whereabouts—and, indeed, to your intentions—in so unambiguous a manner,” he told Sokolov in Russian.
Sokolov was standing by the stereo. “Where’s my wife?” he asked as his fingers reached out and hit a button on his CD player, killing the Rachmaninoff.
The man’s face soured. “Why’d you stop it? I thought the concerto added a nice nostalgic ambiance to our little gathering, no?”
“Where’s Daphne?” Sokolov insisted, his voice breaking.
“Oh, she’s fine. And she’ll stay fine as long as you behave,” the man told him as he sat down in an armchair facing the window.
He gestured for Sokolov to sit on the sofa adjacent to him, by the wall of bookshelves that were jammed with books and home to an elaborate hi-fi and a pair of expensive-looking speakers.
The speakers were positioned in such a way that the far armchair was the optimal listening point. Sokolov had spent many hours sitting in that very chair, reading the
Times
and listening to Scriabin preludes and Tchaikovsky ballets. Right now, it was precisely where he needed his guest to be sitting.
“We should charge you for all the resources we spent looking for you all these years, both here and back home. But no matter. We have you now. Once you’ve given us what we want—what you stole—we’ll let your wife go free. I can’t promise the same for you. That’s out of my hands.” The man scratched one unshaven cheek with the muzzle of his gun. “Does she even know who you are?”
Sokolov shook his head.
“Good. We suspected that would be the case. So her safety depends entirely on your actions,” the man said—then an odd, confused look flooded his face, and a thin film of sweat broke out across his forehead.
Sokolov watched nervously as the man switched the handgun to his left hand and back again as he shrugged himself out of his coat.
“Why do you keep the place so hot?” he asked. “And what’s that noise?” The man rubbed his ear irritably. “Sounds like you have cockroaches in the walls.”
Sokolov leaned forward and, concentrating as hard as he could to stay in control, stared directly into the man’s eyes.
“Don’t worry about the
tarakanchiki
. They don’t care about you. Tell me, Comrade. What is your name?”
The man furrowed his brow and winced, as if he had just stepped on a tack. He seemed to wonder about the question for a moment, then, his expression vacant, he said, “Fyodor Yakovlev. Third secretary to the Russian Consulate of New York.” He looked lost, as if he wasn’t quite sure that this was the case.
Sokolov kept his eyes lasered on his captor, his concentration absolute. He knew his whole existence from here on depended on this moment, and with each sentence, he slowed and deepened his voice, accentuating seemingly random syllables.
“If they see the gun, they will be angry. You should place the gun on the table,” he told the man.
“Who? Who will be angry?”
“You know who will be angry,” Sokolov told him. “They will be very angry. Now, why don’t you show them you mean well and put your gun down on the table.” He tapped the coffee table with his fingers. “This table right here.”
Yakovlev stared at him for a moment, then slowly placed his gun on the glass table between them. Sokolov made no attempt to pick it up.
After a moment, Yakovlev shifted in his chair, then made to retrieve his gun, as though he knew he’d just made a grave mistake.
“No,” snapped Sokolov.
Yakovlev withdrew his hand as though an electrical charge had just run through it. He looked like a child who’d just had his knuckles rapped.
Sokolov immediately reverted to the deep and arrhythmic intonation. “They’ll think you mean them harm. Go over to the window and see if they are still watching you.”
The man’s entire face was now covered in perspiration. He stood, leaving the gun on the glass table, and wandered silently over to the window. He peered outside, taking several seconds to
Sokolov was standing by the stereo. “Where’s my wife?” he asked as his fingers reached out and hit a button on his CD player, killing the Rachmaninoff.
The man’s face soured. “Why’d you stop it? I thought the concerto added a nice nostalgic ambiance to our little gathering, no?”
“Where’s Daphne?” Sokolov insisted, his voice breaking.
“Oh, she’s fine. And she’ll stay fine as long as you behave,” the man told him as he sat down in an armchair facing the window.
He gestured for Sokolov to sit on the sofa adjacent to him, by the wall of bookshelves that were jammed with books and home to an elaborate hi-fi and a pair of expensive-looking speakers.
The speakers were positioned in such a way that the far armchair was the optimal listening point. Sokolov had spent many hours sitting in that very chair, reading the
Times
and listening to Scriabin preludes and Tchaikovsky ballets. Right now, it was precisely where he needed his guest to be sitting.
“We should charge you for all the resources we spent looking for you all these years, both here and back home. But no matter. We have you now. Once you’ve given us what we want—what you stole—we’ll let your wife go free. I can’t promise the same for you. That’s out of my hands.” The man scratched one unshaven cheek with the muzzle of his gun. “Does she even know who you are?”
Sokolov shook his head.
“Good. We suspected that would be the case. So her safety depends entirely on your actions,” the man said—then an odd, confused look flooded his face, and a thin film of sweat broke out across his forehead.
Sokolov watched nervously as the man switched the handgun to his left hand and back again as he shrugged himself out of his coat.
“Why do you keep the place so hot?” he asked. “And what’s that noise?” The man rubbed his ear irritably. “Sounds like you have cockroaches in the walls.”
Sokolov leaned forward and, concentrating as hard as he could to stay in control, stared directly into the man’s eyes.
“Don’t worry about the
tarakanchiki
. They don’t care about you. Tell me, Comrade. What is your name?”
The man furrowed his brow and winced, as if he had just stepped on a tack. He seemed to wonder about the question for a moment, then, his expression vacant, he said, “Fyodor Yakovlev. Third secretary to the Russian Consulate of New York.” He looked lost, as if he wasn’t quite sure that this was the case.
Sokolov kept his eyes lasered on his captor, his concentration absolute. He knew his whole existence from here on depended on this moment, and with each sentence, he slowed and deepened his voice, accentuating seemingly random syllables.
“If they see the gun, they will be angry. You should place the gun on the table,” he told the man.
“Who? Who will be angry?”
“You know who will be angry,” Sokolov told him. “They will be very angry. Now, why don’t you show them you mean well and put your gun down on the table.” He tapped the coffee table with his fingers. “This table right here.”
Yakovlev stared at him for a moment, then slowly placed his gun on the glass table between them. Sokolov made no attempt to pick it up.
After a moment, Yakovlev shifted in his chair, then made to retrieve his gun, as though he knew he’d just made a grave mistake.
“No,” snapped Sokolov.
Yakovlev withdrew his hand as though an electrical charge had just run through it. He looked like a child who’d just had his knuckles rapped.
Sokolov immediately reverted to the deep and arrhythmic intonation. “They’ll think you mean them harm. Go over to the window and see if they are still watching you.”
The man’s entire face was now covered in perspiration. He stood, leaving the gun on the glass table, and wandered silently over to the window. He peered outside, taking several seconds to
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