“Good morning, Mr. Karpenko,” said Agent Hammond. “You’ll remember my partner, Agent Travis. Could we have a word with you in private?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Yes, of course,” said Hammond.
Alex placed his hands behind his back and whispered, “Arrest me. Handcuff me, and read me my rights.”
“What are you talking about?” said Travis.
“It will at least give me some credibility with this lot,” dissed Alex, as several students stopped to stare at them.
“If you’re not going to cooperate, Karpenko, you’ll have to come with us,” said Travis at the top of his voice. He then grabbed Alex by the arm and marched him down the corridor to accompanying jeers and cheers. They stopped at a door with the word DEAN stenciled in black on its pebbled-glass window. Travis opened the door and pushed Alex inside.
There was no sign of the dean or his secretary. The CIA did seem to have a gift for making people disappear, thought Alex. Travis released him the moment the door had closed behind them, and they sat down at a small square table in the center of the room.
“Thank you,” Alex said. “Now at least one or two of them might still talk to me.”
“What’s their problem?” asked Hammond.
“If you’ve served in Vietnam, don’t take drugs, never get drunk, and actually hope to come out of this place with a degree, not many of them want to know you. So what can I do for you gentlemen?”
“First,” said Hammond, extracting the inevitable files from his briefcase, “we’d like to bring you up to date on what happened to your former chess partner, Ivan Donokov, while you were away in Vietnam.”
At the mention of Donokov’s name, Alex felt sick, and tried to stop himself trembling.
“Thanks to you, we were able to arrest him, along with several of his associates. They’re now all safely behind bars.”
“For how long?”
“Ninety-nine years, in Donokov’s case,” said Travis, “without parole.”
“Let’s hope his cell mate’s a Grand Master, otherwise he’s going to get very bored,” said Alex. The three men laughed for the first time. “That can’t be the only reason you wanted to see me.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Hammond. “We felt we owe you one. We know you’re now down to your last market stall, and its license comes up for renewal next month. We also know that the landlord, Mr. Wolfe, will try to extract a price you can’t afford.”
“But more important,” said Alex, “do you know why?”
“Yes,” said Hammond. “Our colleagues in the FBI have a cabinet full of files dedicated to Mr. Wolfe, but they’ve never been able to lay a finger on him. However, they’ve passed on some information that might be of interest to you.” He nodded toward his colleague, who proceeded to explain exactly why Wolfe needed to be in possession of the licenses for every stall in Market Square by midday on June 17. “And yours is now the only one left.”
“Thank you,” said Alex. “Although I should have worked it out for myself.”
“And, by the way,” said Travis, “there’s something else you’ve probably worked out by now.”
“Dimitri is one of the good guys,” said Alex.
* * *
Alex put on one of the suits Addie had given him, along with a white shirt and a blue silk tie he would never have been able to afford. He opened the attaché case and checked that everything was in place, before glancing at his watch. This was one meeting he wasn’t going to be late for.
He couldn’t resist whistling as he walked slowly along Brighton Beach Avenue. He reached 3049 Ocean Parkway a few minutes before nine, opened the door, and walked into the reception area to be greeted by Molly, the long-suffering receptionist, known among the market traders as the devil’s gatekeeper.
“Have a seat, Mr. Karpenko. I’ll let Mr. Wolfe know you’ve arrived.”
“Don’t bother,” said Alex, not breaking his stride or stopping to knock before he marched into Wolfe’s office.
Wolfe looked up from his desk. He didn’t attempt to hide his annoyance at being taken by surprise. “I’ll have to call you back,” he said, slamming down the phone. “Good morning, Mr. Karpenko,” he said, pointing to the seat opposite him. Alex remained standing. Wolfe shrugged. “I’ve drawn up the new license for your stall.”
“How much?”