Black Knight in Red Square (13 page)

“My career, my films. He said he was doing a series on different directions of film in different countries, and he wanted me as an example. I had the distinct impression that he was going to ridicule me. My films are, after all, not terribly accessible to the average film-goer, and the ignorant can easily cast stones.”

“I have not seen any of your films,” said Tkach humorlessly.

“Fantastic,” bleated Willery. “My latest film,
To the Left
, is being screened tonight, at the Zaryadye. I'll give you a pair of tickets.”

Willery had stood up and was nervously searching his jacket pocket. He found the tickets, peeled off two, and handed them to Tkach, who took them. To accept a gift might destroy his command of the situation, but the temptation was too great. Free tickets to an international movie for himself and Maya. He considered asking for one for his mother, and Willery responded as if he had read Tkach's mind.

“Would you like another?” he said warmly.

“Yes,” said Tkach. “I would appreciate it.”

And Willery peeled off another. Tkach now had the impression that he could ask for dozens of tickets and the nervous Englishman would keep supplying them. What Tkach did not know was that word of mouth on
To the Left
was far from favorable. The theater would not be as jammed as it was for most screenings during the festival.

Tkach pocketed the tickets and again motioned for Willery to sit, which he did with an almost boyish enthusiasm, a kind of overeagerness to cooperate that made Tkach all the more suspicious. The detective pushed a wisp of straight hair from his eyes and pressed on.

“Mr. Aubrey has been murdered,” Tkach said.

“Sorry to hear that,” replied Willery, who showed not the slightest trace of sorrow, though something like concern did come into his eyes.

“And a French producer named Monique Freneau has also been murdered,” Tkach pressed on. “You knew her?”

Tkach had no doubt now. Willery was in a state of great agitation, which he tried to cover with his broad smile.

“Name is a bit familiar,” he said, biting his lower lip as if trying to recall, “but…I'm sorry.”

“And,” Tkach said stepping closer to Willery, “I suppose you have never heard of World Liberation?”

“I…well…perhaps,” Willery said, adjusting his dark glasses, which needed no adjustment. “I meet so many people in so many different organizations all over the world.”

It is time, Tkach thought. It was worth the chance. He could always fall back if he failed, but he figured that the Englishman was too far off balance to mount a decent counterattack.

“Mr. Willery,” Tkach sighed, imitating Porfiry Petrovich's tone, “we have clear evidence that you are well acquainted with members of the organization known as World Liberation. We also know that Mr. Aubrey interviewed you because of your connection to that terrorist organization and that you are in Moscow because of your affiliation with them.” Though Tkach knew none of this he snapped his notebook shut and squinted at the man before him. It would have helped if his face were harder, but it seemed to be doing the job.

“Good Lord,” Willery cried. “I've talked to…I mean I've met a few of them in—I think it was Berlin…but Aubrey never asked about World Liberation. As for me being here because…that's absurd. My film was accepted, invited. Look, I want to cooperate with the police, but you've got this all wrong.”

Tkach said, “I am just a policeman investigating a series of murders. There are people in another branch of our government who might be less sympathetic in dealing with you. Do you follow?”

“I…yes,” gulped Willery, looking to the door for help that would not come.

“That branch of the government located a small band of World Liberation members in Moscow this morning,” Tkach said, “and eliminated them as all terrorists or violent subversives who threaten our nation are eliminated.”

Tkach had put as much fervor as he could into this statement though he felt little of the zeal. Karpo would have meant it, but Tkach prided himself on his acting, and now he was playing the role of the dedicated Marxist police officer. He did not know that every new disclosure of the death of someone involved with World Liberation was another persuasive argument for Willery to do what the woman on the phone had told him to do. Willery's very life was at stake. The most the MVD or KGB could do to him was prison, he reasoned, possibly with a bit of psychological or even physical torture. He could probably survive that; he might even beat the accusation with sufficient pressure from the British government.

“That is a reasonable position to take,” Willery finally said with a dry throat, not feeling at all cunning.

“Enough,” said Tkach. “You know what I need and want. We do not want any more dead people.”

“Meaning me?” Willery said, touching his thin chest.

Tkach nodded in sad agreement.

“I have nothing to do with World Liberation,” Willery said with a laugh. “This is absurd. I make films. No one is going to kill a filmmaker, an artist.”

“I hope not,” said Tkach, putting his notebook into his pocket. “I should hate to be the one to have to examine your body, especially if it looked anything like that of Monique Freneau. She had been…but you do not need to know about that. I've taken enough of your time. I thank you for the tickets.”

Tkach walked slowly to the door. Behind him, Willery said, “Wait.”

Tkach turned and faced the man who still sat in the chair, his long jean-covered legs outstretched, his bespectacled eyes searching the ceiling for help.

“Yes?” asked Tkach, feigning boredom and looking at his watch.

“What makes you think I'm involved with these World Liberation people?” Willery got out, but Tkach felt sure that was not why the Englishman had called him back.

Tkach smiled sympathetically and shook his head as if at the ignorance of a foreigner who did not realize the extent of the resources of the MVD.

“A friend of yours, or someone you thought was a friend, told us everything. The meetings. Everything.”

A professional or even a calm, intelligent amateur would realize that a policeman would never give away such information if it was true, but Willery, while intelligent, was far from calm, and he was clearly not a professional. This struck Tkach. Willery was no terrorist, though they might use him. Tkach was convinced that he was essentially harmless.

Tkach would discover that he was quite wrong.

“Anything else you wish to say?” he asked Willery.

The Englishman's answer was a wordless shake of the head that suggested there was much to be told. Tkach told Willery that someone would be back to talk to him at greater length. Then he left, closing the door behind him.

In the hall, Alexander Platnov stood waiting to get back into his room. He scowled at the detective, who paused eye to eye with the student. Tkach looked down at the young man's shirt and sweater, his dark trousers, and assessed him as earnest and slightly belligerent.

“How long have you known the Englishman?” he said.

Platnov shrugged indifferently, indicating he could not remember. Tkach responded by telling Platnov to put his books in his room and accompany the detective to Petrovka where he might be more inclined to cooperate. Tkach had no intention of taking the student back to Petrovka. The threat was usually enough to get people to speak. Platnov was no exception.

“I've known him four days,” he said quietly, turning away from Tkach as if bored, trying to retain his dignity in defeat.

“Why is he staying with you?”

A pair of young men passed by on the stairway, glancing at them. Tkach looked squarely at them, and they went on.

“I am interested in film, and I read a piece about him in a British journal. I wrote to him and invited him to stay with me when I heard his film was to be shown at the festival.”

“And?” Tkach said, closing the space between them to a narrow gap. “Whom has he talked to? Who has called him? What does he talk of?”

“I don't know,” Platnov almost whined, trying to avoid Tkach's eyes. “He is a bore. I don't understand him most of the time, and he keeps talking about expanded structures, vibrating spaces, collapses of time and space. He eats too much and won't let me study. He wants attention all the time.”

“So you've met none of his friends?”

“He doesn't know anyone here,” Platnov said. “He was interviewed by some American journalist. I was glad to have him out of my life for a few hours. He talked only to the people on the festival committee, a few of the students here, and the woman.”

“Woman? Who was she?” Tkach said, trying to hide his excitement.

“Who knows?” Platnov answered. “A foreigner, I think. They went for a short walk a few days ago. I don't think he was happy to see her.”

“What did she look like?” Tkach asked, looking back at the closed door and trying to decide if he should make another assault on Willery with this new information or take it to Rostnikov.

“A woman,” sighed Platnov. “She wasn't ugly, but not pretty either. Too old for me, too intense, too. I don't know. Dark woman with dark eyes. Much too serious. She did manage to shut up the Englishman for a few hours.”

“Go,” said Tkach, “but do not tell Willery we have spoken. You understand?”

“I'm going to go back in there and put my head in my books,” said Platnov, easing past the detective. “I want no further conversations with him.”

Tkach let the young man pass. He would not confront Willery now, but would meet with Rostnikov. He had learned a great deal, but he was not at all sure what it might mean.

Once in the street, he removed the three tickets from his pocket, checked his watch, and hoped that Rostnikov would not keep him working on the case so long that he would miss the movie. He walked slowly down Karl Marx Prospekt, splurged by buying ice cream from a street vendor, and headed for Petrovka.

“S
O,” ROSTNIKOV BEGAN AFTER VIGOROUSLY WIPING
his nose with a large gray handkerchief, “what have we?” He looked across his desk at Karpo and Tkach, not caring who spoke first.

Tkach began by reviewing his meeting with Willery. Rostnikov told him to stay with Willery, pursue the matter, and assign a watch on him.

They devoted fifteen minutes to discussing the murder of Monique Freneau.

“Foreigners are dying at an alarming rate in Moscow,” Rostnikov observed. “It is an embarrassment, and we must put an end to it. Catching a murderer is very satisfying.” His right eyebrow went up. “But you would not know of this satisfaction yet, Sasha and Emil.”

Neither junior spoke.

“So, Emil Karpo,” Rostnikov finally said after rubbing his callused fingers over the scratch on his desk. “What do we have on this dark-eyed woman of mystery?”

“She exists,” Karpo said.

“Yes,” agreed Rostnikov. “We both saw her at the Metropole, but where is she now and what is she up to? Does she have anyone helping her? How can she hide? Where?”

“I think,” said Karpo, passing Rostnikov a folder, “she means to plant bombs in key places in Moscow, if she has not already done so.”

Karpo was at the apartment on Kalinin Street less than one hour after the KGB attacked it. Had he been ten minutes earlier he might have spotted the dark-eyed woman across the street. Granted she was well disguised, but Karpo was a man obsessed, and disguises are often insufficient in the face of obsession.

There were two uniformed MVD men at the door of the building with orders to keep everyone out. Their orders did not apply to an inspector, however, particularly not to Inspector Karpo, the Vampire, who was familiar to them. Neither uniformed man could even formulate a challenge in his mind let alone voice it to Karpo, who showed his identification and marched past them.

The KGB investigators were going through the rubble, turning over tables, examining cupboards. There were three of them. A dour man with graying temples, who wore a light gray suit and looked like a movie star, was clearly in charge. The other two were efficient drones. The dour man glanced over at Karpo, annoyed, and made a mistake of which Karpo did not disabuse him.

“What are you waiting for?” said the man, reaching into his jacket pocket for a cigarette. “Start in the other room.”

Karpo went into the room and closed the bullet-riddled door partway to give himself some privacy. He could hear the man shouting orders to look here and there, check this and that.

The room Karpo found himself in was very small, hardly more than a closet. His impulse was to tear through the chest of drawers, to search the clothes that hung on hangers, to lift the well-worn little rug. But a systematic search would take time, and in that time the KGB men might learn that Karpo was not one of their own. Instead, he stood silently looking. If there was anything worth finding, it would almost certainly be hidden. The terrorists would probably have avoided the most obvious hiding places. There would be no notes taped to the bottoms of drawers, no loose floorboards. He was not even sure what he was searching for, but he needed a link, a link to the dark-eyed woman who had made both him and Rostnikov look foolish. That confident woman, he was sure, was a threat to what he believed in and lived for, and he felt that something drew them together. He sensed that she might very well be every bit as dedicated to her beliefs as he was to his. She was far too formidable to be allowed to walk the streets of Moscow.

The bulge in the wallpaper was very slight. Actually, there were places all around the room where the wallpaper bulged. It was very old, very worn, but this bulge was above eye level and hidden by a wooden shelf. In front of it was a pile of books, apparently stacked quite haphazardly, but that was what caught his attention—the books. The apartment—as bullet-torn as it was, as picked through as it was becoming—still gave signs of having been sparse and neat. It had a quasi-military aura, except for that random pile of books. It was almost laughable, though Karpo never laughed. These World Liberation people, for all their fanatic courage, were playing a game. They weren't professional. He was sure the woman was professional, but not these others, the dead ones. He shook his head slightly in disgust as he climbed up on the little desk. His movements were awkward, since he could use only one arm. His left arm still hurt sometimes, and he used it only when he needed to convince others that he had two good arms.