The Dog Who Bit a Policeman

Chapter Three

Rostnikov had returned to Petrovka and immediately reported to Yaklovev.

Pankov, the sweating dwarfish secretary who had survived Colonel Snitkonoy’s promotion and now served as secretary to the Yak, had ushered Rostnikov into the director’s office, as was his standing order. The only requirement was that the director was alone and that Pankov announced that Rostnikov was there to see him.

Pankov lived in constant fear of his superior. The slightest sign of disapproval or possible problems sent the clean-shaven little man of indeterminate age into a sweat, regardless of the heat or lack of it in Petrovka.

The meeting had been relatively brief, with Rostnikov standing in front of the desk of the Yak, who listened carefully to the early report on the new cases.

“Another report by the end of the day, or earlier if there are changes,” said the Yak, sitting erect. “I want the names of those involved in the dogfights, and I want Congress Member Pleshkov found as soon as possible-and I would like it done quietly.”

“I understand,” said Rostnikov, noting that the Yak did not seem particularly interested in the naked mobster found in the river.

“I’m sure you do,” said the Yak, looking up. “If you have more to report, you may sit. If not. .”

“The director of the forensics laboratory may be coming to you with a complaint about my turning his men away from a crime scene this morning,” said Rostnikov.

“The corpse in the river?”

“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “I have Paulinin examining the body.”

“Good,” said Yaklovev. “I will take care of it with an apology and by being my usual charming self. Anything else?”

“No,” said Rostnikov, and the Yak resumed the reading of a thick report before him, a clear sign of dismissal.

Rostnikov left the office, nodded at Pankov, and went to the stairs.

The relationship between Porfiry Petrovich and Director Yaklovev was completely symbiotic and beneficial to both men, though the Yak did not like Rostnikov and Rostnikov did not like the Yak. However, both men trusted each other and knew that, to a great degree, their futures depended on that trust. The Yak was corrupt but he was a man of his word, and Rostnikov was reasonably confident that when the time inevitably came that the director felt he had to betray his chief inspector, the Yak would inform Rostnikov that it was coming.

Instead of going back to his office, Rostnikov went down four flights. The last two flights were underground. There was no one in the corridor, so Rostnikov leaned against the wall, taking all of his weight on his good leg. Four flights down had resulted in a slight soreness where the artificial leg connected to Rostnikov’s leg just below the knee.

“Leg,” he said. “We have been through far worse. It is time to stop grieving over the loss of an old friend who had to be dragged around like a child’s wagon. Ah, that’s better.”

Rostnikov opened the door to Paulinin’s laboratory and entered to find Emil Karpo watching Paulinin carefully examine the white body, which lay upon the table. The body had been cut from neck to groin and peeled open, exposing the organs, only one of which Paulinin had yet removed. The scientist was slicing the corpse’s liver on what looked like a restaurant meat slicer.

“Kofyeh, coffee?” asked Paulinin, white surgical gloves reddened with blood.

“I thank you, but I have just had several cups,” said Rostnikov.

“Nyet spahssebah, no, thank you,” said Karpo.

Paulinin’s eyes didn’t leave the mechanism, which slid back and forth with a smooth metallic sound. Rostnikov and Karpo stood silently watching till Paulinin had had enough and turned off the machine. He turned to Rostnikov, eyes wide, smile small, and said,

“New toy, the slicer. You know what a pathology slicer costs?

Never mind. You can’t get one even if you have the money. But this is better. I got it for some of those new rubles. I can’t be bothered keeping up with what they are worth. At least the new ones are bright. Where was. . oh, the slicer was purchased from a restaurant, the Cosmos on Gorky Street. It was cheap and it works better than the surgical ones I’ve seen. It slices just as thin and if you keep the blade sharp, as I do, there is no tissue and little cell damage.”

“Interesting,” said Karpo.

“Yes, and had you given the corpse to the bumblers who pass themselves off as pathologists, they would have concluded that our dead friend was told to strip, shot to death in the middle of the night on the riverbank, and shoved into the water.”

“He wasn’t?” asked Rostnikov, knowing that the man wanted, needed appreciation.

“He was not,” said Paulinin, rising and putting his right hand on the shoulder of the corpse. “Our friend drowned. He is a quite amazing creature. He was shot three times, any wound of which would have caused his death in a short time, except the wound to the head. That went around the cranium and lodged at the back of his brain. Relatively little damage. His lungs were filled with water, but not water from the Moscow River. No, the water in his lungs is clean and filled with chlorine. He died in a swimming pool after he was shot. See these bruises on his rear and back? Whoever did this was very strong, or it was more than one person. Our friend here weighed about two hundred and forty-eight pounds. He was dead weight and in a pool would be even more of a dead load.”

Paulinin raised the body so that the two detectives could see.

“Those occurred after death. Whoever pulled him from the pool put him in some kind of vehicle-a cart, a wheelbarrow-something wooden and painted white. There are splinters, small but de-tectable. The bruises came during transport of our friend. And though the traces are almost infinitesimally small, when he was transported he was covered by something made of blue terry cloth, probably an oversized bath towel. Pieces of the material are in the blood and around the edges of the gunshot wounds. There was probably a lot more, but the corpse was in the river for seven or eight hours before we pulled him out. He died last night, probably late. Next. .”

Paulinin released the corpse, which slumped back with a thump, removed his gloves with a snap and threw them into an almost full garbage can.

“Next,” he said, “the bullets. Perhaps the most interesting part of what appears to be a puzzle. They are forty-four caliber, fired from a well-preserved but very old weapon, which suggests. .?”

“That he was probably not shot by a Mafia member, or that, if he was, the use of such a weapon carries some specific meaning,”

said Rostnikov.

“Precisely,” said Paulinin, looking down at the face of the corpse. “Now you must leave. I have to talk with our friend’s liver and other organs. I’ll tell you more soon.”

Rostnikov and Karpo went into the empty corridor and let the heavy door to Paulinin’s laboratory slam shut.

“The dead man is Valentin Lashkovich,” said Karpo. “He is known as Shtopahr-‘Corkscrew’-a simple-minded killer for the Tatar Mafia. He is suspected of at least nine murders, but has been arrested for only one and released when the judge said there wasn’t sufficient evidence.”

“But there was?”

“Yes,” said Karpo.

“So, many people may have wanted Lashkovich dead?”

“Many,” said Karpo. “The obvious conclusion, were it not for the bullets used to kill him, is that he was killed as part of an on-going war between the Tatars and the Chechins. Three others, two Chechins and one Tatar, one shot in a hotel health club, one in a hotel exercise room, and one in a hotel swimming pool.”

Rostnikov knew this but listened attentively and then said, “And the weapon used?”

“The bullets were neither examined nor kept,” said Karpo. “The deaths were ruled as casualties of a Mafia dispute-a dispute, I wish to add, that may well grow larger when the Tatars learn of this murder. If they do not already know.”

“So, Lashkovich was murdered in a swimming pool,” said Rostnikov. “But why was his body thrown in the river?”

“To disassociate the crime from yet another hotel health facil-ity,” said Karpo.

“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “Which suggests?”

“That the killer is somehow associated with hotel health clubs.”

“Or that such a location has special meaning.”

“And then there is the question of why such an old weapon was used. Definitely not a Mafia gun of choice.”

“It is intriguing, Emil Karpo.”

“The Tatars will ask for the body,” said Karpo.

“And when Paulinin is finished with it, they will have it. And you and I, Emil, will attend the funeral.”

Karpo nodded.

“Meanwhile, find out where Lashkovich lived, and swam,” said Rostnikov. “You know what to do. I’ll talk to. . who is the leader of the Tatars?”

“Casmir Chenko,” said Karpo. “He is known as the Glahz-the Eye. He wears a patch to cover the open socket where a rival gang leader destroyed the eye with his thumb when Chenko was still a young man. The rival is now blind and hiding in Estonia.”

“Perhaps you should see Chenko and I should find out about Lashkovich?”

“I believe you would deal with Chenko much more professionally than I,” said Karpo.

Rostnikov nodded. Since the death of Mathilde Verson, shot to pieces in the crossfire of two Mafias, Karpo had found a new mission in his life: the eventual destruction of all the Mafias in Russia. It was a task he well knew might not be accomplished till years after he was dead, if ever.

“Where do you suggest I look for Casmir Chenko?” asked Rostnikov.

“The Leningradskaya Hotel,” said Karpo. “Leave a message at the desk. I do not know where he actually resides, but many of his people live there and go to the hotel casino. If you wish, I will discover where he lives. It may take me several days.”

“That won’t be necessary. At least not yet. Find the hotel or health club, Emil Karpo.”

There was nothing more to say. Both men were well aware that finding a solution to the murders was crucial to the avoidance of a bloody war on the streets of Moscow. Of course, they might well discover that these murders were but the first step before the coming battle. As much as such a battle might make a slight dent in the gang population of Moscow, it might take a few, or perhaps more than a few, innocents in addition.

Rostnikov made his way slowly back to his office while Karpo went in search of Lashkovich. When he got to the office, Rostnikov removed his leg, put it on his desk, and reached for his phone.

“My twelve-year-old daughter can make a better corner kick than that,” Oleg Kisolev shouted.

Kisolev was a compact man wearing a gray sweatshirt and gray shorts. Kisolev had powerful legs and thighs and a look on his flat face, dominated by an often-broken nose, that suggested he was not a particularly brilliant human specimen. It was an unfair conclusion, only partially supported by the conversation that was taking place.

“Scheplev,” Kisolev shouted. “Go on the other field and kick one hundred corner kicks. Pushnik, go with him in the goal.”

The other players paid little attention when Scheplev and Pushnik walked off toward the other field. Two other players sitting on the sideline put on blue shirts and replaced the departing players.

“Play,” shouted Kisolev, blowing his whistle.

The red-shirted team took the ball downfield.

Iosef Rostnikov and Akardy Zelach had introduced themselves and stood watching and waiting while Kisolev ignored them.

“Coach Kisolev,” Iosef said gently to the coach, who was concentrating on the weaknesses of his players.

“Menchelev,” he shouted in exasperation, “you’re too far upfield.

Their line will run right past you. Back up.” Kisolev shook his head. “Menchelev is a great fullback, but he thinks he can run like a track star. I-”

“We must talk to you now,” said Iosef.

Kisolev motioned Menchelev back even farther. Iosef reached over and grabbed the whistle Kisolev was about to blow. The whistle was on a cord around the coach’s neck. Iosef tugged at the whistle and Kisolev turned.

“What the hell you think you’re doing, you son-of-a-bitch bastard?” said Kisolev, pulling the whistle from Iosef ’s hand. Red faced, he clenched his fists and looked into Iosef ’s eyes.

Iosef smiled and said, “I suggest you smile and we talk, or you might well be spending a few days in a local police lockup. Do you know what they are like? No? Well, you don’t want to know.”

Kisolev looked at Zelach, who had no expression on his face, though his left eye seemed to be slightly glazed over.

“I have important friends,” said Kisolev.

“You have one important friend,” said Iosef. “And we’re looking for him. Yevgeny Pleshkov.”

Kisolev turned to the field, blew his whistle, and shouted,

“Break. Get some vahdi, water. Don’t leave the area.”

“Thank you,” said Iosef.

“If you weren’t a policeman, I’d. .”

“After we talk,” Iosef said, “I’ll be happy to go behind the stands and give you the opportunity.”

Kisolev looked at the young man, who was only slightly taller than he, and saw a new smile that made it quite clear that the good-looking policeman was not only unafraid but actually welcomed a chance at him. Kisolev caved.

“What do you want?”

“Yevgeny Pleshkov.”

“I don’t know where he is if not at home. He might be at his dacha.”

“He is neither there nor at his apartment in the city,” said Iosef.

“Then I can be of no help to you,” said Kisolev.

Zelach had wandered over to a cluster of four soccer balls a few feet away and had begun dribbling while Iosef and the coach continued to talk.

“Think. Where might we find him? Where might he be? Where does he go?”

“Who knows?” said Kisolev with a shrug and a scratching of his head of ample dark hair.

“You know,” said Iosef. “Where does he go when he drinks?

How do we locate Yulia Yalutsak?”

“Yalutshkin,” Kisolev corrected.

“And where might we find her? It would be in your best interest for us to find him. He needs to be found soon.”

Kisolev looked down in thought and then said, “Why soon?”

“His political presence is needed,” said Iosef. “An important vote is coming up in the congress and he is needed for that and the debate that precedes it. His future may depend upon appearing, taking positions, and voting on several crucial issues.”

“Yevgeny, Yevgeny,” Kisolev said, sighing as he looked across the soccer field at his players who were lounging on the grass. “I love Yevgeny and we have been friends since we were children and I take great pride in that friendship, but no one can stop these. . these benders. These lost weekends.”

“Can you help us find him?” asked Iosef, trying not to sound impatient.

“He hasn’t come to me,” said Kisolev, “but I can tell you where to find Yulia Yalutshkin. Almost every night at the Casino Royal.

When he is like this, you are right, he goes to her. I don’t like her.

I’ve told Yevgeny to stay away from her. She’s a whore. She gets picked up by Chinese, Mafia, sometimes Americans and Germans, mostly Germans. She probably has diseases.”

“The Casino Royal,” Iosef repeated patiently.

“Yes, a gambling palace now, but it was once a real palace where the czar stayed when he went to the horse races. I’m not a royalist.

I’m not a Communist and I don’t like this new democracy and I don’t care if you know it. There were times and there are places that are part of our history.”

“History changes,” said Iosef.

Kisolev shook his head and looked at his whistle for an answer.

“History changes,” he agreed. “Don’t go to the Royal before midnight. She won’t be there.”

“Thanks,” said Iosef.

“As I said, Yevgeny is my friend. I don’t have many friends. I’m a tyrant as a coach and it carries over into my private life. I get paid to win. It is simple. To win I must be a tyrant. Tyrants have few friends and-”

The solid impact of a shoe against a soccer ball made both men turn and look at Zelach, whose left foot was still out following his kick. The ball was sailing high into the air and across the width of the field. It came down in the arms of one of the lounging players. The players looked across at Zelach and applauded.

“Can you kick like that often?” asked Kisolev.

Zelach nodded.

“Can you corner kick?”

Zelach shrugged and looked at Iosef, who shrugged back.

“Take a ball,” said Kisolev. “Go. . you prefer the right or left?”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Zelach.

“You kick like that with either foot?” asked Kisolev.

“Yes,” said Zelach, looking across at the players sitting on the grass.

“Please, go take a corner kick.”

“It’s all right,” said Iosef, interested by this unforeseen side of the man known derisively at Petrovka as “the Slouch.”

Zelach dribbled a ball slowly to the nearest corner of the field and placed the ball in the small chalked-in space for the corner kick. He stepped back five or six paces and took three long strides to the ball. He kicked the ball, which went soaring up in the air about twenty feet from the ground and came down about five yards in front of the goal. Again the lounging players applauded.

“Who do you play for?” asked Kisolev.

“No one,” said Zelach. “I’m a police officer.”

“I know that, but don’t you play for some club?”

“No.”

“Where did you learn to kick like that?”

“I don’t. . when I was a boy, I practiced, alone. Many hours. I still go out in the park and kick. It makes me feel. . I don’t know.”

“Would you like to play, professionally?” asked Kisolev. “I mean have a tryout, maybe play for one of our park teams for a while.

You could do it and be a police officer. We have firemen, police, even one of the mayor’s staff.”

Zelach shook his head.

“Why?” asked Kisolev. “You’ll be paid.”

“I don’t play,” said Zelach. “I just kick the ball alone. And I have a bad back and my left eye is. . spahssebah, thank you, no.”

The bad back and permanently injured left eye were the result of the attack on Zelach during a stakeout with Sasha Tkach. While Sasha was being seduced by a female member of the gang, Zelach had been beaten by three of the gang of computer thieves. Zelach had spent weeks in the hospital, and months recuperating.

“Well,” said Kisolev. “I guess you’re a little old for this anyway, but your kick is powerful, beautiful.”

“Thank you,” said Akardy Zelach sheepishly.

Iosef motioned for Zelach to follow him and the two men started to move away. Kisolev blew his whistle and the team members began to make their way back onto the field.

“If Pleshkov contacts you,” said Iosef, “call me at Petrovka. Office of Special Investigation. Iosef Rostnikov.”

“No,” said Kisolev. “I will talk to Yevgeny, try to get him sober, try to get him home, ask him to call you, but I cannot afford to lose my best friend by betraying him.”

“I’m sorry about-” Iosef began, but Kisolev waved him off.

“I probably deserved it,” he said. With that, Kisolev trotted onto the field toward his waiting team.

“You have hidden talents,” said Iosef as the two investigators walked out of the stadium. “Are there other things you can do, about which I know nothing? Throw a javelin, wrestle?”

“No,” said Zelach.

“Would you mind sometime if I made a wager on your kicking skills?”

“I don’t know,” said Zelach uncomfortably.

“We’ll talk about it. We have to be at the Casino Royal at midnight. You might want to go home and take a nap later this afternoon.”

“I cannot nap,” said Zelach as they reached the street where a kiosk stood selling American hot dogs. There was a small line.

Iosef got in the line and Akardy Zelach joined him. “You kicked that first ball fifty yards,” said Iosef.

“Perhaps,” said Zelach.

Iosef stood silently considering some way of capitalizing on the talent of the man at his side.

Sasha’s head was a hot balloon of searing hangover pain. His stomach threatened nausea. There was no place he wanted to be.

He didn’t want to be lying down in the hotel room, where the ceiling insisted on going back and forth like a light boat on the water.

Even if he could, he didn’t want to go home to his wife, children, and mother, where he would get no rest. And, besides, he had been ordered not to go home. He didn’t want a hot shower. He didn’t want to eat. All he wanted to do was sit alone in a darkened room and moan.

Instead, he leaned back confidently in the antique wooden-armed chair and accepted a cup of strong coffee from Illya Skatesholkov.

They were in a large, expensive, and tastefully decorated office in Zjuzino on Khaovka not far from the Church of Boris and Gleb.

The office was on the second floor of a line of high rises built in the 1950s. This series of high rises was better maintained than most.

Sasha had been called and then picked up at the hotel by a white American Lincoln limousine. The driver had not spoken, and Sasha, who was supposed to be a Ukrainian, looked out at the miles of apartments, wasteland, and remaining memories of small villages. Down many of the roads, Sasha knew, were communities of dachas, many old and crumbling, some being renovated right down to Jacuzzis and swimming pools, which their owners could use only a month or two each year.

More than ninety percent of the people of Moscow live beyond the Outer Ring Circle. Tourists and visiting businessmen seldom go beyond the Ring, and even those who come frequently have no idea of how most Muscovites live. They live not well. Amid oases of parks, athletic stadiums, restored churches, and even a steeple-chase race course are miles of apartment buildings from whose windows hang laundry and in whose corridors children steal from children, adults fight over water and inches of space, and families depressed by lack of food and money battle over meaningless slights.

Sometimes these conflicts led to serious injury or even death.

On more than one occasion, if the identity of the one who committed the crime was not immediately obvious to the uniformed police who were first on the scene, Sasha had been part of an investigation.

A moment of near panic. What if someone in this building recognized him, approached him? This fear was a familiar one, one that came whenever Sasha went undercover, which was frequently.

He had nightmares about being exposed, pointed at by a child or a woman carrying a baby, or by an old man. The person pointed to him and screamed his name and he tried to run, with some deadly presence close behind. He would pass people, young, old, and they would point at him and scream. Once, he had been pointed out in a dream by an obviously blind young man.

Sasha came out of the state of panic, hoping it had not been noticed. The pain of the hangover, that was what caused this weakness, that and. . He turned his attention back to the bleak miles of apartment buildings.

Some of these complexes were in decay. Some were reasonably well maintained by residents determined to retain dignity if not great hope. Sasha had been in buildings like this. He knew.

And now he sat in a ground-floor apartment which had been converted into period luxury, right down to expensive wallpaper.

Sasha felt as if he had walked through a door into another century.

He sat with Illya Skatesholkov and Boris Osipov drinking coffee and discussing the events of the previous night. Both Boris and Illya, though they tried not to show it, were noticeably nervous.

“So,” said Boris, “what did you think of our little arena?”

Sasha looked around and said, “Impressive.”

Boris let out a mirthless laugh and said, “Not the office. The dog ring. Last night.”

“Impressive also,” said Sasha, drinking some coffee. The pain in his head was nearly unbearable, and he feared his nausea would force him to ask for the rest room. He fought the nausea and affected a small, knowing smile. The Yak had approved the purchase of three suits, complete with silk shirts, ties, and shoes. He was wearing the second of the suits. Elena was taking care of having the one he wore yesterday cleaned, a task she clearly felt should be his, but when the call had come she accepted the responsibility with minimal reluctance.

“And Tatyana?” asked Illya.

“Impressive,” Sasha repeated, taking another sip of his very good coffee.

So that was her name. Oh, he had been drunk. As his mother, Lydia, would say, remembering her long-dead husband, he had been “drunk as a cross-eyed cossack.” It had been Sasha’s impres-sion since first hearing the expression that he had seen few cossacks and none that he could recall having crossed eyes.

“Versatile,” said Illya.

“Yes,” Sasha agreed, preferring not to discuss the woman who had led him off to a room after the dogfight. He had been drunk, but she had been beautiful and talented. She enjoyed her work and so had Sasha.

His two hosts smiled.

“We have made some inquiries about you and your Kiev operation,” said Boris.

Sasha noted that neither of the two men moved behind the huge cherrywood desk, impressive due to its size and ornate legs and because there was nothing on its polished surface, not even a telephone. Both of his escorts sat in chairs identical to the one in which Sasha sat back with his legs folded. The chair behind the desk, Sasha assumed, was reserved for the person for whom his hosts worked. “Chair” was hardly the word for it. It, like the desk, was of another century. The very high-backed chair, with each dark wood arm coming forward to clasp a wooden ball, looked as if it belonged in a museum.

“And?” asked Sasha, sipping carefully to avoid spilling on his perfectly pressed suit.

“We are informed that you have a growing operation,” said Boris, “not equal to ours, but growing rapidly.”

Sasha nodded.

“From what I have seen of your operation,” said Sasha, “I would say that mine is already equal to yours.”

“Let’s not bicker about size,” said Illya. “It is sufficient that you have a prospering operation. We would like to discuss a proposal, a proposal that would make your operation part of our operation, a proposal that would certainly double or even triple your earn-ings, a proposal that would make you part of an international syndicate growing each week. We would bring some of our dogs to Kiev. You would bring some of your dogs to Moscow. We would provide advice from our dog trainers. We would locate and draw bettors, high-stakes bettors, to your operation.”

“I am doing well on my own,” said Sasha.

“You could be doing better with us,” said Boris.

“I’ll consider it,” said Sasha. “I’ll have to talk to some of my people.”

“Of course,” said Boris. “We believe our arguments can be very persuasive.”

Boris spoke with a friendly smile but Sasha recognized the threat, as he was intended to do. “I’m sure,” Sasha said. “I have some questions about the details of this merger.”

“Ask your questions and we will come back to you with answers,” said Illya, leaning forward, hands clasped together.

“I would prefer to ask my questions and get my answers from your boss,” Sasha said, trying to duplicate the way Jean Paul Bel-mondo had said nearly the same thing in an old French movie Sasha had recently seen on the television.

“Perhaps,” said Boris. “We will see. Meanwhile, you have a dog you wish to enter into our fights to show us the quality of your kennel?”

“A pit bull,” said Sasha. “If the effort proves profitable, he can fight again and we can begin our negotiations with my bringing more dogs.”

“Your animal is good?” asked Illya.

“My dog will win,” said Sasha with a smile and a tone of confidence he did not feel. He was speaking from information provided by an older uniformed MVD officer named Mishka, who had tended and overseen the training of the dogs of Petrovka for a quarter of a century. Mishka had dogs that could locate drugs, seek out hiding fugitives, and attack when signaled to do so.

Mishka had assured Elena and Sasha that Tchaikovsky, the pit bull, would kill any human or animal on command. Mishka was particularly proud of Tchaikovsky, who had been named thus because the famous composer had lived in Mishka’s hometown of Klin, an hour northwest of Moscow on the old Leningrad Highway.

The beagle-faced Mishka had warned the two young officers that they were to be very careful with Tchaikovsky.

The white pit bull with black spots had seemed docile enough when Mishka had taken him from his pen, petting him and talking softly to the dog, even nuzzling the animal with his head.

Tchaikovsky had wagged his tail.

“Don’t be deceived,” Mishka had said as he petted the animal.

“Our Tchaikovsky can, on command or on his own if provoked, or even for no reason, attack and sink his teeth into an antagonist with deadly and determined ferocity. Getting Tchaikovsky to release his grip can be very difficult, and if it is a death grip, it can be nearly impossible until the victim is dead.”

“That is very reassuring,” Sasha had said, and Mishka, recognizing no irony in the comment, had responded:

“Yes.”

Sasha was not particularly confident about placing his safety in the jaws of a pit bull. These were dangerous men. If the pit bull didn’t do well, Sasha might be in very serious trouble.

Illya and Boris, a bit clumsily, questioned Sasha, whom they knew as Dmitri Kolk, about Kiev. Sasha had casually responded using his wife, Maya’s, history in Kiev as his own. In spite of the desire to get back to the hotel room, turn off the lights, and close the drapes, he chatted, drank, accepted some Italian biscotti, which he normally liked but which now caused a renewed wave of queasi-ness, and made himself as amiable as possible.

“It is getting a bit late and you will want to prepare your dog,”

said Boris, standing.

“Yes,” said Sasha, taking a final bite of biscotti and saying, “delicious.”

“Thank you,” said Illya. “Our driver will take you back to the hotel.”

“Good,” said Sasha, straightening his slacks and adjusting his blue silk paisley tie. “And tomorrow I would like to discuss the proposed operational merger with your boss.”

“I think that can be arranged,” said Boris. “But tonight, your dog fights. He has a name?”

“Tchaikovsky,” said Sasha.

Boris and Illya smiled.

“Amusing,” said Boris.

“Disarming,” said Sasha.

The two men ushered Sasha to the entrance to the building. Two women in their forties, carrying shopping bags, stepped aside to let the three men pass. The Lincoln was waiting and the driver was behind the wheel. There was no doubt that someone had been listening to the conversation in the office, that someone had probably been watching; otherwise, what was the point of driving all the way out here?

“One last question,” said Boris. “How well do you know the woman you are with?”

“Lyuba Polikarpova?” asked Sasha.

“Yes,” said Boris.

“She’s Russian,” Sasha said casually, though he was sensing warning signals. “I picked her up last time I came to Moscow for some fun and called her when I returned here on Tuesday. She’s a whore, but an educated one who asks no questions, looks good, and is very accommodating. Why do you ask?”

“Caution,” said Boris with a smile Sasha did not like. “Just being careful.”

“Good,” said Sasha. “I like working with people who are careful.”

The three men shook hands and Sasha got into the Lincoln, which drove off. Boris and Illya went back into the building to the office. Behind the desk sat a young man, younger than Sasha. He was dressed in dark slacks, a fresh white dress shirt, and a pullover black cashmere sweater. The young man had a round, pink face with a thin white scar about two inches long running in a straight line directly under his nose. His hair was dark and recently cut, and if one was close enough, the musky smell of expensive aftershave was faint but evident.

His name was Peter Nimitsov. His nickname, never spoken in his company if one wanted to survive the encounter intact, was

“Baby Face.” He was twenty-seven years old and had been born in the apartment building in which he now sat. He had formed a gang in the complex of crumbling concrete high rises when he was fourteen and the Soviet Union and Communism had begun to die.

When he was seventeen, the gang had taken over these apartment buildings and extended their influence to other complexes, eliminating competition and making deals with other gangs. When he was strong enough, Peter Nimitsov had begun to move his operation inside the Outer Ring Circle. In the course of his rise, Nimitsov had murdered, suffered his white scar, and grown powerful enough to have his Zjuzino Mafia feared or respected by even the largest and most ruthless of the other Mafias of Moscow.

Peter kept a very low profile. His goal was power and wealth, not infamy, but power and wealth were a means to an end. He maintained a large suite at the National Hotel, but he lived in a luxuri-ous apartment adjoining the office in which he now sat. The apartment, like the office, was decorated in antiques of the Russian czars. Some had cost Nimitsov a great deal of money. Others had cost people their health or, in the case of one stubborn thief, a life.

Peter Nimitsov shared his wealth with his mother, father, sister, various relatives, and the initial members of his teenage gang, who formed the inner circle of those loyal to him.

Boris and Illya were front men, inner-circle Muscovites, hired bureaucrats who had held middle-level government jobs and lived on their meager salaries, bribes, and corruption before the fall of the system. The two men had connections, knew where skeletons were buried, and were invaluable to Peter. Both men were old enough to be their boss’s father, though neither had paternal feelings for the young baby-faced man behind the desk. They had seen him suddenly explode because of a lie told, a remark made. They had seen him draw a gun and begin to fire wildly at a member of his gang who had told a minor lie: Peter had begun to shoot, missing the man who had lied but killing another who had gone flat on the floor and taken a ricocheting bullet to the head. Peter had fired till he ran out of bullets. In addition to the dead man on the floor, Peter had shot one of his own cousins in the arm. The man who had lied had stood with his back to the door, hyperventilating, waiting for Peter to reload or order his death.

Instead, Peter Nimitsov had said, “Don’t lie to me again,” and let the man live.

Peter’s mother had told her friends that her son had always been a bit “emotional.” She did not share their belief that her son was quite mad, had inherited some disease of the mind from her father and grandfather, both of whom had died young with “brain ill-ness.” Peter’s mother was very proud of her son. Her father had swept up scraps of imitation leather in a shoe factory. Her grandfather had been a very unsuccessful thief who, till the day he died, bragged about his one supposed triumph, the stealing of a not-very-young horse from the Moscow stable of Czar Nicholas II.

Peter had listened to the conversation with Sasha from the next room. Now he sat thinking about it, running a finger gently over the ridge of his scar and biting his lower lip, deep in thought. “I don’t like him,” Peter finally said to the two men who stood before his desk.

This surprised neither Boris nor Illya, since Peter Nimitsov liked practically no one. Peter was into a wide variety of criminal activity centered mostly within twenty miles of where he now sat. But an increasing portion of his income was now coming from inside the Outer Ring Circle. Gambling, drugs, extortion, car theft were all sources of income-the dogfights were but a small part of Nimitsov’s enterprise. But dogs were Peter’s passion. All the czars had owned dogs, regal dogs, dogs bred especially for the czar. But Peter was interested not in how his dogs looked but how efficiently and with what style they killed.

Now, international expansion was a distinct possibility, and with it might well come the next step in his ambition. He had witnessed the deaths of many dogs, had begun as a boy, while engaging in his other criminal activities, to stage fights between stray dogs, taking bets, making money. But it was the fights themselves that excited the young man with the baby face. Women, drugs, gun battles did not mean anything to Peter, but the sight of two dogs trying to kill each other aroused his passion and even gave him erections that had to be satisfied immediately after the battle, with the closest prostitute in his employ.

“You think he is all right?” asked Peter, looking at the two men.

Peter’s eyes were blue, very blue.

Neither man wanted to commit himself, especially since their leader had expressed a reservation about the cocky young Ukrainian. If Boris or Illya proved to be wrong in their assessment, there was a good chance they would be found with their throats cut in a park or on a dark street, or in this very office. Peter was brilliant.

Peter was bold. Peter was leading them to great wealth, but Peter was clearly growing more mad each day. Neither man wanted to commit himself, but Peter was giving them no choice.

“I think he should be watched carefully,” said Illya.

“Watched carefully,” said Nimitsov, shaking his head. “I have already seen to that, but that wasn’t what I asked you. What did I ask you?”

“If Dmitri Kolk could be trusted,” said Illya, looking for help to Boris, who gave him none. Illya would have dearly loved to say that he did not know if the Ukrainian could be trusted, but Peter definitely did not want evasion. “I don’t trust him,” said Illya.

“Boris?”

“I don’t trust him either.”

“So,” said Peter. “We watch him. We do not let him out of sight.

He could be the police or State Security. He could simply be someone dishonest who plans to betray us. The czars lived on constant alert, except for the last Nicholas. That state of alert kept them alive, and those who would betray them dead. The woman?” Peter asked.

“Morishkov is almost certain that he has seen her before,” said Illya, on safer ground. “He still thinks she may be a police officer.”

“And Kolk doesn’t know it?” asked Peter, looking at Boris.

“I don’t think so,” said Boris. “I think she approached him, that-if she is a police officer-she wanted to get close to him to penetrate his operation.”

Peter thought for a while and then said, “If she is a spy, it troubles me that this Kolk from Kiev doesn’t know it. Follow her. Find what you can about her. Take her picture and show it around. Show it to our people in State Security. Show Kolk’s picture too. Meanwhile, we watch and we see how good a dog his Tchaikovsky is. I want Kolk’s dog to fight Bronson tomorrow if he wins tonight.”

“We won’t get any odds with Bronson fighting an unknown dog,” said Boris.

Bronson, a massive, shaggy, uncontrollable street stray, had killed nine opponents with a mad fury and a bloodthirst. After each battle, Bronson, who Peter had named for the American film star, had to be pulled off the dead dog he continued to bite. On more than one occasion, Bronson had turned on those trying to pull him off. One man had lost a finger. Several others had needed medical attention and numerous stitches.

“If Kolk’s dog wins tonight, I want to see Bronson tear this Kolk’s animal to pieces tomorrow,” said Peter. “I want Kolk humbled and manageable, very manageable.”