform on the slightly raised platform that served as the Billy Joel stage.

Yuri was just developing the proper posture of an overweight, triple-chinned rock impresario. He developed it from watching tapes of American and British gangster movies. The tapes were copies from Finnish television that he bought at 150 American dollars each. Two years ago, Yuri Tripanskoski had been a third-rate black marketeer, a fartsovschchiki, dealing in anything he could get his hands on, from Hong Kong cigarette lighters with naked Oriental women painted on them to low-quality duplications of American rock recordings. He had made a poor living and worked much harder than a criminal should have to work. After all, what was the point in engaging in crime if you had to work just as hard and earn just as little as a peasant? But Yuri did what he did. He knew he could not stop.

He had come to Moscow from the Byelorussian town of Gantsevichi, where his father worked on a collective farm. For the first twenty-four years of his life, the greatest excitement he had was a trip to Minsk for a regional party to honor the productivity of the collective on which his father worked. It was during that party, with its tables of food no better than what he got at home, that Yuri decided to change his name and move to Moscow. It took every ruble he had saved and the four hundred he stole from his parents to pay the necessary bribes to get the papers from the local Communist party headquarters.

And in just four years Yuri Blin had moved from petty black marketeer to owner of one of the most popular clubs in Moscow. He was so successful that from time to time he even considered returning the money he had stolen from his parents.

Yuri always wore dark suits and conservative imitation British school ties. He liked to think that he looked like a French businessman.

Perhaps the pale creature in the corner was after a bribe? The threat would come, and Yuri would have to decide. He was already paying bribes to two different groups, the ones in jeans, who called themselves the Mafia, and to the police, who ambled in from time to time in their gray uniforms and red-trimmed caps, playing with their nightsticks.

Yuri could handle them. He had seen Sydney Greenstreet, Francis L. Sullivan, Dan Seymour, Thomas Gomez, Peter Lorre-especially Peter Lorre-handle all of them.

Yuri sat at his table, the table of honor, flanked by Buster and Buddy and watched the Busted Revolution. Yuri had named Buster and Buddy. Their real names were of no concern. They were chosen less for their abilities than their looks.

Yuri had cast them carefully. Both men were in their early thirties, and both looked dangerous. Buster was enormous, dark, with a broken nose, hair greased back. Buddy was wiry, albino, with a mean, nervous look. Buster and Buddy wore suits just like Yuri's, but their ties were yellow, with little blue circles.

Buster, Buddy, and Yuri were impressive, but the Busted Revolution was not.

The lead singer of the Busted Revolution was a thin boy with long, stringy hair.

He wore cutoff jeans and a leather vest and kept losing control of the song he performed, a song he seemed to be creating as he went along. It had started as a version of one of the songs from the Kino album Night but had deteriorated into this mess. The backup guitar and the drummer, who wore the same costume as the lead singer, tried to keep up with the lead, but they had neither the talent nor the enthusiasm for it.

Yuri had let them go on too long. The four or five other customers in the place didn't care much. They were treating the Busted Revolution as a joke, but Yuri didn't want them to think he was taking the group seriously. He had only let them go on as long as they had because he did not wish to deal with the pale man in black, though he knew he would have to do so. This was not a regular customer. This was not trade off the street. This was a man with a purpose, and Yuri was in no hurry to discover that purpose, whether bribe or business.

But there was no help for it. The lead singer, who screamed on about perestroika, his girlfriend, and Iraq, had strayed into a falsetto that was beyond human tolerance. Yuri removed the cigarette from his lips and leaned over to Buddy, who nodded and shouted over the music, ' 'Stop!''

The drummer and the backup guitar stopped almost instantly. The game was up, and they knew it. The lead, however, who had paid no attention to his band in any case, hit something that resembled a chord and tried to find his way out of a piercing condemnation of the sewage system.

This time Buster stood and bellowed, "Stop!"

And this could not be ignored. The lead singer gave up and looked over at Yuri Blin, who closed his eyes and shook his head no, feeling his chins vibrate, hoping he looked like Francis L. Sullivan in Night and the City. Yuri opened his eyes and saw that the Busted Revolution were moving from the small stage as they argued with each other over which of them was responsible for this disaster.

Yuri also saw the man in black rise from his table and move toward him.

Buster looked down at the seated Blin for a signal that would tell him how to deal with the advancing man. Yuri put his cigarette back in the corner of his wide mouth, held up a balloon-fingered hand, and gestured in a small, calming motion for Buster to stand quietly and wait. Buddy needed no instruction. He knew his role well.

Emil Karpo stopped in front of the table and looked down at Blin's round, pink face. He paid no attention to either Buster or Buddy.

"I am looking for Yakov Krivonos," Karpo said, holding out his open leather folder, which revealed his MVD identification card.

Yuri Blin barely glanced at the card. He was protected. He paid well to be protected.

"That is not a familiar name,'' said Blin. ' 'Buster, Buddy, you know anyone named… What was that?'' "Yakov Krivonos," said Karpo softly.

Buster and Buddy shook their heads no, but Karpo was not looking at them. His gaze was fixed on Yuri Blin, who looked around the room and sighed.

"I'm sorry, Inspector," said Blin, "but-" ' 'His hair is orange, in spikes,'' Karpo said patiently. "He had a girlfriend named Carla Wasboniak."

"I don't know that name, either," said Blin with a smile.

"A pretty blond girl who came in here frequently. She was here last night, at that table. You sat here."

"Sorry," said Blin. "I do not remember. I wish I could help."

Buster shrugged, and Buddy smiled and let out a small squeal of a sound that might have been a laugh.

Karpo blinked once.

"I do not have time for this," he said. "I believe you are lying."

"I am offended," said Blin, now playing to his men.

' 'You will tell me what you know about Yakov Krivinos and a man, possibly an American, named Jerold."

"I know nothing," said Blin.

Karpo turned away and looked at the people at the other tables. There were not many, and they were all looking back at him. Near the door, the Busted Revolution were packing their drum and guitars and still arguing.

"You will all leave now," saidKarpo. "Policebusiness."

At the nearest table were two very young women, possibly still in their teens, and a dark, thin man with graying temples. He looked at Blin for an idea of how to respond. He got no answer. The dark man with graying temples stood up to face Karpo. Their eyes met, and Karpo repeated, "You will all leave now.''

The dark, thin man laughed, showing rather bad teeth. He muttered something he was careful to conceal from Karpo and escorted the girls to the door. The remaining few patrons had no teenagers to impress. They left. The lead singer of the Busted Revolution smiled at Karpo and departed with his band.

There were now only the four of them in the Billy Joel, Karpo, Yuri Blin, Buster, and Buddy.

"There are no witnesses," Blin said, looking at Buster and Buddy. ' 'And the word of a policeman is not, I am sorry to say, as important as it was once in such situations, especially when the policeman is dealing with a person with connections. Are you understanding what I am saying?"

In answer, Emil Karpo reached under his jacket and came out with his pistol. The massive Buster let out a rush of air. Buddy ignored the weapon, folded his arms, and leaned back to see how the policeman would get himself out of the corner he was backing himself into. Karpo placed the weapon on the table, where only he could reach it, and said, "Yakov Krivonos and the man called Jerold.''

He got no answer. He expected none at this point.

"Put your left hand on the table, Yuri Tripanskoski."

The smile left Yuri's face when he heard his name, a name he had not heard uttered in more than four years. For an instant, he felt vulnerable, but he rallied quickly, not completely, but quickly.

"What?" he said, looking at Buster and Buddy.

"I do not break the law, Comrade," Karpo said, leaning forward to speak in a near whisper. "I would not ask you to do what I would not do myself in pursuit of crime in the Soviet Union, but I would not hesitate to insist that any citizen do as much as I would do."

Yuri didn't know where this was going, and he didn't like it.

"Yuri?" Buster asked, looking for direction.

' 'If someone attempts to interfere with an officer investigating an economic or political crime or murder," said Karpo, "I am empowered to stop that interference with whatever force is necessary.'' "It's nothing, Buster," Yuri said with a confidence he did not feel and a knowing look at Buddy, who continued to watch.

"Left hand on the table," Karpo said,

Yuri Blin put his fat left hand on the table and felt the first touches of sweat on his brow. He could neither wipe it away nor admit it.

Karpo's movements were matter-of-fact, efficient without being hurried. With his right hand, he grasped the small finger of his own left hand. His eyes never left those of Yuri Blin, who watched warily, ready to call Buster into play if Karpo pulled a knife from his pocket. But Karpo kept his right hand around his small finger, and Blin wondered if he were about to see some bizarre magic trick.

Karpo bent the little finger back, bent it back until it would bend no more, and then he bent it just a bit more, and a nauseating crack snapped throughout the Billy Joel. Buster went pale and felt as if he were going to pass out. Buddy's arms dropped to his sides, and Yuri Blin felt very sick as he tried to pull his eyes away from the finger that dangled loosely and off to the side. There was silence as Yuri began to hyperventilate.

"You're crazy," said Blin, looking up at Karpo, whose eyes were fixed back upon him. Karpo's face, eyes, showed no pain.

"Where can I find Yakov Krivonos and the man called Jerold?" Karpo said evenly.

Yuri Blin was trembling now. It was a scene he had never wanted to play. He did not want to be Dan Seymour, begging, whimpering, but he could not stop. He said nothing, not because he was determined but because he was too terrified to respond. His eyes went back to the little finger that lolled about.

What if he touches me with that hand? Yuri thought. What if the finger falls off? And, thought Yuri, he shows no pain.

Karpo reached for Yuri Blin's hand with his right hand. Yuri tried to pull back, but Karpo moved too quickly, grasping his wrist, and held him fast.

"Stop him," Yuri said, his mouth prickly dry.

"I will shoot them if they do," said Karpo.

Neither Buster nor Buddy moved as Karpo's fingers crawled to Yuri Blin's little finger and grasped it firmly.

There was nothing to do about it now. Yuri had no control over the little sobs.

His chest heaved. His eyes danced. He felt Karpo's fingers tighten on his little finger. Yuri started to pull his hand away, but Karpo had already begun to bend the finger back, and Yuri's movement caused a sudden shock of pain.

It would soon be worse. He knew it. This mad vampire before him would soon break his finger. Then what pain would come?

"You know the apartment building on Kalinin Avenue, the big one behind the Metelista Cafe?" Blin blurted out, and held his breath, waiting for the awful sound of the crack, the shock of pain.

"Yes," said Karpo.

"They have a place in the apartment building. I don't know where. I don't know what name. I… I heard them talking," said Blin. "And I saw this Jerold there, in the outdoor cafe, under one of the umbrellas.'' "You saw him?" Karpo repeated.

"Twice," said Blin, eager now to help, feeling his finger was within a hum of agony. "It's on my way in each morning. Buddy, you've seen him."

"I don't remember," said Buddy.

"Buster?" Yuri asked, almost begging.

"Yes, maybe," Buster said.

Karpo released Yuri Blin's finger. The fat man sank back in his chair, his suit moist with sweat, his eyes turning to Buddy, who looked disappointed.

He wanted to see it happen, thought Yuri Blin. He wanted to see this lunatic break me. He wanted to look into Buddy's eyes, to convey an unmistakable threat, but he couldn't, for he knew that Buddy and Buster had witnessed Yuri Blin breaking. He knew that his relationship with the two would never be the same, and for the first time in his life Yuri Blin seriously considered murder, not the murder of the vampire policeman who had just put his gun away and backed toward the door, but the murder of the men he had created and named Buster and Buddy, the men who had witnessed the total humiliation that Yuri Blin had fled his family to avoid.

"Do not call or try to warn Krivonos," said Karpo, his right hand on the door handle. "Or I will return/'

Yuri Blin said nothing. He had no intention of telling Krivonos or the American that he had betrayed them because he was afraid of a broken little finger. Yuri had no doubt that Krivonos or the American would do far worse than break a finger if they knew what he had told this insane policeman.

When Karpo went through the front door of the Billy Joel into the street, he resisted the pain throbbing through his finger, up his arm, and into his elbow, where it felt as if someone were jabbing him with sharp, thick needles of electricity. He walked slowly to the nearest corner, assured himself that he was not followed, and made the turn.

There were people on the street, but they did not stare at the pale man who grasped the little finger of his left hand, that is, no one stared but a small girl being pulled along by a woman so worn by work and worry that she could have been the child's mother or grandmother. The child stared as she moved past the man and watched him move his finger and grit his teeth. She was disappointed to see that the man had no fangs.

When the girl was past him, she heard a cracking sound and tried to turn to look at the strange man, but the woman pulled her away.

The instant Emil Karpo replaced the finger in its socket, relief carne, not total relief but enough so that it would not take all of his concentration to function for what he had to do. There would be a level of pain, but it would be manageable.

Every other time the finger had been dislocated had been an accident. It had begun when Karpo had fallen on his hands during the pursuit of a schoolteacher named Vikovsvitska outside the Turkish baths next door to the Hotel Metropole. That had been six years ago. He had brought Vikovsvitska in and had the finger attended to by one of the staff physicians on call to the Procurator General's Office. Karpo had watched the procedure carefully and with great interest. Since then the finger had twice been dislocated. Once during sex with Mathilde Verson in her aunt's apartment and once when he and Rostnikov had to subdue a madwoman who was convinced that Leonid Brezhnev was the husband who had abandoned her after the war. In both of these instances, Karpo had, as he had just done, relocated the finger himself.

In ten minutes, Karpo was on Kalinin Prospekt.

Karpo went through the underground pedestrian tunnel in front of the Arbat Restaurant, walked past the House of Books, strode by the Oktober movie house, the very theater to which he had followed Carla the night before.

He reached the apartment building five minutes later and began the process of trying to locate the one apartment among more than a thousand in the building in which Jerold and Yakov Krivonos might be staying.

It was possible, Karpo knew, that neither Krivonos nor Jerold had obtained the apartment. It was possible that it belonged to someone they knew or someone they paid to use it. It was not only possible, it was likely, but Karpo went through the motions of checking with the building director, a short man with a sagging belly who wore a workman's cap as he sat at a little desk in his office. The man was of no help and complained about the dwindling lack of respect for the party and the growing number of complaints and threats.

"You are a party member?" the man asked, though he knew the answer because he had seen Karpo's party membership card when he opened his wallet. "It's almost a joke to be a party member," the man complained. "Pretty soon Gorbachev will be quitting the party and all of us who have been loyal will be lined up and shot."

Karpo left while the man was still talking and walked back outside and onto Kalinin Prospekt, where he considered what he might do next. He could attempt to enlist aid from Colonel Snitkonoy, to persuade him to assign the necessary twenty to thirty men to go through the apartment building in search of Yakov and Jerold, but that would mean letting the Wolfhound know that he was pursuing the case. He would surely be told directly to leave Moscow. Besides, there was no guarantee they would find the two, who might already have left.

He checked his watch. He had all this afternoon and night and till midnight the next day. He could spend an hour or two watching the entrance before he began a random round of knocking on doors in the apartment building in the hope of finding someone who could lead him to the right apartment.

Karpo's finger throbbed, but not enough to challenge him or to be ignored. He moved through the people on the broad sidewalk and stood with folded arms under a lamppost. He did not buy a newspaper, nor did he watch the people who moved past him. He ignored the unusually high temperature and the humidity and waited, not an hour or two, but four hours, watching people enter and exit the apartment building. It was at the end of the fourth hour that he saw Jerold emerge and turn to his left.

Jerold did not go far. He found an outdoor table at the Metelista Cafe, one of the dozen tables covered with multicolored umbrellas to keep out the sun. There was a table close to the street, but Jerold chose one in the back and sat so that he could see the street.

Karpo approached carefully, waited till Jerold had ordered, and moved past one of the low, round yellow pots of summer flowers in front of the cafe. Karpo wanted to get close. He did not plan to shoot the man. On the contrary, he needed him to locate Krivonos, but if he had to shoot him, Karpo wanted to do it at close range so that he would not miss and no one in the afternoon crowd would be hurt.

Karpo moved carefully along the row of tables near the street, remaining in the shade of each, ignoring the diners at each table. It took him two minutes to get to the cover of the table nearest the man called Jerold.

Karpo considered the possibility that Krivonos might be joining him, but it seemed unlikely that they would come out separately, that they would exercise such caution while displaying such lack of it. Krivonos would need better cover.

With his right hand resting in front of him ready to reach into his holster for his gun, Karpo took the five steps across the rectangular pattern in the concrete and sat across from Jerold, who sipped a cup of coffee as he read a copy of Pravda he had pulled from his pocket.

"I've taken the liberty of ordering you tea and a Greek sweet," Jerold said in slightly accented Russian as he put down his cup and folded his newspaper. "I wasn't sure whether you or it would arrive first. I watched you from the window for more than two hours."

"I am here to arrest you for your part in aiding the suspect Yakov Krivonos to leave the scene of a murder," said Karpo. "You are also charged with deadly assault against an officer of the Soviet Socialist Republics, unlawful entrance into the apartment of a Soviet citizen, and assault against that citizen. I need not, according to law, inform you of these charges at this time, but I wish you to know that the crimes of which you will be charged are quite serious and Soviet laws are applicable to all regardless of citizenship."

"In short," said Jerold, rubbing the bristles of his beard with the long finger of his left hand, "you want something from me and you hope to get it by warning me of the consequences of what I have done?''

'' Precisely," said Karpo.

"Ah, your tea and sweets,'' said Jerold. ' 'The service here has improved since economic reform. Now there is capitalist incentive to make money, right, Comrade?"

The question was directed at the young waiter, who placed before Karpo a small cup of tea and a plate on which sat a flaky pastry dripping with what may have been honey.

The waiter smiled and said, "Yes, sir."

"Profits are up with ownership if one owns a profit-making business,'' said Jerold. ' 'But with profit and ownership come a lack of control. Extortion is the new way of life. Prices rise. The Soviet Union, in the throes of economic reform, can find itself as corrupt as Nigeria. You don't mind my talking economics, do you, Inspector?"

"Krivonos," said Karpo, his right hand on his lap, ready to reach for his weapon.

The waiter moved away.

"Well," Jerold went on, "before capitalistic ownership was introduced by your new leaders, people had a fixed income. It may have been low, but it was guaranteed regardless of hard times, regardless of good times. Granted, there was little incentive to work hard, to please customers and clients, and so we have learned to expect little from each other. But what happens to the shopowner, the farmer who is a sudden capitalist? Where does he sell his goods?

Before, the government took care of him. Now he is at the mercy of the market, and often, as in the case of the farmer, there is no one to sell to but the government. You see the problem?"

"I see many problems," Karpo said, lifting the tea to his lips with his left hand, careful not to let his little finger exert pressure, his eyes never leaving the face of Jerold.

"Well, now the government, the consumer, can offer what they wish to the new capitalist," Jerold said. "A lifetime of security is gone. Freedom and capitalism bring with them insecurity, and our people have all lived their lives under the secure, though often frugal, protective arms of Mother Russia."

"Our people," said Karpo. "You are a Soviet citizen?"

"I am…" and Jerold looked up seriously. "I am an enigma.'' "Blin called you," said Karpo.

"No," said Jerold. "His young assistant, Buddy. Buddy's name is really Serge. He no longer wishes to be called Buddy. Buddy is a new Soviet capitalist. He sells his services to the highest bidder. He hopes to find economic security through his disloyalty."

"Krivonos," Karpo said, finishing his tea and putting the cup down gently as a pair of children, a boy and a girl, ran by screaming with what was probably delight.

"And if I don't tell you, you'll break my little finger?" Jerold said, holding up his left hand.

Karpo let his eyes move for just an instant to the raised hand and upraised finger, and he knew that he had made a mistake. Jerold's left hand rested on the table. His right hand was under the table.

"I have a gun in my lap," said Jerold easily. "A 9 mm Webley, very noisy. And I'm sure you now have a weapon in your hand. Do we shoot each other? Do I take a chance and shoot and hope to kill you before you respond? Do you do the same? Of course we can sit till a policeman happens by and you can call to him. I'll then have to shoot you and, if I'm still alive, kill the policeman. In any of the above situations, you will be no closer to Krivonos. Tell me, Inspector, even if it did mean you would get him, would it be worth your life?'' "It is my duty," said Karpo. "If it costs me my life, then I will die in the course of my duty. If I value my life more highly than I value the meaning by which I live, then my life has no meaning."

"Fascinating," said Jerold. "But what if your death serves no purpose? If by living you have the possibility of another opportunity, or opportunities, to serve the state, possibly even to find and apprehend Krivonos?''

"Man is capable of rationalizing any action, even inaction," said Karpo.

"You know your Karl Marx," said Jerold.

"I believe my Karl Marx," said Karpo.

' 'Emil Karpo,'' said Jerold earnestly,' 'put your gun away, get up from this table, go home, pack your bag, and go on vacation."

Before Karpo could answer, Jerold sighed and went on. "But of course you can't get up and walk away or you'll be betraying your life. I admire your dedication, but in this strange new world you are a dodo bird. You will not survive unless you embrace pragmatism, and since you will not, you will not survive."

Karpo anticipated the moment almost perfectly. He fell out of his chair to the left as Jerold fired. The white metal chair clattered to the ground. Jerold stood and fired again. The bullet hit the top of the table. People around them screamed. And Karpo, entangled in the chair, fired awkwardly at Jerold, who had moved into a crouch and was backing away toward the street.

Neither man fired again for a beat. Karpo knew he could not fire again at this distance, that there was too much danger of hitting one of the people running away behind Jerold, who raised his weapon for another shot at Karpo, who rolled to his right, pushing the table at which they had sat and sending it and the umbrella toppling. Jerold was out of time. He turned and ran down Kalinin Prospekt to the curb. Karpo rolled from behind the fallen table and kicked the fallen umbrella away as Jerold got into a dark car that had pulled to the curb.

Karpo could not see the driver clearly, but he could see that it was a young man, a young man with glasses and short hair, and he was sure that it was Yakov Krivonos.

As the car pulled away, hitting the rear of a white Volga waiting in front of it, Karpo ran toward it. But when he reached the street, the dark car was weaving through traffic.

Karpo was already moving toward the waiting white Volga that Krivonos had hit when he noticed something on the curb. He paused for an instant only to satisfy himself that it was blood. He had hit Jerold.

The driver of the Volga, a thin, bald man wearing a dark suit, stood at the curb, his keys in his hand, looking at the armed specter advancing on him. The bald man threw down his keys and went down on his knees, covering his eyes with his hands, sure that he was about to die.

It was too late. Traffic had closed in on the street. The rush home had begun.

The black car was lost.

"Get up," said Karpo. "I'm a policeman."

He put his gun back into the holster under his jacket and kicked the man's keys back to him. Behind him, Karpo could hear the intentionally unpleasant sound of a police vehicle. There would be no point in walking away. He was well aware that he would be easily identified by his description and that there would be a report about the shooting on the desk of the Wolfhound within the hour. But the colonel was a busy man and might not get to that report for hours.

No, Karpo decided, it would be best to return to Petrovka, quickly prepare his report on the incident, get the information Inspector Rostnikov wanted from the computer, and leave before he was again summoned to see the colonel.

A few things had changed this morning. Jerold was injured. Krivonos had definitely changed his appearance, and Jerold had said enough to make Karpo very anxious to talk again to Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov.