Judge & Jury - James Patterson [78]
Down here, where Abhramov’s academy was, the streets were narrow and busier. Alive! The smells were of leather goods and spices and Arab bakeries. The sounds of merchants hawking their goods in the bazaar.
His father was always overprotective. Pavel wanted to go with his friends to the cinema or the beach, but Father always said, “You can’t be too safe. Too careful.” What was he always so afraid of? Sometimes his mother would let him take a day off, but his father always made him go to his lessons, as if it were religious study.
“There is a tournament next month, in Tel Aviv,” his father said as they drove quietly through the crowded streets. “Would you like to go?”
Pavel shrugged. Tournaments meant work, more studying to prepare.
“There will be masters from other countries there. Sergei thinks you are ready. What do you say?”
“I guess.” Pavel shrugged. “If he says I’m ready.”
The car turned onto Allenby Street. The Baha’i Gardens were in full spring bloom.
“There is a casino in Caesaria. On the way back, we might stop. I’m told they play a little poker there. Just like the Americans. I know a man there who owes me a favor. He might get you in. Just to watch.”
“You think?”
“I don’t know,” his father said, hiding a smile. “I’ve been known to have a few connections here and there.”
They made the turn on crowded Hassan Street. Down here, the traffic was mostly mopeds and small delivery trucks. And taxis filled with tourists making their way up from the port.
Master Abhramov’s studio was over a pita bakery. The place always smelled sweetly of dough. Their car slowed in front of the run-down building.
“Study hard.” His father winked. “There’s a lot at stake.”
Pavel gathered up his notebook and computer, and opened the door. He ran inside Abhramov’s building, on cloud nine. As he headed for the narrow stairs, a man was standing in his way.
“I’m afraid that I’m lost,” he said. “Do you know where Haaretz Street is?”
The man was large and handsome, in a blue shirt and khakis, his eyes hidden by sunglasses. He spoke English like a tourist. American, perhaps.
“Haaretz? I think it’s just down there. At the end of the street.”
“Can you show me?” the man asked. “I’m not from around here.”
Abhramov would be expecting him. They had an hour and a half, and the grumpy old master didn’t like him to be late.
“Just here.” Pavel pushed back through the door and pointed. “At the end. The bakery. You see?”
That was one of the last things he remembered.
Other than a hand wrapping around his mouth, and the damp, acrid cloth that smelled of chemicals. And the feeling of total weightlessness, of being carried away.
And the fear that his father would be angry when he came to pick him up and he wasn’t there.
Chapter 97
“MIRA, LISTEN CLOSELY. I can’t find Pavel!”
Nordeshenko’s heart was beating wildly. The chess instructor said his son had never arrived for his lesson. It had happened a few times before—always when Nordeshenko was away on business. He combed the streets around the studio. He checked the ice-cream stalls, the bakeries, Pavel’s favorite places. No one had seen the boy.
“He wasn’t there when I went to pick him up at Abhramov’s. I was hoping he had called.”
“What do you mean?” His wife became alarmed. “He always waits there. He knows not to stray.”
“He didn’t go to his lesson. Is there anywhere he might go that you can think of? Someplace he’s spoken of? A friend?” How many times had he told the boy he had to be careful?
“No!” Mira’s voice began to get excited. “Maybe he took the bus. I’ve let him once or twice.”
“He wouldn’t let us know?”
Over the years, Nordeshenko had experienced the hollow feeling when a job didn’t go right. He had that feeling now.
“We’ve got to call the police,” Mira said.
“No!” The police! That was exactly what he could not do. Draw attention to himself. Now—with Reichardt in his house. What if they looked into him? He’d have to