Last Snow - Eric van Lustbader [32]
Dyadya Gourdjiev took his hand away from Annika’s and sat back in his chair. He eyed Jack with a keen appraiser’s eye, honed through decades of experience. Slowly, a smile spread across his face and he lifted a forefinger, moving it back and forth through the air in mock admonishment.
“I see what you do, young man, don’t think I don’t, but—” he poked the air with the finger “—if you’re serious, let me hear what you have to say, because, after all, I’m quite certain my Annika wishes only to protect me, though the truth is I’ve never required her protection before.”
“Today is a different day, Dyadya Gourdjiev,” she said.
“Hush, child. Let the young man speak his piece and then we’ll see if he’s come to the right place in Kiev, hmm?”
Jack put his hands together, trying to block out everyone but the old man. He wondered whether what he was about to say was a breach of security, in light of who Annika was and who she had worked for. But that couldn’t be helped now; for the moment, all he could do was forge ahead into the dark and see what happened next.
“Six days ago, a man named Lloyd Berns was killed on the island of Capri, off Naples.”
“I know where Capri is,” Dyadya Gourdjiev said. “I may be a forger but, by God, I’m not a philistine. In fact, it might surprise you to learn that in my youth I was something of a Roman scholar. I spent two weeks on that magnificent island, tracing the latter part of the life of Augustus Caesar.” He waved a hand for Jack to continue.
“What’s important is that Berns should not have been in Capri at all. He was scheduled to be here in Kiev. In fact, he was here in Kiev until about ten days ago, when he took off unannounced.”
“And just who was this Lloyd Berns, young man?”
“He was a senior United States senator.”
There ensued the suffocating silence one normally finds only in the deepest recesses of forgotten libraries or long-buried reliquaries.
Dyadya Gourdjiev was staring up at the ceiling in contemplation. “So one would assume that you also are in politics, Mr. McClure.”
It was the first time the old man had addressed him by name. “In a manner of speaking,” Jack said.
Dyadya Gourdjiev’s head came down and his eyes snapped into focus on Jack’s expression. “If that is the case,” he said slowly and evenly, “why are you here? Why aren’t you in Capri?”
“I want to speak to the last person Senator Berns was with before he left Kiev.”
“And you need my assistance for this?”
“All I have is a name. Actually, it’s only an initial and a surname: K. Rochev.”
“Rochev, Rochev.” The old man closed his eyes, sat repeating the name as if needing to taste it on his tongue. Then his eyes opened slowly, marking him with a sly, reptilian look. “I knew a Karl Rochev, but I haven’t seen him for a very long time.”
“He’s here in Kiev?” Jack said.
“He may still be.” Dyadya Gourdjiev shrugged. “But I have no doubt there are many K. Rochevs in Kiev. It’s not, after all, such an uncommon name. Besides, this man may not have been a Kiev resident at all.”
There was an intimidating darkness about him now, a gathering of energies, like glue or ink, a hint of what he must have been like in his prime, when his frame was filled out with muscle and he sparked with power. Something about him had changed the moment Jack had mentioned Rochev. The avuncular cheeriness had vanished, replaced by a professional wariness, even though Jack had been brought here by Annika, or possibly even because of that very fact. What was clear, however, was that he knew far more about Karl Rochev than he was letting on. Why was he holding back, Jack asked himself, and if he’d decided on that tack, why hadn’t he simply lied outright and said the name was unfamiliar to him?
A possible answer was not long in coming.
“You can trust Mr. McClure, Dyadya Gourdjiev,” Annika said. “He saved my life last night and, in doing so, put his own in jeopardy. If you know something about this man Rochev that could help