Last Snow (11 page)

True, the apartment itself was old, as was the furniture, which had been built in another age. But all the exposed wood shone, the brass and copper lamps glittered, and the floor gleamed with a new coat of wax. Not a mote of dust emerged from the deep pillows of the sofa as they sat while Dyadya Gourdjiev went into the kitchen to brew tea and set out an enormous tin of homemade cookies, “baked by my girlfriend, who happens to live next door.”

He must have been eighty if he was a day, Jack judged, but apart from the peculiar thinness of the old man and a slight stoop to his shoulders, which might just as well have stemmed from his profession rather than time, he exhibited none of the unsteadiness of body or vagueness of mind normally associated with old age.

His voice was still strong and sonorous, and his eyes—easy to examine, enlarged as they were through the twin lenses of his spectacles—twinkled and sparked like the man he must have been fifty years ago. But his skin was so thin that it appeared blue from the ropy veins that were now so close to the surface.

He made a great fuss over Alli, believing, as most people did, that she was much younger than she was. Jack thought it interesting that Alli didn’t disabuse him of his mistake. Possibly, he thought, it was out of deference to Dyadya Gourdjiev’s extreme age, but it seemed just as likely that she was in need of the coddling the old man provided without hesitation or wanting anything in return. She was not immune to his obvious pleasure in her.

When the tea had been served in glasses set in metal holders with handles, and the cookies nibbled on, at least by Alli, Dyadya
Gourdjiev finally sat in a large leather chair that exuded like perfume the odors of sweet tobacco and lanolin.

“I must say, Annika, you always arrive with fascinating people in tow and under—well, what would one say—remarkable circumstances.” Dyadya Gourdjiev chuckled like a Dutch uncle. “I imagine that’s one of the reasons I so look forward to your visits.” He leaned forward and patted her hand aff ectionately. “Which, despite being exhausting, are too few and far between for this old man.”

“You’re not old,” Annika said. “You’ll never be old.”

“Ah, youth,” said Dyadya Gourdjiev, addressing everyone in the room now, “forever flirting with the concept of immortality!” He chuckled again, as if signaling that he forgave Annika her delusion. “The truth is when you get to be my age living becomes a deliberate act of will. Nothing works quite right, the mechanics, the mechanisms of the body and the mind so interconnected begin to erode, and yet we go on.” He squeezed the hand he’d just caressed. “Because of those who love us and those we love most fiercely. In the end, there’s nothing else to life, is there?”

“No, Dyadya Gourdjiev,” Annika said with tears in her eyes, “there isn’t.”

The old man took out a linen handkerchief, newly washed, pressed, and meticulously folded. Like an opthalmologist, he used one corner to soak up each tear before it slid down her cheeks. “Now, little one, tell me what mischief you’ve got up to this time.”

Annika flicked a quick complicit glance Jack’s way, possibly to warn him to keep quiet before addressing the old man. “This is one time I think saying nothing is the best option.”

For a moment Dyadya Gourdjiev said nothing. While they had chatted, sipping their tea and nibbling on sugar cookies, the light from outside was caught in the sheer lace curtains on either side of the windows, honing their outlines, lending them a substance they otherwise would never have. Now that weight gathered in the room so
densely time itself seemed to slow to a crawl. Everyone—even Alli, whose attention was apt to wander—was watching Dyadya Gourdjiev for a reaction, as if they were scientists drawn to a volcano they feared would erupt after decades of uninterrupted slumber.

“I don’t like the sound of that, little one,” he said after a time during which he appeared to be struggling with his response. He pulled out a thick manila packet, which he opened. Tipping it, he slid out three passports. “Now that you’re an American, little one, you no longer need a visa to enter Ukraine, but I’ve provided one in the event you choose to be Russian once again.”

“Thank you, Dyadya Gourdjiev.”

She leaned forward, gathering up the documents, but as she moved to stuff them back into their manila envelope, the old man put a hand over hers, stopping her.

“You must answer me this, little one: Do you think I’m too old to be of help beyond what I’ve already provided?”

Annika appeared alarmed. “No, not at all, Dyadya Gourdjiev, it’s just that I . . .”

Jack immediately saw his opportunity and took it. “What Annika is trying to say is that I need some help finding someone here and she wasn’t sure she should ask you.”

Dyadya Gourdjiev took his hand away from Annika’s and sat back in his chair. He eyed Jack with a keen appraiser’s eye, honed through decades of experience. Slowly, a smile spread across his face and he lifted a forefinger, moving it back and forth through the air in mock admonishment.

“I see what you do, young man, don’t think I don’t, but—” he poked the air with the finger “—if you’re serious, let me hear what you have to say, because, after all, I’m quite certain my Annika wishes only to protect me, though the truth is I’ve never required her protection before.”

“Today is a different day, Dyadya Gourdjiev,” she said.

“Hush, child. Let the young man speak his piece and then we’ll see if he’s come to the right place in Kiev, hmm?”

Jack put his hands together, trying to block out everyone but the old man. He wondered whether what he was about to say was a breach of security, in light of who Annika was and who she had worked for. But that couldn’t be helped now; for the moment, all he could do was forge ahead into the dark and see what happened next.

“Six days ago, a man named Lloyd Berns was killed on the island of Capri, off Naples.”

“I know where Capri is,” Dyadya Gourdjiev said. “I may be a forger but, by God, I’m not a philistine. In fact, it might surprise you to learn that in my youth I was something of a Roman scholar. I spent two weeks on that magnificent island, tracing the latter part of the life of Augustus Caesar.” He waved a hand for Jack to continue.

“What’s important is that Berns should not have been in Capri at all. He was scheduled to be here in Kiev. In fact, he was here in Kiev until about ten days ago, when he took off unannounced.”

“And just who was this Lloyd Berns, young man?”

“He was a senior United States senator.”

There ensued the suffocating silence one normally finds only in the deepest recesses of forgotten libraries or long-buried reliquaries.

Dyadya Gourdjiev was staring up at the ceiling in contemplation. “So one would assume that you also are in politics, Mr. McClure.”

It was the first time the old man had addressed him by name. “In a manner of speaking,” Jack said.

Dyadya Gourdjiev’s head came down and his eyes snapped into focus on Jack’s expression. “If that is the case,” he said slowly and evenly, “why are you here? Why aren’t you in Capri?”

“I want to speak to the last person Senator Berns was with before he left Kiev.”

“And you need my assistance for this?”

“All I have is a name. Actually, it’s only an initial and a surname: K. Rochev.”

“Rochev, Rochev.” The old man closed his eyes, sat repeating the name as if needing to taste it on his tongue. Then his eyes opened slowly, marking him with a sly, reptilian look. “I knew a Karl Rochev, but I haven’t seen him for a very long time.”

“He’s here in Kiev?” Jack said.

“He may still be.” Dyadya Gourdjiev shrugged. “But I have no doubt there are many K. Rochevs in Kiev. It’s not, after all, such an uncommon name. Besides, this man may not have been a Kiev resident at all.”

There was an intimidating darkness about him now, a gathering of energies, like glue or ink, a hint of what he must have been like in his prime, when his frame was filled out with muscle and he sparked with power. Something about him had changed the moment Jack had mentioned Rochev. The avuncular cheeriness had vanished, replaced by a professional wariness, even though Jack had been brought here by Annika, or possibly even because of that very fact. What was clear, however, was that he knew far more about Karl Rochev than he was letting on. Why was he holding back, Jack asked himself, and if he’d decided on that tack, why hadn’t he simply lied outright and said the name was unfamiliar to him?

A possible answer was not long in coming.

“You can trust Mr. McClure, Dyadya Gourdjiev,” Annika said. “He saved my life last night and, in doing so, put his own in jeopardy. If you know something about this man Rochev that could help Mr. McClure, please tell us.”

Jack noted with interest that she used the plural,
please tell us
.

The old man interlaced his fingers and a frown further creased his forehead. The darkness he had summoned still held about his summit, guardians from a time far distant in every way save in memory.
No one had been able to touch him in the old days and, Jack was certain, no one was going to touch him now. He might be old, but the accretion of power could not be scraped off him even with a jackhammer.

“I must tell you that I find it most disturbing that a member of the United States Senate was with Karl Rochev.”

“If Karl Rochev is the man I’m looking for, which I very much doubt,” Jack said. “Besides the fact that there might be dozens of men in Kiev, perhaps as many as a hundred, with that name. I’d find it too much of a coincidence that the first man Annika takes me to in Kiev can identify this K. Rochev.”

“I see your point, young man.” Dyadya Gourdjiev shook his head slowly. “In fact, I have no doubt that the more you ponder it, the more likely it seems that Karl is the wrong K. Rochev.”

“That’s right,” Jack said.

“There’s no reason to disagree with your analysis of the situation, except that in a few moments’ time you may change your mind.”

Jack shrugged. “I don’t see how.”

“Of course you don’t. Nevertheless, grant me a moment more of your time.” Dyadya Gourdjiev’s expression had become grave. “Karl Rochev and I grew up together in the same rotting slums of Kiev. We were both beaten many times by the Russian occupiers and, because of those beatings, we made a pact to revenge ourselves. I became a forger, creating identity papers for the underground. Karl was always the man of action. When we were boys, it would be he who led us on forays against Russian soldiers. Even his pranks—before we were old enough to arm ourselves and to shoot to kill—had a sadistic bent to them. In those days, he was not a man who thought hard and long, he was too impatient, too restless. Not surprisingly, he became an assassin in the guerilla war against the Russians. He accepted all the assignments believed to be suicidal, that no one else would willingly take. It wasn’t that he was reckless, mind you, I don’t believe he had a
death wish. The worst you could accuse him of was being myopic. He didn’t think about anything beyond the present moment. In other words, possible consequences were of no interest to him. He was assigned to murder a Russian colonel or general, he knew it was right, and he did it. He never failed. Never.”

“He was never wounded?” Jack asked.

“That depends,” Dyadya Gourdjiev said, “on how you define wounded.” He paused to pour himself more tea, though by this time it was room temperature. He appeared not to notice or mind as he sipped it. “Those who didn’t know him well, which was almost everyone he worked with, claimed that no, he had never been wounded. And in a sense that was so. Not a scratch, not a drop of blood marred his assassination record. But I, who knew him like a brother, knew that his work had wounded him grievously. One does not become an assassin without serious consequence. You are killed, either in the midst of a mission or in the bathtub having a relaxing soak in the treacherous aftermath. What does it matter, you may ask, either way you’re dead. Well, yes, but in the first example you’re lying in a foul ditch somewhere far from home, food for the worms. In the second example, you’re home safe and sound—at least your body is. It’s your mind or, rather, your heart, that has died.”

Dyadya Gourdjiev put down his glass, which was now empty, save for the dregs of tea leaves, dark as dried blood. “My old friend Karl Rochev belongs to the second example. It is said, or written about, that every time one murders a human being part of you dies. This is said or written by artists or journeymen who have not killed, and so don’t know the truth.”

The old man was silent for a time; his eyes slipped slightly out of focus. Sounds rose up from the street and entered the room like sunlight, coagulating on the carpet at their feet.

At last, Dyadya Gourdjiev expelled a deep sigh. “The truth. There is a millipede, I’m told, somewhere in Asia, the Mekong region
perhaps, that manufactures cyanide. The truth is this act of killing another human implants just such a creature. With each death, the insect releases more of its poison, until the heart of the assassin withers and dies. In just this way, Karl Rochev became a man without conscience, without a moral compass. Without his heart, he lost interest in distinguishing good from evil.”

“So when there was no more need for an underground, when Ukraine freed itself from the Soviets, he became a criminal,” Jack said.

“A politician,” Dyadya Gourdjiev said. “But then, as we all know, the two are indistinguishable.”