Stuart Kaminsky - People Who Walk In Darkness

Karpo knew better than to suggest that he go alone. Rostnikov would not forgo his responsibility.

With that, Boris entered the cafeteria, looked around, and squinted at the two detectives before he saw them and moved to join them.

It was evident to both detectives, and not for the first time, that their guide into the earth had very far from perfect vision.

Balta wasready, knife hidden, plan in place. There were no doubt other ways to accomplish his goal, but, he thought, each of us achieves satisfaction in his or her own way. Balta lived for the game. He had the cash he had taken from the woman on the train when he killed her with great efficiency and anatomical knowledge, which he hoped the police appreciated.

He knew the time Rochelle Tanquay was to be at the apartment of Jan Pendowski, the preening babnik, the lecher who had the diamonds. Balta would be there too.

Balta watched. Soon. Balta watched.

The knockat his door was gentle and right on time. Jan Pendowski opened the door. Rochelle Tanquay stood there in a perfectly fitted tan suit, a silk scarf around her neck, her short dark hair brushed down in bangs. She looked, he thought, as if she had just stepped out of an ad for absolutely anything she wanted to sell.

She stepped in, and Jan leaned forward to gently clasp her right arm and kiss her. She did not resist. Her response was welcoming but reserved.

Jan closed the door and kissed her again. This time the response was even more welcoming. Both arms were around her now and his mouth was inches from hers. He could smell the scent of gardenia perfume.

His eyes made clear what he wanted.

“Shall we seal our partnership in bed?”

“When I see that you actually have diamonds, and this has not been an elaborate scheme to seduce me.”

She said this with a smile.

“I am not devious,” he said. “I say what I mean, and when I lie it is simple and direct. Simple and direct lies are the most convincing.”

“I have never done anything illegal before,” Rochelle Tanquay said, stepping back nervously. “Oh, small adventures. Cocaine. Deception in a game of cards with a lover, an Egyptian who could afford the loss, but. .”

“The diamonds must be hidden carefully during your flight,” Jan said.

“I know where I can put them. I fly around the world from Paris. I can go to a customs agent who recognizes me when I arrive. I’ve never been questioned.”

“You know where to go in Paris?”

“Yes.”

“I will meet you there after you get the money,” he said.

“And Oxana?” Rochelle asked.

“Go ahead with your plan for her. Give her a magazine spread. She will be happy.”

“But how will you tell her that she will not be carrying the diamonds to Paris, that she will not be sharing the money? I think it very likely that she may suspect me.”

“I will take care of Oxana,” he said, moving so close that Rochelle could see tiny flecks of green in his blue eyes.

“And now?” Rochelle said, almost purring.

Jan nodded and moved across the room to a small table holding a phone and the mail. The dark wooden table had curlicued legs like those of a delicate mythical animal.

“Antique, dated 1641 and signed by the maker. French. You should appreciate that. Its authenticity has been verified by two dealers, who made substantial offers for it.”

He slid the table away from the wall and stepped behind it.

“It was a gift to me from a very repulsive Tiblisi smuggler who was passing through Kiev with a substantial cache of drugs from Turkey hidden here.”

Pendowski pulled a panel at the back of the table, which slid out to reveal a compartment in which rested a canvas bag tied with a leather thong.

“In exchange for the gift, I let him keep the drugs and be on his way after paying a slight toll in American dollars.”

Jan held up the canvas bag. The contents were substantial enough to create a significant bulge.

He closed the compartment, pushed the table back against the wall, and stepped toward Rochelle Tanquay, opening the bag and tilting it forward to show the diamonds.

Rochelle reached out to take the bag, which he closed and tied. Then he held the bag over his head.

“First we seal our partnership in bed,” he said, leaning so close that their lips were almost but not quite touching.

“Our partnership is dissolved.”

The blade went smoothly and deeply between two ribs and into his heart. Jan Pendowski’s eyes opened wide in surprise. For an instant he did not know what had happened. He thought he might be having a heart attack. Both his father and one of his grandfathers had died young from heart attacks. But Rochelle had said the partnership was dissolved.

He stood looking at her, feeling no great pain, only the realization that he was no longer aware of his right arm and hand.

The second thrust, just below the ribs, made it clear to him what was happening.

He saw Rochelle, knife in hand, lean forward to kiss him quickly and then step back to avoid being touched by his blood as she thrust the blade smoothly into his neck. He went to his knees, clutching his throat. Blood seeped through his fingers. Breathing was impossible.

He slumped face forward to the now blood-soaked carpet as Rochelle deftly took the pouch of diamonds from his hand. Jan Pendowski made three urgent gasps for breath and died.

And then someone knocked at the door.

“And sowe are gathered,” said Iosef, looking at the strange quartet coming down the sidewalk.

The nervous man in a leather Mafia coat a bit too warm for the weather was smoking and clenching and unclenching his right fist. Behind him walked a very young man in a not-quite-so-fashionable coat, but a coat nonetheless. The substantial bald man they had seen on the Metro when they followed the two Africans was also wearing a leather coat, the uniform of the day for those with no imagination who wanted to hide weapons. Both Iosef and Zelach were well aware of what rested behind the leather.

The bald man had a tight grip on the left arm of a slight black man of no more than forty who wore no coat and displayed signs of having been beaten so badly that he belonged in a hospital. All four joined the man in the doorway who was watching the cafe.

Iosef watched the men in coats confer and talk to the man who had been hiding in the doorway.

“I think we are about to witness the gunfight at the OK Corral,” said Iosef.

Zelach had no idea of what he was talking about. All he could think of was that they were probably about to face four heavily armed gangsters on one side and possibly a pair of armed Africans, maybe more than a pair, on the other. The two policemen were badly in need of heavily armed support.

“If we bring in backup at this point,” said Iosef, “many people might be killed.”

“If we do not,” said Zelach, “maybe we will be killed.”

“You are not afraid,” said Iosef.

“No,” said Zelach. “I was thinking about my mother.”

Iosef turned his head away from the gathering in the doorway down the street and looked at Zelach.

“You are right,” Iosef said. “I should have called for support.”

“It is too late now,” said Zelach, looking at the cafe.

The door had opened and the Africans named Biko and Laurence had stepped out. They were not alone. Five more black men carrying pistols and revolvers of various ilk were with them.

“Who do we shoot?” whispered Zelach.

“No one. I think they are going to shoot each other,” answered Iosef.

The meetingwas scheduled for tomorrow.

Yaklovev stood at the window in his office, looking down at the courtyard of Petrovka. He needed just a bit more to bargain with in the face of the potential loss of his control of the Office of Special Investigations. He was certain that with his connections he could find a reasonably prestigious and responsible position in the bureaucracy, possibly within the Kremlin itself. He was not concerned about what might happen to Rostnikov and the other detectives. But his current position and their investigative skills afforded him a perfect entree into the private lives, indiscretions, and crimes of politicians, business moguls, and even successful Mafia figures who wished for some degree of legitimacy.