The Dog Who Bit a Policeman

Chapter Nine

“I will have to take the body back to my laboratory,” said Paulinin, gloves on his hands, kneeling on a bath towel which had been brought to him.

Iosef, Zelach, and two uniformed policemen stood watching the wild-haired man poke, prod, and examine the badly burned body.

“I can tell you several things, however. First, I may be able to salvage a few of the photographs and maybe usable pieces of tape.

Second, this is not Yevgeny Pleshkov. I have seen newspaper photographs of Pleshkov smiling. In spite of his fame and following, Pleshkov has Russian teeth, uneven, a few twisting, and certainly with a filling or more made of inferior material. This man has perfect teeth, all capped, almost certainly by a dentist in or from a Western country.”

Iosef was taking notes.

“Further, this man was younger and not as heavy as Pleshkov. I will need to examine him carefully in my laboratory, but it appears this man was murdered and then burned. The skull is recently scarred and several splinters of burned wood are embedded here.”

He pointed to the blackened skull.

“Also,” Paulinin said, “there are splinters in the neck wound and one of the ribs has a fracture, a hairline fracture. I would guess with confidence that he was stabbed in the neck with a splinter of wood and beaten by something heavy, also wood.”

“A stake. Like a vampire,” said Zelach. “Maybe whoever killed him thought he was a vampire?”

It was one of the longest statements and one of the few observations Akardy Zelach had made since Iosef met him. Iosef was reluctant to simply dismiss the question.

“It is a possibility worth exploring,” said Iosef. “You believe in vampires, Zelach?”

“My mother does,” he said, looking at the body. “She says she has seen them. I. . I don’t know.”

Paulinin shook his head, considered saying something to Zelach, and decided instead to continue his search. “Ah, some hairs.”

He took one of the half-gallon Ziploc bags from his right jacket pocket. There were also smaller plastic bags, which Paulinin seldom used.

“Why,” the scientist said, finally rising, “is Emil Karpo not on this case?”

“He is on another important assignment,” Iosef said.

Paulinin’s face showed great irritation. “I’ll carry these pieces of evidence myself. You carefully get this body and anything else that may be of interest to my laboratory. Where is Emil Karpo or Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov when I need them? They would know what I would be interested in seeing. Don’t answer. I’m leaving before it rains.”

The sky was indeed dark. Iosef ordered the two policemen to call for a police ambulance to take the body to Paulinin’s laboratory. Paulinin left and so did the two policemen.

Zelach and Iosef stood looking down at the burnt debris and the body.

“I wonder how easy it is to get out of here without being seen,”

said Iosef. “Service doors, emergency exits. How did Pleshkov get out past the doorman, who claims he did not leave?”

Iosef had asked himself the question, but Zelach answered.

“Maybe he didn’t get out,” said Zelach.

“We looked everywhere,” said Iosef patiently. “We have had every corner, every apartment searched.”

“No,” said Zelach.

“No? Where didn’t we look?”

“Yulia Yalutshkin’s bedroom,” Zelach said, slouching forward, his eyes fixed on the body.

Iosef looked at him with new respect. Zelach may very well be right. In which case, Iosef would look like a fool when he explained to his father that they had not checked the bedroom. If Zelach was right, Yulia had performed magnificently. Iosef dashed for the door to the roof, with Zelach right behind. If Pleshkov had been in the bedroom, he might still be there. He had to be there. There was an armed guard at the door of Yulia Yalutshkin’s apartment.

What troubled Iosef even more than the likelihood that Pleshkov had eluded him was the very real possibility that the distinguished member of the congress, probably the next president of Russia, may well have been involved in or even committed a brutal murder. What led Iosef to this conclusion was the distinct possibility that the burned body was that of Jurgen, Yulia’s German lover and protector, who probably had good Western teeth.

Paulinin would find out if Iosef was correct. Meanwhile, Iosef had to find Yevgeny Pleshkov.

The jaws of the dog opened and Elena felt the animal’s weight lift from her. Her own teeth had been about to sink into the animal’s neck and she had tasted fur when the weight was lifted. She could feel the elevator slowly going up. She opened her eyes, sat up as best she could, and saw Porfiry Petrovich holding the dog by the neck. The dog was writhing and growling, snapping at air with blood on his teeth, Elena’s blood.

“Be calm, dog,” said Rostnikov, placing the animal on the floor but maintaining his grip. “I have no wish to hurt you. Neither do I have a wish to take you home as a pet.”

The dog suddenly grew quiet.

“Good,” said Rostnikov, putting the dog at his left side. “Be reasonable and you will survive.”

The dog, however, let out a growl and sank its teeth into Rostnikov’s leg. His teeth and jaws suddenly quivered with pain. The dog let go and backed into a corner, cowering. He had never encountered anything like Rostnikov’s prosthetic leg.

“Now,” said Rostnikov, “sit and be quiet. If you try to bite me one more time, you will further destroy my clothes, which I can ill afford, and I will have to kill you. I have never killed a dog or a cat or a beetle. Remind me someday to tell you a story about beetles.”

The frightened dog had appeared to be listening, and Rostnikov had spoken to him in the same way he would talk to a human.

The elevator moved up.

Porfiry Petrovich took three steps across the ascending elevator and leaned over to examine Elena’s shoulder.

“We need towels,” he said. “You will need a tetanus injection and some stitches.”

“How, why are you here?” Elena said painfully as she stood.

“To save your life,” he said. “An informant overheard two men talking in a booth of a restaurant. That is the informant’s job. The two men were talking about killing you. I came here to get you out and maybe Sasha.”

“Your timing was perfect,” Elena said after biting her lower lip to keep away the pain.

“Not really,” said Rostnikov. “I was following you when you went out for coffee. When you returned here, a man got out of a car with the dog. I moved as quickly as I could but I couldn’t get to the dog quickly enough. The man said ‘Kill’ and pointed at you as you stepped into the elevator, and then the man stepped outside.

I got to the elevator just in time to get my hands on the closing door. The rest you know.”

“Let’s get Sasha and leave,” said Elena.

The elevator came to a stop at the floor of the suite.

“I may have an alternative idea,” said Rostnikov, looking back at the dog which had crept forward on its belly. “Back,” he said firmly.

The dog slunk back, not wanting the clamp of the man’s fingers around his neck or the taste and texture of the strange leg. By now the dog was firmly convinced that the man was completely made of plastic and metal and could not be hurt.

The elevator door slid open.

Awkwardly but gently, Rostnikov helped Elena out of the elevator and reached back in to press the button for the first floor. The dog looked up at Rostnikov and Elena as the door slid closed and the bloody elevator started down with the dog inside.

“You said you have an alternate idea?” said Elena as Rostnikov lifted her in his arms and asked her which room was hers and Sasha’s.

“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “I’m afraid you are going to have to die.”

“I don’t understand,” said the confused young man in uniform and helmet, weapon at his side, helmet strap digging deeply into his chin.

They were standing outside of Yulia Yalutshkin’s apartment.

Zelach had been sent down to the lobby. Iosef had checked the bedroom. Yulia was gone. It was clear that someone had slept in the bed besides the woman. The bed was still slightly warm and there were a few dark hairs between the sheets, possibly pubic hairs.

“A man came out of this apartment while you stood guard,” said Iosef, trying to remain calm. “And the woman is gone.”

“No man came out,” the young policeman said. “And she didn’t. . I thought she was. .”

“What happened?” asked Iosef.

“She asked me to come in,” the policeman said. “She needed someone to help her button the back of her dress.”

“So you went into her bedroom?”

“For an instant. I could see her the entire time.”

Zelach reappeared, panting, and said, “The doorman saw Pleshkov and the woman leaving the building about ten minutes ago.”

“Your name, Officer,” asked Iosef.

“Nikita Sergeivich Kotiansko,” the young, bewildered man said, looking at the closed door.

“How long have you been a police officer?”

“Six weeks,” Kotiansko said.

Actually, Iosef knew it wasn’t a matter of experience as much as common sense. Nikita had neither tool to fall back on.

“How did she get out? We can assume Pleshkov was hiding in the living room and hurried out when you went into the bedroom, but how did she get away?”

Zelach and Iosef waited for an answer.

“It must have been when she asked me to pick a different dress out of her closet. I couldn’t button the dress. The holes were too small. She said she was going to get something to drink.”

“So she wasn’t wearing anything,” said Iosef.

Nikita stood at attention, not looking at the two inspectors.

“Very little,” said the policeman. “I didn’t think she would run away. This is her apartment. She had no clothes on.”

“She almost certainly had a dress hidden in the living room,”

said Iosef.

Though he said and showed nothing, Zelach thought his partner was amazingly clever.

“Did she touch you, Nikita Sergeivich?” asked Iosef calmly.

“Once, my cheek,” said the policeman. “Said I should look for something in the closet I liked. She touched my cheek. I could smell her perfume. What will happen to me?”

“Go up to the roof,” said Iosef. “You’ll find a shed with some evidence. Touch nothing. Guard it. Hope that it rains and you get very wet so I feel sorry for you.”

“Yes, Inspector,” said the young man.

Nikita Sergeivich Kotiansko moved very quickly.

Viktor Petrov was as dedicated to his work as a hotel security guard as he had been dedicated to his work as a police sergeant before his wounding. Viktor was thirty-three years old and lucky to be alive. He had been involved in a shoot-out seven years earlier when he had just made sergeant. Three young boys were caught inside of a store where they were cleaning out its contents. Petrov had been shot by a fourteen-year-old. Death had seemed certain, but almost miraculously he had survived his chest wound. Petrov, recovering in the hospital, had been visited by the minister of the interior himself and given a medal. He was then told that he had a collapsed and unfixable lung and, therefore, would be honorably retired with a pension. The pension, he knew, was not enough to feed, clothe, and shelter himself, his wife, and their then infant son.

Though he told no one, Petrov had no desire to return to duty following his shooting. He was afraid because he was a young man in a job growing more dangerous. He had been given an honorable escape.

Petrov had drifted from job to job. For almost a year he was on the security staff of the Bolshoi Theater. The job paid poorly and the hours were terrible but there were perks, including food from various company parties, mainly for wealthy foreigners.

But Petrov’s wife had grown ill with a disease of weariness the doctor called chronic fatigue syndrome, which he said could not be cured. Petrov’s wife couldn’t work.

So Viktor Petrov moved on to a job that paid much more. He became, as his father had been, a waiter. For a year he had waited tables at a private club. After being a policeman, however, he found it humiliating to be an anonymous figure to loud men and over-dressed women. He found it humiliating to constantly be saying

“thank you very much” for tips he had earned.

And so, Viktor had found, through a friend who was not only still a policeman but now a captain, the job of security guard at the Leningradskaya Hotel. The hotel was one of the seven huge concrete monstrosities built on Stalin’s orders in the 1950s. Some found the hotel strangely beautiful. Others pronounced it a hideous tower whose rooms should be reserved for visiting mad scientists.

Petrov liked working there and asked to work nights when he would chance on few hotel employees and fewer guests. If a patron of Jacko’s Bar in the hotel grew unruly, it was not Petrov’s problem.

Jacko’s had its own security. His primary job was to check the doors to be sure they were locked, and look for thieves.

Security at the front door was good, but from time to time one of the petty criminals, gypsies, or desperate homeless who spent their hours in the Leningradsky, Yarolslavsky, or Kazansky railway stations directly across from the hotel made their way in. Petrov was armed, an American.38-millimeter pistol that he had been ordered to buy with his own money.

The rooms of the Leningradskaya were not fancy or particularly well furnished, but they were relatively clean and, by Moscow standards, which were far beyond the reach of Petrov, relatively inexpensive.

Early in the morning, before the sun was quite ready to rise, Petrov had moved slowly down the halls, hearing or imagining that he heard the loud band in Jacko’s that played every night almost till dawn.

Everything was fine. The cleaning crew was already at work.

Doors were locked. No suspicious people were roaming the halls or hiding in supply closets. The door to the small exercise room was open, which was not unusual. The night staff frequently forgot to lock it. Petrov had a key and was prepared to lock the door when he heard something inside. He went in slowly. The room was dark and had no windows.

Petrov considered calling out but for some reason decided against it. He remembered where the light switch was and moved along the wall to click it. The room went cold-white as the fluo-rescent lights sputtered and tinkled to life. The free weights were in a corner. The machines-treadmill, bicycle, and others which Petrov did not know and did not know how to use-were empty.

He had been about to click off the lights and leave when he heard a sound beyond the door that led to the small shower and toilet. No light was coming under the door. One of the three showers was running. Water was hitting the tiles.

Petrov felt sweat forming on his brow and a very bad feeling in his stomach. He imagined armed young men beyond the door, ready to kill anyone who disturbed them as they hid. He imagined even worse. He could have backed out of the weight room and into the hall where he could find the floor phone and call for help. But what if there was no one beyond the door? What if the incident was reported by whoever came to back him up? The hotel knew his background. Petrov might well lose his job. He could not afford to lose his job. In all likelihood, someone had simply left the water running in a shower. He took his weapon from his holster and pushed open the shower room door.

Darkness as the door remained open, light from the weight room barely cutting into the darkness. Petrov crouched and pointed his weapon. He really expected and hoped to see nothing.

Moments like this had haunted him since he had been wounded. It was better, he frequently told himself, to be overly cautious and prepared than to be confident and dead.

“Is anyone here?” he said, expecting no answer as he reached for the switch.

The sound he then heard over the water was definitely human, definitely in pain. Petrov went down on one knee, weapon held out, trying to see into the near darkness. The sound, a low, weak groan, came again.

“Who is it?” Petrov repeated.

This time there was a weak “Oh. Oh. Oh.”

Viktor stood quickly, hit the light switch, and crouched again with his gun outstretched and ready. He tried not to tremble. He tried so hard not to breathe that it made him dizzy, a frequent occurrence resulting from the fact that he had but one functioning lung.

The doors of the two toilets stalls were open. The stalls were empty. Lying on the shower tiles, water hitting his face, was a big man, a naked man with a bad complexion and blood streaming from two wounds to his chest. The blood poured across the tattoos on his body and formed a river to the shower drain.

There was nowhere to hide in the shower room or the weight room. Whoever had done this was gone, but Viktor took no chances. He wasn’t sure what he should do, but he decided to turn off the shower. He did so carefully, trying not to get his only decent pair of shoes too wet. Then he turned his attention to the big man.

“Are you alive?” Petrov said, knowing that it was a stupid question.

The man was alive, but not very. Viktor put his gun away and knelt without thinking of what damage it might do to his pants.

The man opened his eyes and saw Viktor. The eyes darted around the room. The man grabbed Viktor’s hair and pulled him to within inches of his own face. Even about to die the man was extremely strong.

“I had a wound like this,”Viktor said calmly. “I survived. So will you.”

The big man shook his head once to show that he had no illusions about survival.

“Who shot you?” asked Viktor, prying the dying man’s fingers from his hair with great difficulty.

“Little boy,” the man said.

“A little boy shot you?”

The dying man shook his head again. “Little boy. . dead.”

“Who shot you?”

“Shot because of dead boy,” he said. “I didn’t even remember him. I didn’t know.”

“But who shot you?” Petrov asked.

“No,” the big man said, closing his eyes. “I understand. I would do the same.”

And with that he died.

Petrov stood and ran for the door, slipping and almost falling on the wet floor. He hurried through the weight room and into the hall, where he went to the floor phone and called the desk, telling them to put two security men on the front door, another one at the employee entrance, and another at the loading dock immediately.

And to stop anyone who had wet shoes.

“And call the police, now,” he said. “A guest has been murdered and the killer probably has not had time to leave the hotel.”

“I don’t. .” the desk clerk began.

“Do it, immediately,” Viktor said, reverting to the days when he had been a sergeant and had barked orders to younger officers.

“You are wasting time. Look for wet shoes. Remember, wet shoes.”

Viktor hung up before the clerk could say more.

He thought quickly. The doors were going to be covered. So was the loading dock. If the killer planned to leave the hotel, he stood a good chance of being caught. But, Viktor thought as he raced back to lock the weight room door, if the killer was a guest, the chances of catching him quickly or at all were not great.

Viktor prayed that he had not made any mistakes.

“. . will relieve pressure on the brain,” Leon said, sitting forward in his chair and holding the hands of his cousin who sat before him.

He had always thought Sarah very beautiful, and he, like others in the family, had wondered why she had chosen the bulky, homely, gentile policeman with the bad leg when she could have done better. Gradually, however, Leon had learned to appreciate Porfiry Petrovich’s wit and compassion, but above all he appreciated the policeman’s sincere love of Sarah. For that, Leon could easily tol-erate Rostnikov’s eccentricities.

They were in Leon’s large parlor furnished with French antique furniture and tastefully punctuated by a shining and beautiful black piano near the five windows that were letting in light in spite of the darkness and threat of rain. Through a door in one of the walls was Leon’s office and examining room, where he had, increasingly, because of the ever-dwindling level of medical care in Moscow’s hospitals, begun to perform more and more outpatient surgery.

Sarah’s problem, however, was well beyond his ability and definitely the job of a specialist.

“Then there is no danger?” she said.

“There is always danger,” he said. “But in this case it appears the danger is only slight, very slight. Remember the last time when I told you that there was distinct danger?”

“Of course,” she said.

“There was,” he said. “And I was honest with you, as I am being now.”

“When can we do it?” she asked.

“I’ve spoken to the surgeon, the same one who operated last time,” he said. “Tomorrow morning. Possibly the next day.”

“So soon?”

“I think it would be best,” said Leon, patting his cousin’s hand.

“The day after tomorrow,” Sarah confirmed.

“Eat nothing after midnight tomorrow,” he went on, still holding her hands. “Be at the hospital at six in the morning. No, make that seven. They always tell you to come at least an hour earlier than necessary. I’ll be there through the whole operation.”

“This,” said Sarah, looking around the beautiful room, “will be very difficult.”

“I know, but you will be all right.”

“No,” she said with a smile. “The difficult part will be telling Porfiry Petrovich and Iosef. The difficult part will be losing my hair again. You know it has not grown in as thick as it was before the last operation.”

“It will grow back and look as beautiful as it does now,” he said with a smile. “And it does look beautiful.”

Sarah nodded her head, but her heart told her something quite different from what her cousin was saying.

Inspector Emil Karpo stood in yet another hotel shower room as a body was being removed. He recognized the dead man as Shatalov the Chechin’s closest bodyguard. The big man had stood behind Shatalov at the burial of Valentin Lashkovich the day before, and he had stepped forward in front of Shatalov when it looked as if there might be a confrontation with the Tatars. Now the big man lay white and dead, and Karpo stood with the security guard Petrov, looking down at the body. Karpo had called Paulinin before coming to the hotel. Karpo had arrived as the cloudy gray dawn was breaking.

“Your name is Viktor Petrov,” Karpo said to the security guard looking down at the body. “You were wounded five years ago in a gun battle with some young teens.”

“Yes,” said Petrov. “How did you remember that and my name?”

Karpo didn’t answer. The man known, among other things, as

“the Vampire,” had not visited him when he was in the hospital.

Rostnikov, who had also been on the siege of the boy thieves, had, however, visited him twice.

“You have done well here,” Karpo finally said.

“Not well enough,” Petrov said. “I heard no shots, and whoever did it managed to get by the guards at all the exits.”

“It would seem,” said Karpo. “Repeat again what the dead man said to you.”

Viktor repeated the words precisely.

Karpo nodded. He asked Petrov more questions and examined the room and the body without touching anything. That would be Paulinin’s job, and he knew the technician would be upset if something were moved or touched, including the body, before he had an opportunity to study the scene.

Something about the dead Mafia man’s words touched a memory in Karpo. There had been a shoot-out between the Chechins and the Tatars nearly a year ago. In addition to one Tatar, several bystanders had been killed, including an old man and a little boy.

He remembered the mother in tears after the battle, holding her dead son in her arms. It reminded him of two things. One was a scene from the movie Battleship Potemkin in which a mother carried her dead son toward the czar’s soldiers, only to be cut down by bullets herself. The other was the death of Mathilde Verson, killed in a cafe in crossfire from two other Mafias. Mathilde had been a prostitute, a woman of great strength and good humor whom Karpo had visited weekly. She had always looked at the policeman, who frightened others, with amusement and understanding. Gradually they had developed a relationship and he had considered her the only living person besides Rostnikov to whom he felt close.

That closeness and Mathilde’s genuine concern for him had begun to bring Emil Karpo to life.

Karpo had slept little on his narrow bed during the night that was coming to an end. He had been plagued by a migraine. The migraines had been coming more regularly recently, and the pills he had been given were of no use if he did not take them before the onset of the pain. Since his warning auras of smells and white flashes had not been coming since Mathilde’s death, he had to suffer the headaches in the darkness of his room, feeling the waves of nausea rise and fall inside him. The headache had gone shortly after the phone call. He had been called because Rostnikov was out and the dead man was a member of one of the two Mafias Rostnikov and Karpo were investigating in connection with what looked like the assassinations of their members.

Paulinin arrived with his familiar large metal box that looked more appropriate for going fishing than for investigating a crime scene. Emil Karpo knew better.

“Good,” said Paulinin, looking over his glasses. “It’s you, Emil Karpo. I had to deal with that Zelach and Rostnikov’s son earlier today.”

“Last night,” Karpo corrected.

“Last night. Last night. You are right,” said Paulinin. “Precision is essential. Three times in two days I have been called from my lab.

I don’t like to leave my laboratory. You know that. Very irritating.

Very irritating. What do we have?”

Which meant, Karpo thought, that Paulinin had spent the night in his laboratory.

Paulinin looked at Petrov and then at the naked corpse. “Are they going to take this one from me before I get a chance to really know him?”

“I will do my best to prevent that,” said Karpo.

“I begin,” said Paulinin, moving toward the body.

The police ambulance arrived at the hotel, and the two paramedics went up the elevator with their rolled-up canvas stretcher.

People crowded the lobby watching, wondering what was going on.

The people behind the desk were of no help, and there was no manager present to give information on the situation.

Rostnikov was gone by the time the ambulance arrived. He had left quickly, silently, carefully, and relatively unseen. There was no sign of the dog or of the man who had told him to kill Elena.

Five minutes after their arrival, the paramedics came down the stairs. The elevators were far too small to hold a stretcher with a body on it.

The body they carried under the bloody white sheet was that of Elena Timofeyeva. Many in the lobby were familiar with such sights. Others were not. Was this an accident? Suicide? Murder?

Who was under the sheet? What had happened? They were given no answers. The paramedics moved to the door, which was held open for them by the doorman. The stretcher was placed inside the ambulance. The doors were closed and the ambulance quickly departed.

When he stepped out onto the sidewalk with a small group of curious hotel guests, he spotted the man who had released the dog.

He did not, however, see the dog. The man watched the proceed-ings for a few moments, till Elena’s body was in the ambulance.

Then the man smiled with satisfaction.

A dozen or so people watched the ambulance pull away. One of the watchers was having his pocket picked by a gypsy. The gypsy tucked the man’s wallet into his pocket and started across the street toward the railway station.

Down the street the man who had released the dog was getting into a parked car. Rostnikov could not make out the car’s license.

Rostnikov considered letting the gypsy go. Rostnikov had a great deal to take care of, but if he let the gypsy escape, the crime would twist inside him. It would take weeks to go away. It had happened before.

Slowly, Rostnikov crossed the street, carefully waiting for traffic to pass.

Meanwhile, in the room he had shared with Elena, Sasha sat dressed and ready for the knock that came on his door. Cup of coffee in hand, he moved across the room and found himself facing Peter Nimitsov and Boris Osipov. Illya Skatesholkov was absent.

There was a very good reason why Illya was not there. He was dead. Illya had made a decision on his own not to send Bronson into the hotel elevator to kill the woman. He didn’t want to risk the animal getting killed. It didn’t take their best dog to do the job.

Illya didn’t intend to tell Peter what he had done.

Immediately after the attack Illya had returned the dog to the kennel and gone to Peter Nimitsov’s office to report that the po-licewoman was dead.

“And Bronson?” Peter had asked.

“Fine,” Illya had answered.

“Because,” said Peter, “he was never at risk. I told you to send Bronson to do the job.”

“I. . the woman is dead. Romulus did the job.”

“It is not a question of whether she is dead or not. It is a question of doing what you are told. This will be only a start. You will keep doing things like this. It is inevitable. History, Illya. Our history. Nicholas let Rasputin destroy the Russian Empire. Peter, my namesake, more than two hundred and fifty years ago was advised to move the capital from Moscow to St. Petersburg. But Moscow has remained the heart, the brain of Russia. If Russia is to survive, Moscow must live. The first Russian university was founded here, the first Russian newspaper published here. It is here the working people have first risen up against oppression for more than eight centuries. Did you know that Moscow University was the center of the Decembrist movement?”

“No,” said Illya.

Peter was pacing and Illya was mute and confused. Did this young man with the white scar across his nose want to, really expect to be the leader of a new Russia? And what kind of leader? A new monarchist or the focus of a new uprising led by the working people of Moscow? It seemed to change almost daily.

“No. . never again,” said Peter. “The essence of my success is complete loyalty and obedience. Czars have fallen because of dis-obedience. It will not happen to me.”

Illya had looked at Boris, who stood off to the side. It had been clear from the look on Boris’s face that he had no intention of intervening.

“I was going to kill you, Illya,” Peter had said. “But we’ve been together so long I didn’t have the heart. So I decided Boris should do it.”

“No,” Illya pleaded. “It was just. .”

“All right, all right. Don’t weep. I’ve changed my mind,” Peter had said.

Illya had just started to look relieved when Peter took out his gun. “I will kill you.”

With that, Peter Nimitsov had fired four times, and Illya Skatesholkov had died.

Now, his gun replaced by a fresh one and the old one dropped into the river, Peter Nimitsov stood at the door of the hotel room registered in the name of Dmitri Kolk of Kiev.

“May we come in, Dmitri?” asked Nimitsov, standing with Boris in the doorway.

Sasha stepped back to let them enter. They did, and the young criminal entrepreneur looked around the room while Sasha closed the door.

Nimitsov was dressed in a neatly pressed dark suit and a conservative silk tie. Boris wore the same suit he had worn the night before. An attempt had been made to press or iron it, but the job had been bungled. Sasha wondered if Boris had a wife or mother.

Peter sat in a chair after examining it to be sure there was no dust or dirt on it. Boris stood. Boris tried not to show it, but he glanced from time to time at Peter Nimitsov with a look of fear that Sasha noted.

“Would you like some coffee? Tea?” Sasha asked.

Peter crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. “No, thank you,” he said. “Did you see that your Segei Bubka had won another world title?”

“Yes,” said Sasha.

Bubka was the Ukrainian pole-vaulter who had won seven world titles and Olympic gold medals. He was a national hero.

“Did you know that Lyuba Polikarpova is dead?”

“I know,” said Sasha, moving to the table to pour himself more coffee. “I could never remember her last name. Then, of course, I knew her only a short time.”

“She was killed by a dog in the elevator of this hotel,” Peter said, watching Sasha, who took a sip of coffee.

“A dog?” said Sasha. “The man at the desk told me she was attacked, but he didn’t say whether it was by a human or animal. I had assumed it was a human animal-thief, rapist, madman.”

“And?” asked Nimitsov.

“And what?” asked Sasha. “It was a dog attack, a very flamboy-ant one, and I assume you were responsible, that you were sending a message to me. Tell me, what is the message?”

“She was a police officer,” said Nimitsov.

Sasha scratched an itch on his cheek and said, “I had considered that possibility myself. There was something about her-the way THE DOG WHO BIT A POLICEMANNN177

she watched me, how badly she performed in bed, several things.

You’re sure? I could never find any definite proof.”

“Yes,” said Nimitsov. “I am sure.”

“I’ll have to find some other woman to amuse me,” said Sasha, sitting. “Perhaps the woman from the other night.”

“Tatyana,” Peter Nimitsov said.

“Yes.”

“It can be arranged,” said Peter. “Right, Boris?”

“It can be arranged,” said Boris.

“Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” asked Sasha.

Nimitsov stared at Sasha, who waited patiently and drank his coffee. “Tonight,” he finally said, “I want your dog ready. I want a good fight before Bronson kills him.”

“Tchaikovsky will not lose,” said Sasha.

“He will lose,” said Nimitsov. “Or you will die. Many people are betting on your dog. The odds are going down. Overfeed your animal. Give him a drug, nothing too strong. I want a decent fight, with Bronson having just the edge he needs to insure his victory.

There will be people there I wish to impress, people you will wish to impress. These people have heard about Bronson. They do not know your dog.”

“You don’t think your dog can win without help?” asked Sasha.

“I don’t wish to take a chance,” said Nimitsov, a smile suddenly appearing on his baby face. “I intend to make a great deal of money tonight, and much more in the future with the help of these people I have mentioned. I can arrange for you to place a very large bet that will give you plenty of money to buy a new dog anywhere in the world. Besides, you have other dogs.”

“None as good as Tchaikovsky,” said Sasha, trying to contain himself.

“It cannot be helped,” said Nimitsov, rising.

“A good fight and a dead pit bull. I’m more interested in our progress in getting me and my animals into the syndicate,” said Sasha, reaching over to put down the coffee cup.

“We will make arrangements before the fight,” said Nimitsov, moving toward the door. “We will discuss our future before the fight.”

“What about now?” asked Sasha.

Nimitsov simply shook his head.

“Then tonight, before the fight,” Sasha said. “I am not losing my best dog without assurance that the sacrifice will be worth it.”

“You’ll make a great deal of money tonight,” Nimitsov said.

“I want a future with a great deal more than I can make in one night. My dog doesn’t fight and die till we talk and I get some information from you.”

“Dmitri,” Nimitsov said, shaking his head and touching the scar across his nose. “I could kill you here and now. I would enjoy doing it. I have not yet decided whether I like you or not.”

“We will have a deal tonight before the fight,” Sasha repeated, folding his arms in front of him. “Or I will take my animals and go back to Kiev.”

“I’ve decided. I don’t like you,” said Nimitsov, “but I would be doing just as you are if I were in your position. All right.”

“What about the police?” asked Sasha. He had almost forgotten this part, which Rostnikov had said was essential. Without it, Nimitsov might wonder why he was not more curious about the fact that a police officer had been not only watching him but sleeping with him.

“We will take care of that,” said Nimitsov. “Now don’t say another word. I am not in my best mood and I do not like demands.

Boris will be back to pick you up at eight. We will have dinner. You will get your dog and we will go to the arena.”

Sasha knew he had gone as far as he could go. He sensed that the young man in the rumpled suit was on the verge of a violent explosion.

The two visitors left.

When the door closed, Sasha groped his way back to the chair.

His hands were trembling. Maybe, he thought, his mother, Lydia, was right, that he had a family, that he should get out of this before he was killed. He knew he wouldn’t quit, but the thought had come quickly and seriously to him. He could not stop his hands from shaking.