Stuart Kaminsky - Hard Currency

In the middle of the night, he had awakened her for more with a hand between her legs. Or perhaps, if she wished to be honest, she had aroused him by rubbing against him as he faced away from her in sleep.

Now, with the morning, he stood by the window, his body dark and strong, his face lined and handsome.

She watched him as he dressed.

“You have the best breasts I have ever seen or tasted,” he said, smiling at her as he buttoned his shirt.

“Thank you,” she said. “What will you tell your wife?”

“I had to work all night. I have to work many nights.”

“I see,” she said.

“We have hurt no one,” he said. “And we have given pleasure to both of us. We have also satisfied a curiosity which would have caused us an agonizing sense of lost opportunity.”

He finished tying his shoes and stood to look down at her.

“Elena Timofeyeva,” he said, “I know where your chief inspector went last night.”

She said nothing. She wondered if he saw her as she saw herself-a puffy-faced creature with dull straight hair and a flat look on her face.

“I doubt if we will be able to do this again without someone finding out,” said Sanchez. “I would like to, but it would probably be best for both of us if it did not happen. We will see. If you choose, the pleasure of this night will be forever sealed within my memory.”

“Very poetic for a revolutionary,” she said, knowing her voice was a morning rasp and her accent in Spanish almost out of control.

“I am a well-read revolutionary,” he said with a sigh, moving to the bed and leaning over to kiss her.

Elena wanted to reach for him, pull him back to her, feel him beside her and then inside her. She wanted to lose herself in this man she did not know and who was almost certainly lying to her, but she did not.

She returned his kiss and let the sheet slip from her breasts. He moved his mouth to one exposed breast, tasted her nipple with his lips, and quickly left the room.

Alone, Elena felt neither guilt nor love. The moment of lust had passed and she wanted to get up and stand in the shower as long as the hot water was willing to trickle out of the corroded, ancient nozzle.

She wondered if she would tell her aunt about this when she got back to Moscow and decided that she would not if she could possibly keep herself from doing it.

As she got up she understood the feeling she did not want to face. She did not want Rostnikov to know what had happened. She did not want him to know because Rostnikov’s son, Iosef, was clearly in love with her and she felt that she might want to accept that love. If Rostnikov knew, even if he never spoke, it would be too much to bear. Her hope now was that Sanchez would be true to his vow of silence. It was a hope in which, as she stepped out of bed to the bright reality of this Havana morning, she had little faith.

The fifteen men the Gray Wolfhound had managed to pull from the Criminal Investigation Division and the Traffic Division were far fewer than Emil Karpo and Sasha Tkach needed. If Karpo was right, Tahpor would attack tonight in or near a Metro station.

Following his conversation with Yevgeny Odom, Karpo had dressed and walked the two miles to Petrovka. He had written his report and turned it in to Colonel Snitkonoy with a copy to Sasha Tkach.

The Wolfhound read the report while Karpo and Tkach waited. Sasha sneezed twice during the wait. He apologized both times, and blew his nose as discreetly as possible.

“Remarkable,” the Wolfhound said finally. “I have managed to free some people from other branches to help you for a few nights, but … but you are confident?” Snitkonoy looked resplendent. He wore a neatly pressed uniform with almost all his ribbons and several of the most impressive-looking medals.

“There is no certainty with a madman,” said Karpo.

Sasha sneezed.

“You should be in bed,” said the colonel.

“Tomorrow, sir,” said Tkach, trying to stifle another sneeze.

“Well,” said the Wolfhound with a sigh. “Proceed.”

Sasha turned and took a step toward the door, but Karpo stood his ground.

“The murder of the Kazakhstani foreign minister,” said Karpo.

The Wolfhound turned his back and strode to the window.

“It has been taken care of,” he said. “The murderer was a Kazakhstani Moslem, an extremist. He confessed and then committed suicide.”

“I see,” said Karpo.

“I believe you do,” said the Wolfhound. “I would appreciate your passing on our thanks to the forensics laboratory.”

“Paulinin,” said Karpo.

Tkach stood by the door, his hand on the knob.

“Emil,” he said as the Wolfhound turned. Karpo had not moved. “Let’s go.”

“You are dismissed, Deputy Inspector,” the Wolfhound said evenly.

“Emil,” Tkach whispered again, and this time Karpo turned without another word and followed Sasha Tkach into the outer office, closing the door gently behind him.

“We won’t get more men,” Tkach said as they sat in a canteen eating greasy vegetable pies and drinking tepid tea. “The Wolfhound is not going to get us any more help.”

Karpo took a bite of his pie, and nodded. People at the other plastic tables did their best to pretend that the man who looked like a vampire was in no way worthy of their attention. They tried, but they failed or left quickly.

“All the more reason we must keep our appointment in Izmailovo Park,” said Karpo.

Rostnikov blinked his eyes at the sunlit window, checked his watch, rolled toward the battered table next to the bed, and picked up the telephone.

“Cuarenta y cinco,” he said.

“Qué quiere?” the hotel operator answered.

“Cuarenta y cinco,” he repeated slowly.

“No entiendo,” said the operator.

Rostnikov repeated the number in Russian and English and then a voice came on, a man’s voice, which said, “Cuarenta y cinco.”

“Ah, bueno,” said the operator.

“Thank you,” Rostnikov said to the man who must have been monitoring his phone.

The man didn’t answer, but Elena did on the third ring.

“Elena Timofeyeva, are you dressed?”

“I am dressed,” she said.

“We meet in the lobby in twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes,” she said.

There was something in her voice that he had never heard before, at least never heard in her. It puzzled him.

“Are you well, Elena Timofeyeva?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Are you not going to ask where we are going?”

“Where are we going?”

“To see Major Sanchez about what happened last night,” he explained.

“Last night?” she asked, clearly straining to sound normal.

“Twenty minutes, Elena. You have time for a cold shower.”

He hung up the phone and went into the bathroom. He reached over to turn the hot water on and straightened to examine himself in the mirror.

The face was in need of a shave. The face was in need of sleep. The face was in need of the slap of cold Moscow winter. Cuba was fine for his leg but it was a narcotic against which he had to constantly struggle. The babalau had told him to leave as soon as he could and that was what he pledged to the flat-faced Russian face in the mirror. For an instant, as the steam began to cloud the mirror, Porfiry Petrovich had the impression that his image was grinning.

He moved away from the mirror and considered calling Elena back and telling her to meet him in an hour. He wanted to sink into the heat of the bath and read about some men who had killed Carella’s father. But a call would require him to deal with the operator. He shook his head no and climbed carefully into the bath.