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“I would like to sit here awhile longer and admire your beautiful mosque,” replied Monk.
The Chechen rose.
“I will ask if anyone has heard of this man,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Monk. “I am a man of great patience.”
“Patience is a virtue.”
It was two hours before they came, and there were three of them, all young. They moved quietly, stockinged feet making no sound on the deep pile of the Persian carpets. One stayed by the door, dropping to his knees and leaning back on his heels, hands on the tops of his thighs. He might seem to be at prayer, but Monk knew no one would get past him.
The other two walked over and sat on either side of Monk. Whatever they carried under their jackets was hidden. Monk stared ahead. The questions when they came were murmurs that would not disturb the worshipers in front of them.
“You speak Russian?”
“Yes.”
“And you ask about one of our brothers?”
“Yes.”
“You are a Russian spy.”
“I am American. There is a passport in my jacket.”
“Forefinger and thumb,” said the man. Monk eased out his U.S. passport and let it fall to the carpet. It was the other man who leaned forward, retrieved it, and scanned the pages. Then he nodded and handed it back. He spoke in Chechen across Monk. The American suspected the burden of what he said was to the effect that anyone can have a forged American passport. The man to Monk’s right nodded and resumed.
“Why do you seek our brother?”
“We met, long ago. In a faraway land. He left something behind. I promised myself that if ever I came to Moscow I would return it to him.”
“You have it with you?”
“In that attaché case.”
“Open.”
Monk flicked the catches on the case and lifted the lid. Inside was a flat cardboard box.
“You expect us to bring this to him?”
“I would be grateful.”
The one on the left said something else in Chechen.
“No, it is not a bomb,” said Monk in Russian. “For if it were, and it were opened now, I too would die. So open it.”
The two men glanced at each other, then one leaned forward and lifted the lid of the cardboard box. They stared at what lay inside.
“That is it?”
“That is it. He left it behind.”
The one on his left closed the box and lifted it out of the attaché case. Then he arose.
“Wait,” he said.
The man by the door watched him leave but made no sign. Monk and his two watchers sat for another two hours. The hour of lunch had come and gone. Monk felt the yearning for a big hamburger. Beyond the small windows the light was fading by the time the messenger returned. He said nothing, just nodded to his two companions and jerked his head toward the door.