Heads You Win

“So I agreed to have a meeting with the prospective buyer, who assured me he was a great admirer of yours. He assured me that he’d want to keep you on in your present position, and had no objection to your continuing to live in the upstairs flat.”

Elena couldn’t hide her relief. She hadn’t admitted even to Sasha that she was anxious about what would happen to the restaurant now that Mr. Moretti was no longer around to look after his extended family.

“May I ask the name of the new owner?” Elena asked, hoping it might be a customer she knew, or perhaps someone she had worked with in the past.

Mrs. Moretti put her glasses back on, picked up the recently signed agreement, and checked the name on the bottom line. “A Mr. Maurice Tremlett,” she said, dropping another sugar lump into her tea. “He seemed such a nice young man.”

Elena’s tea went cold.

* * *

Maurice Tremlett marched into the kitchen and shouted above the bustle and noise, “Which one of you is Elena Karpenko?”

Elena put down her carving knife and came out from behind the long steel counter. Tremlett stared at her for some time before saying, “I want you off the premises immediately, and I mean immediately. And you have twenty-four hours to clear all your possessions out of my flat.”

“That’s not fair,” said Betty, taking off her rubber gloves and stepping forward to stand by her friend.

“Is that right?” said Tremlett. “Then you’re sacked as well. And if anyone else wants to join them, be my guest.” Although one or two of the other kitchen staff shuffled around nervously, no one spoke. “Good, then that’s settled. But be warned, should any of you speak to either of these two again,” he said, pointing at Elena and Betty as if they were criminals, “you can also start looking for another job.” He turned and left without another word.

Elena took off her whites, left the kitchen, and made her way upstairs to the flat without speaking to anyone. The first thing she did once she’d closed the front door was to look up the number of the porter’s lodge at Trinity. For only a second time, she was going to break her golden rule of never disturbing Sasha during term time. However, she decided this was, without question, an emergency. She picked up the phone, and was about to dial the number when she heard a long buzzing sound. The phone had already been cut off.

* * *

A firm rap on the door caused Dr. Streator to pause in midsentence.

“Either the college is on fire,” he said, “or once again I’ve got the wrong day for the match against Oxford.”

The three undergraduates dutifully laughed as their supervisor rose from his place by the fire, walked slowly across the room, and opened the door, to find a stern-looking man and a uniformed police officer standing in the corridor.

“I apologize for disturbing you, Professor Streator,” (he was flattered by the promotion) said the young man in a gray suit and a college tie that the Senior Tutor thought he recognized. “I’m Detective Sergeant Warwick,” he said, holding up his identity card. “Is a Mr. Sasha Karpenko with you?”

“Yes, he is. But may I ask why you want to see him?”

Warwick ignored the question, and stepped past the don and into his study, followed by the constable. He didn’t need to ask which of the three students was Karpenko, because Sasha immediately stood up.

“I need to ask you a few questions, Mr. Karpenko,” said Warwick. “Given the circumstances, it might be more convenient if you were to accompany me to the station.”

“What are the circumstances?” demanded Streator.

“I’m not at liberty to say, sir,” replied Warwick, as the constable took Sasha firmly by the arm and led him out of the room.

Streator left his puzzled students and followed Sasha and the two policemen out of his study, down the staircase, across the courtyard, and onto the street. Several undergraduates looked on curiously as Sasha climbed into the back of a waiting police car and was whisked away.

BOOK THREE

17

ALEX

Brooklyn

Alex was left alone in a small dark room below a naked lightbulb that barely illuminated the table where he was seated. Two empty chairs that stood on the other side of the table were the only other pieces of furniture in the room. A large mirror covered the wall in front of him, and he wondered how many people were standing on the other side observing him.

His brain began to work overtime. Why had he been arrested? What were they charging him with? What law had he broken? Alex couldn’t believe the police were interested in the small pickings he made playing chess on the weekends, and although he now owned four stalls, and was making a reasonable profit, it surely wouldn’t have been enough to interest even the lowliest tax inspector. And there was no way they could know about the hundred dollars a week Ivan was paying him, because it was always in cash. It couldn’t be anything to do with the university, because they had their own security, and in any case, the dean had recently suggested that he should apply for a place at Harvard Business School. Although he was flattered by the idea, Alex rather hoped he’d end up as a case study, not a student.

His thoughts were interrupted when the door suddenly opened and two well-dressed men entered. He recognized them both immediately, but said nothing. They sat down opposite him. He had never forgotten their first meeting, and wondered which of them would be playing the good cop. At least it couldn’t be worse than the Soviet Union, where they only had a bad cop, bad cop routine. He waited for one of them to speak.

“My name is Matt Hammond,” the older man said, “and this is my colleague, Ross Travis. You might recall that we met at your home some time ago.”