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

she can pass, especially with a foreigner who is drunk. Is that what you wanted?”
    She returned with the tea and placed a cup before him.
    â€œYes,” he said, his eyes meeting hers.
    They drank quietly, saying nothing for almost two minutes.
    â€œYou’ve never been here in the daytime,” she said finally.
    â€œUntil today,” he agreed, finishing his tea.
    â€œSince you are here…” she began.
    Somewhere deep within him, Karpo had the same thought. It was as if she read his mind, exposed his need and turned it into a vulnerability.
    â€œI think not,” he said rising. “I prefer our regular arrangement.”
    â€œAs you wish,” Mathilde said with a slight nod.
    As it must be, Karpo thought to himself, and he departed without another word.
    The Leningradsky station was alive with people when Karpo arrived. He showed his identification to the policeman at the entrance who was posted there to keep out all those without tickets.
    The hard wooden benches were crowded with peasants in ragged clothes. Some of them may well have been there for days, unable to find someplace in the city to sleep. All hotels were essentially beyond their means. Even if they were not, the chances of a peasant being given a room were nonexistent. If the peasant knew no one in the city or could find no one who would allow him and his wife and possibly a child or two to sleep on the floor for a few rubles, his only choice was to live in the railway station till his train came. The better dressed travelers sat a little straighter, sought others like themselves, or buried their faces in books to keep from being identified with the lowest levels of Soviet society.
    Karpo moved to the dark little snack bar in the corner and watched the woman behind the bar. She had a clear case of asthma, made no better by the smokey station. She was ladling out chicken soup for a man in a rumpled business suit. When she finished, she shouted over her shoulder at one old woman who was washing the dishes.
    Karpo caught the attention of the asthmatic woman.
    â€œNatasha,” he said softly. Just then another customer, reasonably well dressed but in need of a shave, ambled forward but when he saw Karpo’s vampirelike face he decided to wait.
    The woman had not been looking at Karpo. As she turned and saw him, her sour expression turned docile.
    â€œMy name is not Natasha, Comrade,” she wheezed.
    â€œThere is a woman who works the station—blond, thin,” he explained. “Her name is Natasha.”
    â€œI know of no such person,” the woman said, looking around in the hope that a customer would save her from this man.
    Karpo leaned forward, his eyes fixing on the woman’s. He could smell her sweat. There was no room behind the bar for her to back away. Behind her the dishwasher asked if something was wrong. The woman said nothing and gasped at the face before her. Then her voice came out in a small whisper.
    â€œShe’s here. The far corner, over by the second gate, behind the…”
    But Karpo had turned and was gone. He pushed through the crowds, moving slowly, his eyes scanning the room. He spotted a prostitute almost immediately, but she was hefty and had dark hair. He went on, and in a few more minutes spotted the thin blonde. She was asking a gentleman for a light for her cigarette. At this distance, she looked rather elegant, but as Karpo pushed toward her, the look of elegance faded. Her face was hard, her hair brittle and artificially colored, her teeth uneven and a little yellow. Looking at her, Karpo thought that her nights at the Metropole were probably numbered. Soon she would be spending more time at the railroad stations, and soon after that she would only be working nights.
    Karpo pretended to ignore the talking couple as he strode past them to a newspaper stand in the corner. In spite of the bustle of sounds around him, he caught a bit of the conversation.
    â€œIn