“There has been a murder,” said Tkach. He stood up with Elena. “The murder of a young man who knew your daughter well. She may be in danger. She may be dead.”
“I hope no one is foolish enough to harm her,” Durahaman said, holding out his hand to guide them toward the door. The meeting was definitely over.
“We will find the murderer,” said Tkach as they walked.
“The murder of the Jew is of no interest to me,” Durahaman said gently.
“No interest?” asked Tkach. “A Jew was your daughter’s … friend and you are-”
“-not interested,” said Durahaman. “Understand me. It is not Jews as a race I despise. It is Israel. I am a Semite, as are the Jews. My quarrel and that of my country is a political, not a racial, issue. Perhaps we shall speak again soon.”
The man who had served the coffee was standing outside the office door when Durahaman opened it. The man handed the police officers their coats and Durahaman stepped back inside the office and closed the doors without another word.
Tkach’s burned fingers tingled with electric pain as he put on his coat. The dark-haired man helped Elena on with hers and led them toward me front door.
“Your oil minister is descended from royalty?” asked Elena.
“Hassam Durahaman was born the fifth son of a street cleaner in Damascus,” the man said; “He did not learn to read or write until he was twenty-three. He has fought often, in many countries, has been severely wounded five times, and has lost his left lung.”
“Fascinating,” Sasha Tkach said sourly.
“He and his only surviving brother are known to have personally assassinated three traitors to Syrian liberty,” the man said, opening the front door for them. “He is a man of respect in my country, a man who is known for his determination and his successes.”
“And,” said Elena, stepping out onto the sidewalk, “what would he think of your telling us all of this about him?”
“He ordered me to tell you,” said the man. “And he ordered me to tell you that I had been so ordered.” With that the Syrian closed the door of the embassy.
“He lied,” said Tkach.
“About what?”
“His daughter and her Jewish lover,” he said. “He cares.”
“So what now?” asked Elena with a sigh. “Back to the Nikolai?”
“Now,” replied Tkach, “I go home and eat. I will meet you in front of the Nikolai at ten.”
“You think she is dead?” Elena said.
“Dead, kidnapped, on her way to Australia, who knows?” he said, rubbing his eyes. “We do what we must do. We look.”
“If she is still in Moscow and alive, I think it would be best for her if we are the ones to find her.”
“Or,” said Tkach, “if no one finds her.”
The night was growing cold, and Sasha was feeling the chill, but it did not seem to bother Elena.
“Go home and meet me at ten,” Sasha said, wanting to take care of the tingling pain in his fingers. He turned abruptly, shoved his hands in his pockets, and strode away.
EIGHT
Aleksandr was frightened when the policeman with the bad leg asked him to sit down. “I must get to the church for my grandfather’s funeral,” the boy said. “I have to help the new priest.”
“Have you had any of these cookies?”
The boy shook his head no.
“Would you like one?”
The boy shook his head yes. Rostnikov handed him a cookie, which the boy took warily.
“You can go now,” Rostnikov said.
The boy stood up and started toward the kitchen door. Then he stopped and turned toward the policeman.
“Yes?” asked Rostnikov, who had stood and was now putting on his coat, which Aleksandr had brought him.
“Have you ever eaten a hamburger at the McDonald’s?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “I waited in line with my wife for four hours when it first opened. Now the lines are shorter because no one but Americans and Japanese can afford it. We had cheeseburgers called Big Macs and trench fries.”
“Were they good?”
“Very good,” said Rostnikov.
“Did they cost a lot of money?”
“Nine rubles,” said Rostnikov, limping toward the door. “I just thought of two questions for you.”
“Yes?” asked the boy.
“Did you love your grandfather?”
To his surprise Aleksandr found himself about to say no. No one had ever asked him this question and he had never directly thought of it. His grandfather was his grandfather, Father Merhum. His father had not encouraged him to love the priest, but people he met every day respected him as the grandson of Father Merhum.
“Yes,” Aleksandr said, and he was surprised to discover that he meant it.
“One other question. Did your grandfather ever talk about someone named Oleg?”
“You mean Oleg the baker who lives-”
“A special Oleg,” said Rostnikov.
“No,” said the boy. “I’m late.”
“Do you ever think of what you want to be, Aleksandr, when you grow up?”
“No.”
“No? My son was a soldier and now he writes plays about soldiers. He wants to be a policeman like me.”
“I want …” the boy began, “I want to be a pilot.”
“Perhaps when you are old enough to be a pilot, there will be fuel for airplanes,” said Rostnikov. “I must go to my train. You must go to your grandfather’s funeral. We’ll talk again, Aleksandr. I’ll tell you what the McDonald’s looks like. Maybe I can bring a picture of it for you.”
“You won’t tell anyone I want to be a pilot,” the boy said.
“Policemen and priests must keep secrets,” said Rostnikov, buttoning his coat. “Do you have another secret you would like me to keep?”
“There is another Oleg.”
“Another Oleg,” repeated Rostnikov.
“I heard my grandfather talk about Oleg to Sister Nina,” said the boy.
“And you are sure it was not one of the Olegs of Arkush?”
“I am sure. They … it was like he was talking about someone … I don’t know, someone dead.”
“Thank you Aleksandr,” said the policeman.
Aleksandr nodded and dashed through the door into the kitchen. As he hurried past the old woman he was suddenly afraid again, afraid that the policeman would discover that it was not from the mouth of his father or Sister Nina that he had learned of Oleg.
“Dust thou art and to dust thou shalt return, until the day of the Resurrection.”
The words were sung by a choir of six in the crowded church of Arkush, where the funeral of Father Merhum was under way.
The decision had been made for Emil Karpo to attend the funeral alone. “Watch, listen, report,” Rostnikov had said. “I’ll be going back to Moscow after I talk to the boy.”
“The boy?”
“His eyes, Emil Karpo. Look at the boy’s eyes. He holds a secret and it troubles him. I’ll return in the morning.”
Karpo understood why Rostnikov could not attend the funeral. The congregation would stand during the entire two-hour service, and Rostnikov’s leg could not bear weight that long. As an outsider, he could have asked for, and would have been given, a chair. But the congregation, the people with whom he and Karpo would have to deal, would see this Moscow policeman sitting apart from them, an outsider.
It would be better for Karpo to serve as Rostnikov’s eyes and ears.
“Look for those who weep too much,” he said to Karpo, who had moved to the door of the meeting hall. “And look for those who do not weep, or pretend to weep.”
Karpo had nodded and left the hall.
Now he stood in the church among the weeping and the silent. Those in the crowd did their best to ignore the specter, which all but those closest could do. Among the mourners were several children. One of them, a girl of about four with corn-gold hair, kept turning from the coffin to look at the policeman.
The coffin contained Father Merhum in full white vestments. A cotton burial shroud was laid over the body as the choir sang of resurrection. Karpo’s eyes moved to the third level of icons on the iconostasis behind the priest. Each icon was a painting that depicted an event in the life of Christ. Karpo found the icon depicting the Resurrection.