Wolfe stepped over behind him. "What?"
Benjamin was pointing to the computer screen.
ENTER PASSWORD FOR TEACUP INITIALIZATION it read.
And beneath it was a small box with a cursor that was blinking steadily. Patiently.
Wolfe sighed, walked over and sat down heavily on the bed.
"Didn't Dr. Fletcher also have an office here at the Foundation?" Benjamin asked.
"Yes," said Wolfe. "I looked over it first thing I arrived. There were some books, mostly reference materials, a blackboard filled with equations. But nothing so convenient as a little Post-it note with 'Teacup password' written on it in bright red letters."
Then Benjamin noticed the icons on the bottom menu bar. The one for the Trash was bulging.
"Here," he said. "He threw a file away, but didn't delete it."
He opened the trash. Inside its window was a single file, marked "Untitled."
"Open it," Wolfe said eagerly.
Benjamin clicked on the "Untitled" file.
Four lines of text appeared, divided neatly into a table.
Contact Name Contact Date Contact Response
F. Myorkin Free Russia News
SP
10/1
10/16 – Cnfrmd Sznri 55. Ck CSA archv.
N. Orlova Russian Cultural Center
10/17
B. Wainwright LoC
10/20
10/20 – arrvs tmrrw. TG.
A. Sikorsky Georgetown U.
"I'll be damned," said Wolfe.
"My god," Benjamin said. "Those Russian names." He swallowed hard, turned and looked at Wolfe. "It appears I was wrong about Jeremy."
"It's not that," Wolfe said absently.
"What do you mean? Isn't this list pretty much a smoking gun?"
Wolfe smiled down at him. "So you're part of a Russian spy ring? And this F. Myorkin is, I would hazard, a journalist working for the Free Russia News. And Orlova at the Russian Cultural Center? Hardly FSB headquarters in Moscow."
Benjamin looked back to the list. "And this Sikorsky?"
"Ah," nodded Wolfe, " that one I most definitely know. Anton Sikorsky, of Georgetown University. His name on this list guarantees it has nothing to do with Russian spies."
Benjamin turned back to the screen. "Then what do you make of these notes? Is that a code?"
"A crude one, perhaps. Fletcher was, among other things, a computer programmer. Programmers have a habit of condensing text by eliminating the vowels. That line by Fyorkin could be something like 'Confirmed Something 55.' And if FRN is still operating in St. Petersburg, then that's the SP. And if that's correct, there is a particularly interesting archive in St. Petersburg, the Central State Archives, where they house all the KGB's records."
"Jesus," exhaled Benjamin. "What was Jeremy doing?"
"Whatever it was," Wolfe said, "this Fyorkin's response seems to have sparked his interest in contacting other people. It's immediately after he hears from him that he contacts this Orlova at the RCC. And then you. But apparently not Anton. Not yet anyway. Perhaps he simply ran out of time…"
Benjamin glanced back at the screen. "So if you're reading his code right, his note by my name would read as…"
" 'Arrives tomorrow,' " said Wolfe.
"And the TG?" asked Benjamin.
Wolfe smiled ruefully. "I would suspect it meant 'Thank god.' "
With that, Wolfe reached down, closed the file, carefully removed it from the computer trash, and shut off the laptop.
"Well," he said with finality, "I believe we've extracted everything we can from the scene of the… incident, that is without this TEACUP password. We need sustenance. After all, empty stomachs make for empty brains."
He bent and began packing the can and flashlight back into the briefcase. When he was done he turned to Benjamin and said, "Ready?"
Benjamin nodded, then said, "I was just wondering."
"What?"
"At that last moment, as he died. I wonder what Jeremy was feeling."
Wolfe snapped the briefcase closed. "Regret, I imagine."
"Regret?" Benjamin asked.
"Yes." Wolfe moved into the hallway. "That he hadn't finished his work."
Benjamin followed him. Wolfe pulled the door closed and locked it. He took a small roll of transparent tape out of his pocket, tore a one-inch strip from it, and pressed it firmly against the top of the doorjamb.
"Now," he sighed, "let's see about a little eye-opener, shall we?"
CHAPTER 5
The rather large man sat on the bed, reading a brochure. This seemed an odd thing to do, given that there was a smaller man on the bed next to him, lying faceup, struggling to breathe.
The brochure was all about the Winter Ice Festival in St. Petersburg. It explained to visitors the history behind the commemorative Ice Palace that was being constructed in the square near the Mars Field. In 1740, the Empress Anna Ivanovna, Ruler of All the Russias, decreed that a palace was to be constructed in her capital of St. Petersburg. But this was to be a very special palace; a palace made entirely of ice! Complete with miniature rooms, furniture, statues-even a royal bedchamber with bed. All made of ice! And when it was finished, its first occupants were nearly also its first victims. Displeased with the conduct of one of her ministers, the empress had forced him to marry a female serf in that very ice palace, and then demanded that they spend their wedding night on that bed of ice. They both nearly froze to death!
The large man snorted, as though amused at such a deadly caprice. Meanwhile, the struggles of the man on the bed had grown considerably weaker, his breath now coming in sharp, infrequent gasps.
The large man sighed, stood up, walked to the window. His round head and rounded shoulders made him seem bearlike. He was dressed in a nondescript blue nylon leisure suit and white sneakers. His only distinguishing feature, other than his bulk, was a streak of white in otherwise dark brown hair.
Beyond the window, the modern St. Petersburg skyline was still beautiful. One could see all the way down Nevsky Prospekt to the dual snakes of lights lining the Neva River. During the day, from this vantage, one could make out the Winter Palace, sometimes even the Peter and Paul Fortress across the Neva.
The bearlike man stepped over to the bed, lowered his bulky frame onto it, which made the mattress bounce-as well as the now-quiet body lying across it, which now looked merely passed-out drunk; an impression reinforced by the near-empty bottle of Koskova vodka on the nightstand. The heavyset man reached into his pocket, took out a pair of latex gloves, slipped them with some effort over his thick hands. Then he reached over and took the vodka bottle and the half-full glass next to it. He stood, walked with them into the bathroom, where he poured the remaining vodka from both down the sink. He used a washcloth to wipe them clean, then, holding the bottle and glass gingerly, walked back into the room and set them carefully back on the nightstand.
He surveyed the room: a suitcase on top of the dresser, a small valise leaning against the closet.
He went through the suitcase first. Finding nothing of interest, he indifferently repacked the clothes, set the suitcase where he'd found it.
Taking the valise to the bed, he unzipped it. Tucked in a pocket was a Russian passport. The name there was just as it should be.
Fyodor Ivanovich Myorkin.
Behind the passport were press credentials in Fyodor's name from Svobodniye Rossia Novosti, the Free Russia News.
He found the journalist's notebook, flipped it open. It was filled with notes from Fyodor's visit that day to the Tsentral'nyi gosudarstvennyi arkhiv Sankt-Peterburga, the Central State Archives of St. Petersburg, housed in its squat, Soviet-style blockhouse on Varfolomeevskaia.