Black Knight in Red Square by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

shirt. He was trying to put his tie on as he emerged, and his long, straight brown hair fell over his eyes. At first he looked at Karpo with a touch of defiance but on seeing the specter before him, the defiance vanished.
    â€œI’m afraid you must leave now, Mikol,” Mathilde said gently. “This man is an old friend. He is in the government, like your father. You understand?”
    Mikol finished with his tie, unsure whether he should shake hands, say something to Mathilde, or just make for the door. He did the last, hesitating at the door as if to say something to Mathilde.
    â€œI will talk to you on Monday,” she said.
    Mikol nodded, glanced at the unsmiling Karpo, and left, closing the door behind him.
    â€œHis father is an assistant to the transportation commissar,” she said. “I’ve known the father almost as long as I’ve known you. Would you like some tea?”
    â€œYes,” he said, ignoring the unmade bed in the corner near the window. “I’ve come for your help.”
    She walked into the kitchen alcove and began to fill the teapot. Over the sound of water splashing into the aluminum pot, she said, “Personal or business?”
    â€œI have no personal interests,” he said seriously.
    Mathilde turned, pot in hand, eyebrow raised, and cocked her head.
    â€œI have personal needs, perhaps,” he amended.
    â€œYou are a flatterer,” she said with a grin. She put the pot on the burner and turned to Karpo, her arms folded in front of her.
    â€œDo you miss many days at your job?” he asked.
    â€œMikol’s father arranged for me to have the day off,” she explained.
    Karpo nodded knowingly. He was not at all naive. Corruption was rampant in the Soviet Union. One man, even a small dedicated group of men and women, could not hope to stamp it out completely. But one had to keep trying, keep behaving as if it were possible. That was what gave meaning to one’s life.
    â€œI must find a prostitute,” Karpo said as Mathilde sat down at the table.
    â€œWell, you have come to the right place,” she said, waving him to the seat beside her.
    â€œI did not mean you,” he explained. “I must find a prostitute who works near the Metropole Hotel, one whom a man might pick up late at night without attracting notice, one a taxi driver or clerk might have quick access to.”
    Mathilde looked puzzled. “What—”
    â€œIt is part of an investigation,” he explained, and she knew she would get no more from him. She shrugged, discovered the open button on her blouse, buttoned it.
    â€œCould be quite a few taxis.” She sighed. “There are maybe a dozen who work out of cabs in that area, but if it was late, it would probably be a railroad prostitute, one of the cheap ones who work the stations. More likely, the one you’re looking for went to the Metropole restaurant with her pimp or her husband. Probably works the place.”
    â€œA name,” Karpo said, staring at her with unblinking eyes.
    Mathilde smiled. “You don’t even close your eyes when you’re…” She hesitated. She had been about to say “making love,” but the act for Karpo had nothing to do with love.
    â€œThe name,” Karpo repeated.
    Behind them, the kettle began to boil, and Mathilde rose to make the tea.
    â€œWhat night?” she said, her back turned.
    â€œWednesday,” he replied. “Yesterday.”
    â€œHer name is Natasha,” Mathilde said. “She goes one night a week, Wednesdays, to the Metropole. She doesn’t dare go there any oftener than that for fear someone might get suspicious and turn her in. Normally in the afternoons she works one of the railway stations in Komsomolskaya Square. Try the Leningradsky station. She’s about thirty-five, on the thin side, short blond hair, fairly good teeth, no beauty, but when she gets dressed for a night at the Metropole,