Free Black Knight in Red Square by Stuart M. Kaminsky

conclusion. Karpo’s prostitute had said that Aubrey, the American, spoke of a frog bitch. Rostnikov remembered that Americans and Englishmen used the word “frog” in a pejorative sense to mean French. He had read that in one of his American detective novels. So the drunk and dying American in the back seat of a Moscow taxi had referred to a Frenchwoman. According to Aubrey’s notebook, he had interviewed a Frenchwoman the day before his death. After the encounter outside the elevator, Rostnikov had dispatched Tkach to interview this Frenchwoman, Monique Freneau.
    Yes, Rostnikov thought, he had done the right thing. Now the investigation could wait till morning when he would talk to Tkach, interview the German, and have Tkach interview the Englishman.
    Rimsky-Korsakov and Rostnikov finished at almost the same time. Rostnikov reached over, panting, turned off the radio, put his weights away, and went to the kitchen table.
    The food was excellent. They drank the borscht slowly, dug into the chicken with gusto, drank the wine with approval. Then it came.
    â€œPorfiry,” Sarah said, playing with a piece of chicken on her plate. “What do you think about France?”
    The question was startling since he had, in fact, just been thinking about France. Her blue eyes suddenly met his.
    â€œI am not overly fond of the French,” he said, pouring the last of the wine from the small bottle. “In their assumed superiority they have little tolerance for any other people. They find Russians particularly barbaric. I think it has something to do with Napoleon’s inability to—”
    â€œNo,” Sarah interrupted. “I mean what would you think about living in France. Or England, or Israel, or even America or Canada.”
    That was it, then, Rostnikov thought. The idea had remained unspoken for so long, but now it was out. Sarah was a Jew. She could apply for immigration. It would not be easy, but it could be done, and Porfiry, as her husband, could apply with her. The problem, as they both knew, was that as soon as they applied, they would become objects of abuse. Their lives would be made miserable. They might well lose their jobs and be given tasks of no responsibility or merit. Their son Iosef would suffer, and, worst of all, they probably would never be given permission to leave. But it was something Rostnikov had been considering seriously since his job had grown more political and since his knowledge had become a potential danger to the state.
    â€œSarah,” Rostnikov sighed, “I’m a policeman. They would never let me go.”
    â€œYou know people,” she said. “People who could help us.”
    Whom did he know? Anna Timofeyeva? What influence did she have? And as a loyal Party member, what would she think of his wanting to leave, to desert the cause when she was giving her life to it?
    â€œI don’t know anyone who would be willing to help us,” he said.
    Their eyes met, and he could see something in hers that she had been careful to conceal before, if it had been there.
    â€œPorfiry,” she said. “We are more than fifty years old. It is worth trying.”
    Insanely, the name Isola came to mind. Isola, the city of Ed McBain, where the police behaved so differently from those in Moscow. Now, if he could go to Isola…
    â€œSarah,” he said, “it cannot be.”
    She nodded, got up, and began to clear away the dishes. An observer might conclude from this that the matter was ended, but Rostnikov knew better. He knew that it had only begun and that Sarah was much more patient and even more intelligent than he was. Besides, Rostnikov had been more than toying with the idea for some time.
    The knock at the door was gentle. They thought the sound was coming from across the hall. Then it was louder. Rostnikov grabbed the table and pushed himself up, feeling the tug of the conversation and the nip of the wine.
    At first when he opened