“Who can go to a celebration at a time like this?”
“What shall I do with them? They cost you money. All my friends have tickets, so I can’t resell them.”
Lermentov eyed Jana and Levitin, then blew into the handkerchief. His voice took on a wheedling tone, a sly look playing across his face, overriding his grief. “I am just an old man. No money. Terrible to be old and have empty pockets.” He stood up, taking keys out of his pants, then pulling all of his pockets out, the linings hanging like limp white tongues.
“Nothing. You see, I have nothing.” His voice took on a priest’s tone. “And they that shall take from them their labors shall have unto them reward for their toil.” He started to cry again. “Nothing. I have nothing.” He bowed his head, slowly lifting it to look sorrowfully at the ceiling, as if calling on God. When God didn’t answer, he brought his eyes back down to them. “Shall I just destroy these tickets, or can you find it in your hearts to repay their cost to me?”
The woman made loud shuffling noises with the papers on her desk, faulting Jana and Levitin for the problem with the tickets. “Terrible! A man should not be reduced to having so little.” Her glare became even more ferocious, sweeping over both of the intruders. “Help this man. Buy his tickets from him.”
Levitin was about to make a sarcastic retort. Jana put her hand out to stop him. “What are the tickets for?”
“The Russian community dinner fête tonight.” The woman went back to work. “You don’t have to attend, you know.”
Jana got up. “Levitin, pay for the tickets.” She turned to Lermentov, ignoring the woman. “I am sad for you, Mr. Lermentov.” He made a whimpering noise. Jana waited for a few seconds. “I wish I could make it easier.” The hiccups began coming faster. She nodded at him, then walked out of the room, into the hall. In the dim hall, waiting for Levitin, she studied the poster on the wall advertising the fête. “The Russian Community presents the event of the year,” she read aloud. “Yes,” she said to herself. “I think it will be an event that no self-respecting Slovak police officer should miss.”
Levitin emerged, shaking the tickets at Jana. “Why did I have to pay for these?” He closed the door a little too hard, emphasizing his displeasure. “Why should we go to this idiotic ball?”
“Because of this.” She pointed to the poster. “I want to mix with the Russian community.” She smiled at him. “And you have a bigger budget than I have.”
“Slovakia is no longer being subsidized by Moscow,” he pointed out, reading the poster.
“Think of the ball. All the people,” she said, starting down the hall. “We may meet someone we know. Perhaps the men who killed the old lady. Maybe even Koba.”
“He’s not Russian.” He followed her. “It’s for Russians.”
“Don’t count on it. You know how everyone loves parties. Besides, we’re trying to find a Russian, the girl Mrs. Lermentov was so willing to betray, Alexandra Levitin. You know the name. So, we go to the Russians.”
The mention of his sister quieted Levitin. “So, we go to the Russians.” He grinned. “If it’s a Russian party, it will probably be fun.”
Jana thought about his comment.
“Probably not.”
She smiled when she said it.
Chapter 43
S
asha stayed under the stands during most of the Carnival parade, watching the legs marching in unison, the wheels of the floats, the dancers’ feet fast-stepping through their choreographed routines, the spaghetti streamers of Silly String piling up for the midnight street-sweepers. She was biding her time until she could slip out and get food. She considered an old Russian axiom, “There is no risk too great when it comes to filling an empty stomach.” She had to eat.
The marching bands and the boom-boom of their bass drums could be felt in her spine, the vibrations making her slightly seasick. After Sasha witnessed a young woman with pink and purple hair and a rhinestone-studded nose relieve her wine-laden bladder a few meters from where she was hiding, she decided she’d had enough waiting. She walked past the pink and purple-haired woman, who mewed something unintelligible at her, then slipped under the bunting hung on the sides of the stands, onto the square.
The parade was still going on, a huge mockup of Uncle Sam waving dollar bills gliding past, the French taking the opportunity to howl at the Stars and Stripes for usurping their Gallic claim to being the world’s leader in cultural affairs. Sasha scanned the stands. If they were there, she wanted to see them before they spotted her. She tried, and then gave up. The bleacher seats were too full of yowling humanity, the colors of their clothes, the movement, the streamers, the costumes, even the cacophony of sound, contributing to Sasha’s inability to see anything but those individuals who were very close to her. Maybe it was not so bad, she thought. If she could not see them, maybe they would not see her, particularly if she stayed where large groups were clustered, at the foot of the stands.
People trotted down the aisles to purchase food from the vendors. She followed several of them with her eyes until they reached the vendor of their choice, a man with a cart working the periphery of a street group. Sasha decided she would not go to him. Vendors were too much of a focal point. Her approach would be to slide into the group, then work her way through to a position where the vendor would intersect her spot. Then, a quick transaction for food. She could see the prices on the vendor’s cart, made sure she had the exact change to pay him for what she wanted. No waiting; just the food, and away.
Sasha edged into the crowd, aiming for the spot she’d selected, then paused before stepping out to give the vendor the chance to come to her. Her strategy seemed to work perfectly. Obtaining the Croque Monsieur took a few brief seconds, the can of Fanta even faster. Sasha quickly returned to the spot where she had emerged. Again, she bumped her way through the tightly packed group of revelers, munching on her sandwich, sipping at the orange soda. Everything seemed to be fine. Sasha almost finished her prize, wishing she had bought a second one, when she ran into the man.
It seemed like a coincidence. Her mouth was working on the last few bites. She was not paying attention to his face, as she stepped to her left to avoid him. The man moved with her, continuing to block her way. She shifted to the right. He matched her movement. Sasha finally focused on his face, still hoping it was a coincidence. A tall man with a tanned face and eyes the color of dirty ice looked back at her. There was no expression on his face: a man going about his business, going through the motions of being human without any humanity of his own showing through.
A cold chill worked its way up from her belly through her chest and into her throat. There was no place to run. No camouflage good enough to conceal her. No weapon she could use that would be effective. An immovable object fronted her, blocking her way to the rest of her life.
The man looked at her, appraising Sasha like a piece of meat. “Hello, Sasha. Nice to see you.” It wasn’t nice at all. “Follow me.”
He turned, walking away, no doubt in his mind, even though his back was turned, that she would obey his order. Sasha toyed with the idea of running. If she bolted through the crowd, she might be able to lose him. A moment’s reflection, and she gave up the idea. She knew the man; she had heard all the stories about him. There would be no escape by running. Sasha followed him. The ice, cold in her stomach, came with her.
The crowd parted in front of the man as he walked, just as the Red Sea had cleaved itself apart for another. The drunks, the little children, the crowd-control officers, had no concrete notion why they stepped aside; they just did. Sasha cringed inside. No one knows it is death that is passing; there is just enough sensation to perceive the need to try evading mortal consequences. Maybe, as with Sasha, his passing chilled the air so that some of them wondered how, on this lovely Nice evening, a chill had found its way into their celebration.
The man turned into a women’s clothing boutique. It should have been closed, like all the other stores on the block. But, for him, the door was opened. A rather mousy-looking woman held it wide for him, shielding herself with the door as he passed by. As soon as they were both inside, the woman, handbag in the crook of her arm, walked out of the store, closing the door behind her. The man paid no attention to her departure. He walked to the rear, motioning Sasha to take a seat at a small counter.
“Were you sorry that Pavel died?”
Sasha nodded, trying not to look at the man.
“I knew Pavel was good to you. He was killed by an enemy of mine.”
Even though she was not looking at him, she could feel the man examining her.
“You are not my enemy, are you?”
“No.” She shook her head, hoping he believed her.
“My enemy is searching for you.”
“I know.”
The man began examining the clothes displayed on the racks, fingering the material, checking their design. Occasionally he would pick out a garment, set it aside, then subject the other clothes to the same careful inspection.
“What size are you?” He pulled out a dress that was suitable for evening wear. “I think this color would be good for you.” He held it up, looking from the dress to her. “Yes, this is the style.” He snapped at her, impatient. “Size!”
She managed to blurt out her size.
“Try it on.” He tossed it over to her. Sasha was too frightened to even think of going into the dressing cubicle. She took off her clothes immediately and put on the dress. The man eyed her, twirling a finger to indicate that she was to turn around for him.
Sasha turned, showing off the dress, beginning to believe that she was not going to die. He was costuming her for something. “A nice dress,” she got out.
“No. Not quite right. A little cheap-looking. Cheap clothes makes a person look uneasy. I want you to look confident. Take it off.”
Sasha took the dress off, standing in her panties, covering her breasts with her folded arms, not bothering to put her clothes back on. She would only have to take them off again as he selected more clothes for her.
The man pulled another dress from the rack. “This one, I think.” He walked back to her, holding it before her. “No question.” He handed it to Sasha, gesturing for her to put it on, again twirling his finger to have her turn and display it for him.
“Shoes next.” He gestured toward a display of shoes. “Then one of the wraps.” Sasha began trying on shoes, as the man tossed a long black leather coat edged in fur at her feet. “I think that coat. Pick a scarf for the neck.”
Sasha settled on shoes, slipping them on, then went over to a display of silk scarves, quickly selecting one, putting it on, then the coat, over the dress. The man was at the jewelry counter, looking through the case.
“Here now!” His command was given in the same tone as a dog-handler uses in an obedience class. She moved to where he was standing. “Simple is the word in jewelry.” He held up a string of pearls, then circled them around her neck, clasping them in back. “Yes.” He viewed her again. “Hold your arms out.”
Sasha held her arms out. “A jeweled watch on one wrist, a diamond bracelet on the other.” There was a wall showcase which he tried to open. It was locked. Without any hesitation, the man used his forearm and elbow to smash the glass in the vitrine, reaching inside to pull out the watch he wanted. Then he smashed another case to select a bracelet.
Sasha had continued to hold her arms out, afraid to drop them until the man told her she could. He slipped the watch on one wrist, the bracelet on the other, then pushed her arms down to her sides.
“Good.” He opened the coat, to look at the dress once more. “No brassiere. The breasts showing through gives you just the right touch of insouciance, don’t you agree?”
Sasha nodded, agreeing for the sake of agreement.
The man bent over to lightly kiss her on the mouth. “You will now be my new Siren of the Waters.” He walked to the door, stopping just short of opening it. “There is a room registered for you at the Negresco.”
Fear swept through Sasha again. The Manager was staying at the Negresco. Words would not come out of her mouth. All she could do was shake her head, trying to convey her refusal. The man stared at Sasha.
“I will not repeat myself.”
She nodded her assent.
“I know who is there.”
She nodded again.
“I am glad you have agreed with me.” His eyes examined her. “There will be a ticket at the desk waiting for you. It is for a party tonight. Go. A limousine will take you. Anything else you need, you can order at the hotel. It’s all been arranged. After the party, go back to the hotel. Understood?”
Involuntarily, her head bobbed a continuing assent.
He opened the door. “The cash register has money in the drawer. If you want anything else in the store, take it.” He walked out.
The man had come, and he’d found her. Now he was gone. Sasha still didn’t quite believe she was alive, turning to look into one of the store’s mirrors to make sure. Elegant dress, one wrist with a diamond watch, bracelet on the other. Yes, still alive. Luxuriously alive.
He liked her. That was it. Pavel had been killed. She was Pavel’s friend. Therefore, the man was her friend. He who is the enemy of my enemy is my friend. At least for now. What had he said? Sasha would be his new Siren of the Waters. A few minutes ago, she had been hiding under the stands, ready to take chances with her life merely to get a morsel to eat. Now she was wearing diamonds. Whose reflection was looking out at her from the mirror? Yes, the Siren of the Waters.
Chapter 44
T
he Musée des Beaux-Arts had been the grand mansion of a Russian princess who had arrived in Nice before the overthrow of the Tsar and the slaughter of the Russian aristocracy. She had stayed on to live in splendid comfort as the titular head of the Russian community. Her art collection, not the greatest in the world, but a tourist attraction when combined with the royal showcase of her home, was irresistible to the local politicians, who turned it into a museum when she died. Once a year, as provided by the princess’s will, and as a condition of the bequest she had made, the city had to allow the Friends of Russia to hold a ball in it for the Russian community. Virtually the entire old-line Russian community would then descend on the palace in their finery.