Hot Siberian (12 page)

Sikma himself would perform the autopsy that night. He had told his first assistant, Zelený, just to get everything ready for him and then go home. This wasn't unusual, and besides, Sikma was thought to be somewhat eccentric.

At seven o'clock Sikma called his wife and told her not to concern herself with either him or his supper. He left his office in the main police building on Konvitska Street and walked the usual two blocks to his usual restaurant on Borsov, where, at his usual table, he had his usual roast goose and potato dumplings. When he returned to his office that section of the building was deserted. He took up his thirty-five-year-old fat brown briefcase and went down to the subterranean level to the morgue.

That lifeless room with its floor of tight little gray tiles and wall of stainless-steel individual refrigerator compartments was very clean; it was scrubbed and wiped daily. It had a distinct smell which was only complicated by disinfectants. Sikma entered the adjacent, smaller procedure room and bolted the door from the inside. He covered the single glass pane that was built into the door by taping up a paper towel upon which he printed
AUTOPSY IN PROGRESS,
along with his scrawly signature. He changed from his regular clothes, put on baggy blue surgeon's trousers and smock and cap and canvas sneakers. From a white metal cabinet that was known as his personal cabinet he got his combination cassette player/radio. He plugged it in and placed it on the chair next to his briefcase. Also from the cabinet he got an atomizer of Princess Dior eau de toilette. He spritzed a cotton face mask with it, then tied the mask over his mouth and nose. He put on a pair of surgical gloves and punched in the play button of his radio. He was inhaling Dior and hearing Dvořák's Symphony No. 3 in F Major performed by the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Vaclay Talich as he started to work.

As instructed, Zelený had prepared everything so that Sikma would be able to do the autopsy unassisted. The stainless-steel table upon which the corpse lay had been adjusted to accommodate Sikma's shorter-than-average height, and the table was tilted just enough so the corpse would remain in place while any body fluids would run down and flow out through the opening in its raised edge. Surgical instruments were arranged neatly on a tray stand. Sikma briefly contemplated the rigored Frenchman. He didn't think “Unfortunate fellow,” didn't question justice. It wasn't that he lacked natural compassion. The inert, ready-to-rot substance stretched before him had never been a personality as far as he was concerned. Besides, he thought, people had given their lives to much lesser causes. He examined the stab wound but did not have to bother with measuring it or noting its exact location. That had already been done. He was mildly amused at how hirsute the Frenchman was. An overabundance of black, wiry hair on his shoulders and chest and legs. Such a thick bush at his crotch that his penis was barely visible and his testicles were entirely hidden. The Frenchman's skin had an abnormal pallor, the color of the scum of spoiled cream.

Sikma took up a scalpel and made a continuous, deep incision down the middle, from breastbone to pelvis. The skin and fatty tissue rolled open like a split cushion. He then incised the muscles, the superficial ones such as the obliquus and transversalis. He made two other similar deep cuts, one across the lower abdomen and another from just above the navel to above the rib cage. These allowed the skin and fascia to be flapped open.

The Czech Philharmonic was giving Dvořák the excited strings he had asked for, and palpitations from the percussion.

The Miss Dior sweetly scalded the membranes of Sikma's nostrils. He'd overdone it again.

Sikma gutted the corpse almost as he would a fish. Merely as a matter of form he took several fecal samples and samples of stomach and intestinal content. He wasn't nearly as methodical or thorough as he would have been with an authentic autopsy. He carelessly yanked the viscera out of the corpse, scooped out its various substances, ripped out its arteries and veins and nerves as though they were just so much useless circuitry. When he'd disposed of the entire mess he used a pressure-nozzled hose to lavage the gaping cavity with a disinfectant.

He rinsed off his gloves and went to the chair. From his briefcase he removed a package about six inches square by an inch thick. It was tightly wrapped with brilliant blue plastic that had been heat-sealed. The package had been delivered to his office a week ago.

Sikma believed he knew what this blue package and all the previous blue packages contained. Not specifically what was in them, but for him they contained meaning, personal meaning. Never in his life had he been a patriot beyond incorrectly singing the words to the Czech national anthem at public events and mindlessly waving a tiny flag when it was called for. When the Soviet tanks rumbled into Prague in 1968 he hadn't shed a tear or gotten angry for Czechoslovakia. He'd only griped about the diesel fumes they caused and exaggerated a cough and was glad to see them roll out of the city for that reason. The year before last when he'd been approached to do this important patriotic thing he'd surprised himself by the way he jumped at the chance. Perhaps it was his age and his knowledge of how bad his general health was—perhaps it was knowing he didn't have much to lose. Any night after goose and dumplings he could clog up and be done. No matter—doing his part with these blue packages of Soviet secrets was a tonic for him. He always felt better afterward. He wished there were a blue package every week, which, of course, wasn't feasible; it would require too many French corpses.

Naturally, Sikma was curious about what kind of secrets were in the blue packages. He imagined diagrams of various nuclear weapons, maps indicating well-hidden missile sites, military and political strategies. Everyone enjoys knowing a secret, but he told himself to be satisfied with just imagining, and to do what he'd been told. What a privilege it was to be a conspirator, or, in fact, a spy. That self-designation was valuable to him and he didn't want to spoil it.

He inserted the blue plastic-wrapped package well up into the vacant chest cavity of the corpse and sutured the chest and stomach closed with large, loose stitches. Tomorrow afternoon the corpse would be on Czech State Airlines Flight 37 bound for Paris. Sikma correctly presumed that someone there in France, someone in the CSA cargo division, would be on the lookout for the corpse. That someone, with easy access, would remove the package and then see that the stitches were tightened and tied off properly.

What Sikma did not know, would never know, was that the blue packages contained diamonds. Russian diamonds skimmed from Aikhal.

This time, eighteen hundred D-flawless one-carat stones. Investment-quality.

At eighteen thousand dollars a carat, this batch was worth thirty-two million, four hundred thousand.

CHAPTER

6

NIKOLAI'S EYES OPENED SUNDAY MORNING ON THE ABSENCE
of Vivian. There, deserted and lumped out of shape by all her usual nightly hugging and burrowing, were her goose-down pillows. And beyond on the fabric-covered nightstand on her side of the bed was her little silver Art Deco clock. The clock had only one hand, its smaller hand. Vivian refused to have it repaired. She rather liked having a handicapped clock to sleep by, she said. Not being able to know the exact hour to the minute suited being in the country.

Judging from the position of that one hand, Nikolai estimated the time as something to eight rather than something after seven. Where was she? Using the bathroom? No light on in there. Perhaps, he thought, she was down in the kitchen fixing a huge surprise breakfast, an inspiration that came to her every couple of months. Nikolai swung his legs over the side of the bed. His slippers were on the floor awaiting his feet. He pictured her thoughtfully placing them there. A show of affection for all the pleasure of the night before.

Nikolai blinked vigorously, clenched and stretched his eyelids. Then he opened his mouth as wide as possible and twisted it to the left and right, and his nose. Vivian had taught him that this was a good way to wake up. Get the face going first thing—that was her theory. It seemed to work. Anyway, Nikolai had gotten into the habit of doing it every morning. Most mornings he and Vivian did it together and laughed at each other's facial contortions. At the very least who could refute the merit of starting the day with a laugh?

Nikolai sniffed, rather hoping for the smell of bacon being cooked. What he smelled was something fruity and sweet. He used the bathroom and put on a floor-length white terry robe that Vivian claimed had been not exactly stolen from the Paris Ritz considering the price charged for the suite it had come from. He went downstairs. Vivian wasn't in the kitchen, nor was any part of a breakfast, not even coffee. Simmering on the stove was a copper saucepan containing water and a sachet of herbs. Hand printing on the paper bag on the counter said the sachet was a mixture called brandied peach. Vivian's doing. On other occasions it had been a stew of lavender or stock or hyacinth, and once honeysuckle had permeated the air with such a cloying odor that even Vivian was caused to gag and they'd had to throw open every door and window in the house. She had a thing for dead flowers. To Nikolai a flower that was faded and all shriveled up was through. She felt otherwise. If at all possible she'd save any kind of petal from making its drop to the ground. Huge Waterford crystal bowls of potpourri were in every room, sprigs of dried heather and tiny roses and baby's breath were bunched and tied by silk ribbons and hung on doorjambs, incorporated into wreaths, arranged in old baskets. Nikolai's unstated opinion was that she'd carried a nice thing too far. She would never admit she overdid it.

Also on the counter was what appeared at first sight to be a gathering of a dozen or so large brown gnats. Trout flies. Nikolai realized where she was. How early had she gotten up to go fishing? Why hadn't she instead remained in bed, fitted against him, and slept late? Where did she get all the stamina? Considering the amount of loving they'd done it would seem this morning she'd be unable to move or at least limited to slow motion. Women, Nikolai thought, and went out the back door to the garden terrace.

The day was what Vivian called a sometimes sunny day. Blue-as-possible sky with formidable puffs of white clouds scattered about. Nikolai walked along the wide brick terrace. At the far end he turned and gazed back at the house.

Her beloved house.

It was Queen Anne, not in period but surely in style. Two and a half brick stories. Six ample rooms on the ground floor, six more on the second, and in the upper half-story beneath a steep-pitched hipped roof, four smaller rooms and attic space. Built in 1875, it was the work of the architect George Gilbert Scott, Jr., which in itself added value to it. Like most well-done Queen Anne houses it had a sense of feminine balance and repose. The primness of its brick exterior and crisp white trim was offset just enough by the curves of its Dutch-flavored gables and the patterns formed by its nine-over-nine sash windows. The easy impression was that of a confident beauty of an age past at rest on a lawn. The informal gardens were her various-colored petticoats flounced and scalloped about her, and for her parasol there was the high spread of a huge sycamore.

Nikolai understood why Vivian cared so much for this house. He almost believed her when she claimed she could spend the rest of this life comfortably satisfied in it.

Several purple finches animated a nearby linden. A small, fat cloud momentarily got in the sun's way. Ninja the cat played the oriental thug, sprang out from behind a purple azalea. Up on his hind legs with his front paws poised in karate fashion, he went for any part of Nikolai. And missed. He landed on his side in an awkward twist, recovered quickly, and shot Nikolai a defiant glare to save face before darting away.

Ninja was forever doing that—pouncing out at people from behind ceramic planters and the corners of things and, more often than not, missing. Vivian defended Ninja's disposition. She said he didn't really intend to hurt, just wanted to see if he could. After all, the most he'd ever done was ruin a few pairs of pantyhose. Perhaps Ninja was myopic or had faulty depth perception and actually wasn't as clumsy as he seemed. Whatever, he was the only cat Nikolai had ever known that tripped a lot. Vivian made all sorts of excuses for Ninja's lack of feline agility. While stroking his back or belly she'd sometimes cooingly declare that it made no difference to her that dear Ninja would never be a mouser. Nikolai thought that was somewhat rubbing it in.

Nikolai went around the side of the house and saw a brand-new Lotus parked in the drive, so new the tiny rubber extruding nipples weren't worn from its tires. Archer's, no doubt. What he called one of his personal cars. At least, Nikolai rationalized, there was no need to be concerned about Vivian fishing alone and out of help's range should she slip and crack her head on a rock or something. Meanwhile, what he'd do, Nikolai decided, was have breakfast. He was famished. He'd have five or six rashers of bacon, three or four scrambled eggs, a stack of buttered toast with some of that lime marmalade he liked, and coffee, American-style coffee. He wouldn't mind fixing it himself. He'd take his time, make sure the bacon was crisp but not overdone, the eggs fluffy rather than watery. He would use the better china and a proper napkin and silver utensils instead of the everyday stainless. He'd arrange it on a tray and eat outside in the sometimes sun, eat slowly and read the
Times
if it had come, or if not he'd get into one of those fatuous American novels of intrigue in which the Russians were always so treacherous and omitted the articles from their sentences. “Is good idea,” Nikolai mocked aloud. “Have pleasant peaceful breakfast.”

He hurried inside and up to the bedroom. Splashed his face, brushed his teeth and hair. He put on jeans, a pair of sneakers, and a faded Miami Dolphins sweatshirt. Went down the stairs so swiftly his feet hardly touched them. As he passed through the kitchen, he opened the bread box and grabbed up a sweet bun that was left over from the previous weekend.