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“Sir Evelyn is well?” asked Bernstein. Monk dropped into Russian.
“So far as I know,” said Monk, “but he did not sign that letter.” He heard a soft rustle behind him. “And I really would be most grateful if your young friend didn’t put one of those bullets in my back. I’m not wearing body armor and I would prefer to stay alive. Besides, I am not carrying anything dangerous, and I did not come here for the purpose of trying to hurt you.”
“Then why did you come?”
Monk explained the events since July 15.
“Rubbish,” said Bernstein at last. “Never heard suc
h rubbish in my life. I know about Komarov. I make it my business to know. He’s too far right for my taste, but if you think insulting Jews is anything new you know nothing about Russia. They all do it, but they all need banks.”
“Insults are one thing, Mr. Bernstein. What I am carrying in this case promises more than insults.”
Bernstein stared at him long and hard.
“This manifesto, you brought it with you?”
“Yes.”
“If Komarov and his thugs knew you were here, what would he do?”
“Have me killed. His men are all over the city looking for me now.”
“You’ve got a nerve.”
“I agreed to do a job. After reading the manifesto, it seemed worth doing.”
Bernstein held out his hand.
“Show me.”
Monk gave him the verification report first. The banker was accustomed to reading complex documents at great speed. He finished it in ten minutes.
“Three men, eh?”
“The old cleaner, the secretary Akopov who foolishly left it out on his desk to be stolen, and Jefferson, the journalist who Komarov wrongly thought had read it.”
Bernstein punched a button on his intercom.
“Ludmilla, get into the agency clipping files for late July and early August. See if the local papers carried anything on Akopov, a Russian, and an English reporter called Jefferson. On the first name, try the obituaries as well.”
He stared at his desktop screen as the microfiches were flashed up. Then he grunted.
“They’re dead all right. And now you, Mr. Monk, if they catch you.”
“I’m hoping they won’t.”
“Well, since you’ve taken the risk, I’ll look at Mr. Komarov’s private intentions for us all.”
He held out his hand again. Monk gave him the slim black file. Bernstein began to read. One page he read several times, flicking back and forward as he reread the text. Without looking up, he said:
“Ilya, leave us. It’s all right, lad, go.”
Monk heard the door close behind the aide. The banker looked up at last and stared at Monk.
“He can’t mean this.”
“Complete extermination? It’s been tried before.”