The surface of the desk had a blotter, a metal in-and-out basket, and several small imitation ancient Greek vases. The office was neat and devoid of clutter. Jack dutifully put the mail in the “in” basket.

Jack turned on the overhead lights. He took out his collection of culture tubes and swabbed various surfaces. As he swabbed the desk he noticed something glittering in the center of the blotter. Bending down he could see that it was a tiny, cerulean blue, iridescent star. It seemed strangely out of place in the austere environment.

Jack peered into the wastebasket. It was empty. He walked back to the closed doors. One led to a lavatory, where he swabbed the sink and the back of the toilet. The other door led to a corridor that communicated with the central stairhall of the building. Except for the few in the window, there were no other rugs or hides.

When Jack finished with the culture tubes, he took them into the bathroom and washed their exteriors before putting them back into the bag he’d brought them in. Finally, he approached the file cabinets. Now he wanted to find out all he could about the last incoming shipment of rugs and hides and whether any had been sent out.

____

FIVE

Monday, October 18

3:45 P.M.

Yuri looked up into the face of the smug businessman as he carefully counted out single greenbacks into Yuri’s waiting palm. Yuri had brought the individual all the way from La Guardia Airport to a posh East Side manse. During the entire trip, Yuri had had to endure yet another long lecture on America’s virtues and its inevitable Cold War victory. This time the emphasis was on Ronald Reagan, and how he had singlehandedly vanquished the “Evil Empire.” The man had correctly guessed Yuri’s ethnic origins from a glance at Yuri’s name on his taxi license. This had provoked his monologue on U.S. superiority on all fronts: moral, economic, political.

Yuri had not said a word throughout the interminable harangue although he’d been sorely tempted at several junctures. Some of the fare’s statements had made his blood boil, particularly when he condescendingly voiced pity for the Russian people who he thought were burdened with feelings of insecurity from having to endure continual inept leadership.

“And here’s a couple of extra dollars for your trouble,” the man said with a wink as he added to the pile in Yuri’s hand. Yuri was holding twenty-nine ragged, single dollar bills. The fare on the meter plus the Triboro Bridge toll was twenty-seven dollars and fifty cents.

“Is that supposed to be the tip?” Yuri asked with obvious disdain.

“Is something the matter with it?” the man asked. He straightened up. His eyebrows arched indignantly. He slipped his briefcase out from under his arm and held it as if he might be tempted to use it defensively.

Yuri took his right hand off the steering wheel and lifted the final two bills from the pile. He then let them go so that they wafted in short, intersecting arcs toward the pavement.