“No,” said the woman with her head bowed, wearing a dark veil to cover her eyes and hide her face.
Fortunately, the veil was appropriate since it was a funeral and other women present also had their faces covered.
The crowd around the grave site was large and dangerous. Rostnikov had hoped but not expected that it might rain, which might cut the burial short and lessen the possibility of conflict in the cemetery. But the morning was pleasantly cool, and the sky, while cloudy, gave no sign of an immediate shower.
To the right of the temporary headstone-a ten-foot dark stone with a life-size image of Lashkovich in a leather jacket was being prepared-gathered the one-eyed Casmir Chenko and his Tatar Mafia. To the right stood Shatalov and the Chechin Mafia. Both gangs were dressed in dark suits. Four uniformed policemen from the special gang force stood a discreet distance away at the foot of the grave where the casket was now being lowered. The police were armed with automatic weapons, which two of them had put aside before the burial service began so they could search the incoming members of the two Mafias for weapons. They had found none.
This section of the cemetery was a ghostly army of tall, black gravestones etched with the likelinesses of dead young men in leather who looked down like an army of the damned.
“You are certain,” said Rostnikov, who stood on one side of the veiled woman. Emil Karpo stood on the other.
“The man who was with Mr. Lashkovich is not here,” Raisa Munyakinova said. “I would like to leave.”
“Just a while longer,” Porfiry Petrovich said gently.
The service was being conducted by a tall man somewhere in his fifties. He wore a white gown and, before the lowering of the casket began, he had spoken in an unfamiliar language, his deep voice filled with emotion.
“He said,” Karpo whispered, “that a good man was being buried today, a man who treated his elders with respect, his wife and children with love, and his country, Tataria, with pride. We shall miss him.”
Rostnikov knew that the man being lowered into the ground must have treated his elders, since they included Casmir Chenko, with respect because he had little choice. Lashkovich, however, had abandoned his wife and teenage son five years earlier and never sent them a penny. The widow lived in Kazan, five hundred miles from Moscow, in what had been declared the Tatar capital. The widow lived by working in a belt factory. She was not present. As for his patriotism, a quick search had revealed that the dead man had paid no taxes. It might also be considered a less than chauvinistic act to murder citizens, as the dead man had made a career of doing.
“Look again, Raisa Munyakinova, please,” said Rostnikov, well under the voice of the man in the white gown who shifted in Russian to an almost tearful prayer.
“May God take the soul of this good man into his arms. May he receive in heaven all that he deserves for a life well spent in devotion and toil.”
“Amen to that,” said Rostnikov.
“I want to go now,” Raisa said. “I’m tired. I’m afraid.”
“One last look,” said Rostnikov, incredibly uncomfortable and trying to bear the brunt of the weight of his body with his good right leg, using the left one to simply maintain his balance.
She lifted her veil just enough to see out from under it and scanned the crowd once again.
“No,” she said, letting the veil drop. “He is not here. I am sure.”
Raisa had worked a full shift and it had been a difficult one. The Carpathian Bathhouse was nowhere near as well-maintained as the hotel health club where she had worked the night before and where the Tatar had died. She had expected another cleaning woman, Olga Sachnova, but the other woman had simply not shown up.
There had been debris and wet towels. The sinks and toilets weren’t filthy but they were not clean. She had put in an extra hour, though she would never be paid for it. She did not wish to lose her job, and she could not possibly bring herself to leave any sign of dirt behind her.
From the bathhouse, she had caught a bus and made it to Petrovka at the time designated for her meeting with the pale detective named Karpo. She had passed the police building hundreds of times and heard tales about the dark bowels of the building. Raisa did not want to enter, but she could not refuse. The guard at the gate had taken her name and made a call. Moments later Karpo had appeared and led her into the building for a nearly two-hour examination of the photographs of not only Chechin gangsters, but Tatars, Afghan veteran Mafia members, and dozens of Georgians, Moslems, Ukrainians, Estonians, and Russians of all ages. Nothing.
The casket was now resting on the dirt bottom of the grave and three Tatars were shoveling soil over it. The man in the white gown made a motion with his raised hand and the burial was over.
Rostnikov and Karpo had not been surprised by the appearance of the Chechins at a Tatar burial. The code of dishonor adopted loosely from an amalgam of American gangster movies required such an appearance and the presentation of a large flowery wreath to lay on the grave.
Two Chechins in their twenties were standing back with the ready wreath and a signal from Shatalov.
The service was over but no one moved.
Two of the Tatar men, hands folded in front of them, and a woman headed straight for the two policemen and the veiled woman.
“Please, please, please, let’s leave now,” Raisa said, gripping Rostnikov’s hand.
Her grip of fear was surprisingly strong.
The Tatar contingent stopped directly in front of Raisa, and the woman, who was young and very pretty, with Asiatic features, looked at Raisa, whose head was bent forward in a fear she hoped looked like grief.
“My father, Casmir Chenko,” the young woman said, “wants to thank you for coming. The journey must have been difficult. Your son was a very good man and a loyal friend. You should be very proud of him.”
The young woman lifted her right hand slightly and one of the young Tatars stepped forward, a letter-sized brown envelope in his hand. He handed the envelope to the young woman and stood back.
“My father wants you to have this, a small token of his respect for your son.”
Raisa wanted to look at one of the policemen to determine if she should refuse the gift. She couldn’t do so. She took the envelope and nodded. The young girl stepped forward and gave Raisa a hug, whispering in her ear, “Whatever your son may have told you, do not share it with these policemen who brought you here.
Valentin would not have wished it.”
The young woman was adept at such whispered messages, and while the two policemen had not heard the words, they had heard the voice.
“You are one of us too,” said Chenko’s daughter, looking at Emil Karpo. “A relative?”
“No,” he said.
“You are a Tatar,” she said, looking into the ghostly face.
“I am a Russian,” Karpo said.
“Then you are a traitor,” she said.
Chenko’s daughter stepped away and the two young men followed her back toward the grave site, where the last of the dirt was being shoveled.
“What am I to do with this?” asked Raisa.
“Keep it,” said Rostnikov.
“It is evil money,” Raisa said.
“It is money,” said Rostnikov. “It can now be used to ease your life a bit. If you wish, give it to a worthy cause or someone more in need of it than you, if you can find such a person.”
“She said it was because my son is dead,” Raisa said.
“Consider it a mistake on their part which can benefit a woman who has to hold on to many jobs to live,” said Rostnikov. “These people do not do good things unless they have made a mistake.”
Raisa clutched the envelope as both policemen looked away from her toward the grave upon which the two Chechins with the massive floral wreath were advancing. From the other side of the grave three Tatars stepped forward and stood in a line.
The Chechins laid the wreath on the mound and stepped back.
Immediately, the three Tatars picked up the wreath and threw it in the direction of the gathered Chechins. The wreath did not sail because of its weight, but skidded on the grass and halted in front of Shatalov, who stepped forward and said loudly with a tone of mock disappointment, “Bad manners, One Eye.”
“Bad manners indeed, Irving,” said Chenko.
The mask of disappointment left Shatalov’s face and was replaced by a cold, threatening stare. Shatalov smiled, raised his right hand, and motioned as if to an army he wished to follow him into battle. One young man with something in his hand moved forward to the flower-covered grave and in the plot next to it plunged a stake bearing a small, neatly printed sign reading, VACANCY.
Even before they could read the sign, the Tatars, led by Casmir Chenko, had begun to advance. Shatalov’s men also stepped forward behind their leader.
The policemen with automatic weapons moved quickly between the two groups.
“Halt,” called the officer in charge, glancing at Rostnikov and Karpo for some direction.
The policeman had not really expected any disruption or confrontation. He had been told by his captain that rival gangs attend each others’ funerals all the time. The important thing was to dis-arm both sides before the burial and, if necessary, to fire between them.
The two sides did not halt. One of the policemen fired directly into the grave, sending up a flurry of flower petals. Rostnikov thought the fluttering colorful flowers dancing in the air looked quite beautiful. The gangs halted now and the Tatars looked angrily at the policeman who had fired into the grave of their just-buried comrade.
The situation was about to turn ugly, and the policeman in charge, who was no more than thirty, thought that he might be about to kill his first man and possibly to be killed or beaten.
“Take her away,” said Rostnikov to Emil Karpo.
Karpo took Raisa’s arm and led her, clutching her brown envelope, toward the entrance to the cemetery.
“Disperse,” the policeman said, trying to keep his voice steady.
The two gangs hesitated. Could they back off and retain their honor? Who was the primary enemy here? The gang on the other side of the grave or the armed policemen?
Rostnikov strode forward, allowing himself a bit more of a limp than was really necessary. It was not sympathy he sought, but time.
“I was up before dawn,” he said aloud, stepping alongside of the policemen. “Couldn’t sleep. Too much to think about, too many problems, and the intricacies of a particularly puzzling plumbing system haunted my dreams. I couldn’t make the system go away.
My dream eye followed rusting pipes moving ever faster in a maze I knew had no end.”
“You have a point to make, Rostnikov?” called Shatalov.
“I was up very early. I believe I said that. I put on my leg and my clothes and took the rare step of calling for a police car. It is a benefit of my position which I rarely use. But this time I wanted to get to this cemetery to watch the sun rise over the tombstones.”
Chenko, with his single eye, and Shatalov, with his two alcohol red eyes, glared at each other in anticipation of what was coming next.
“I did some cleaning up of weeds that had been planted here last night,” said Rostnikov. “I wish I had been here to witness this gardening, and I must say I’m surprised that the two sets of garden-ers did not run into each other. Perhaps the night was long for them as well as for me. In short, gentlemen, the weapons you hid under thin layers of dirt and leaves and in the low limbs of trees nearby are no longer there. I have had then taken away to be dis-tributed to the needy. There are petty thieves and armed robbers who can afford little more than small knives and ancient pistols.”
Rostnikov paused and stepped out of the way of the policemen’s guns.
“That was an attempt at mild humor,” said Rostnikov. “An attempt to diffuse a situation that will bring nothing good to any of you, should it go further.”
“You’ll give the order if we are to fire?” asked the policeman.
“If necessary,” said Rostnikov.
There was a full ten seconds of silence and then laughter. Shatalov was laughing. “You amuse me, Rostnikov,” he said, chuckling.
“I would like to be your friend. We could have good times.”
Rostnikov looked at Chenko, who was not smiling and who had nothing to say. He nodded his head and the young man who had met Rostnikov at the Pushkin statue stepped forward and kicked the “Vacancy” sign, which sailed a few yards and came to rest.
Chenko turned his back to the grave and with his daughter at his side strode away with the funeral contingent behind him.
Shatalov made a gesture with his hand and his group moved directly toward the gate beyond a line of trees. Then Shatalov, the big man with the bad skin at his side, broke away from the group and moved to Rostnikov, who was saying to the policeman in charge, “I suggest you hurry to the entrance to prevent any possible further encounter.”
“There will be no encounter,” said Shatalov. “I gave you my word that I would hold off killing the Tatar.”
“Hold off killing anyone,” said Rostnikov.
“I have other enemies. And we must defend ourselves.”
“And that is why you had weapons planted here?”
Shatalov shrugged. “Caution,” he said. “I live a life that requires constant caution.”
“Yet you eat at public pizza bars.”
Shatalov shook his head. “I am inconsistent, I know,” he said.
“Knowing one should do a thing and actually doing it requires a battle between logic and emotion.”
“You are a philosopher,” said Rostnikov.
“And an actor,” Shatalov added. “It is necessary in my work.
Chenko plays the wise old man of dignity. He is more cautious than I, but he has no dignity. People in our profession deserve no dignity and I don’t pretend to have it.”
“And,” said Rostnikov, “what part do you play?”
“The explosive, good-humored man who enjoys his ill-gotten gains,” said Shatalov. “Did you like that little gesture of mine?
Where I raised my hand just a little and waved my finger slightly to dismiss my people? Very understated. Very dramatic. I think I saw Anthony Quinn do it once.”
“Very dramatic,” said Rostnikov. “Do you believe in reincarnation, Shatalov?”
“No.”
“Let me tell you a story,” said Rostnikov. “An old Hindu tale I read not long ago.”
“I have time,” said Shatalov with a smile.
“Good,” said Rostnikov, ignoring the entourage that now stood back, waiting for their leader. “It seems an emperor, a very powerful emperor, decided to have built for himself the biggest monument in the history of the world. The plans were laid out for him, and he was about to order that the monument be made even larger.
Suddenly at his side there appeared a very small boy who told the emperor that he was the earthly manifestation of a humble god.”
“Very interesting,” said Shatalov. “Perhaps you could be a bit faster. I think it will soon rain.”
“It has seemed likely to rain for several days,” said Rostnikov, looking up at the clouds. “The god said, ‘behold.’ They frequently say ‘behold’ in Hindu mythology. It helps establish the tale as being from another time and place. Well, the god raised his hand and into the huge marble room in which they stood marched rows and rows of beetles, all the same, several hundred in each row, in perfect order. They marched across the floor, their millions of tiny feet scratching the marble, silent alone, loud when together. ‘What do you see?’ asked the god.
“ ‘Beetles,’ said the emperor.
“ ‘Each of these beetles was once an emperor even more powerful than you,’ said the god.”
Rostnikov stopped.
“Well,” said Shatalov. “What next?”
“Nothing,” said Porfiry Petrovich. “That is the end. When first I read this story, Shatalov, I admit to you that it frightened me just a bit. Well, more than a bit. Is life so meaningless?”
“It’s just a myth,” said Shatalov. “Policeman, you are mad.”
“After a few weeks of being afraid to sleep,” said Rostnikov softly, ignoring the gangster’s comment, “I suddenly felt relieved.
That I might be insignificant is not to be feared but embraced. It frees us in this life. It demands that we make our own meaning, that we are not above the morality that we must create if life is to have any meaning.”
“Now I know you are crazy, Rostnikov.”
“And you are a dark emperor,” answered the policeman. “Will you be a beetle? Does a headstone with a picture etched on it have any meaning? It will crumble with time. Beetles have been on earth since the beginning of life.”
“Good-bye, Rostnikov. If you decide you want to work for me, I can make it very worthwhile. That is what you are hinting at, isn’t it?”
Rostnikov smiled sadly and looked back at the flower-covered grave of the dead Tatar gangster. “Dream,” said Rostnikov, “of miles of twisting pipes in dark walls, or millions of beetles walking slowly on marble floors, their tiny legs scratching in unison.
Good morning.”
Rostnikov turned and limped toward the gate past trees and tombstones, moss-covered dirty mausoleums. Shatalov said to the departing policeman, “We did not kill Lashkovich. We did not kill the other one. I don’t remember his name. We are not trying to start a war, but the one-eyed bastard is. He killed one of my closest. . friends.”
“Chenko, too, claims that he did not kill your man,” said Rostnikov, not turning. “Perhaps I believe you both. Perhaps there is a man who wants you both at war. Think about it when not thinking of beetles, and look around at the face of each of the men who surround you.”
“Yevgeny Pleshkov did not show up at the casino last night,”
Iosef said to Yulia Yalutshkin in her apartment on Kalinin Prospekt.
Yulia was sitting on the sofa upon which Jurgen had only hours earlier spread his arms in self-satisfied and naked possession. Yulia was wearing pink silk pajamas with a matching silk robe tied at the waist with an equally pink sash. She crossed her legs and reached for a cigarette in a small case on the table in front of her.
Akardy Zelach sat in the chair that had been offered to Oleg Kisolev the night before. Iosef sat in the matching chair, into which Yevgeny Pleshkov had crumpled after killing the German.
“He is hiding,” Yulia said, lighting her cigarette and leaning back.
“From whom?”
“From you, his family,” she said. “That, of course, is only a guess.”
The policemen had come early and their knocking had immediately awakened her, but it had no effect on Yevgeny Pleshkov, who slept soundly next to her in the bedroom. Yevgeny was badly in need of a shave. When the knock came at the door, she had risen, put on her robe, and closed the bedroom door. Fortunately, when sleeping off a particularly bad binge, Yevgeny did not snore, at least he seldom did so. If the police searched, they would have no trouble finding the man they sought. He was only about twenty feet away behind a closed door. What troubled Yulia most was that Yevgeny might awaken and blunder into the room.
Yulia looked relaxed and in no hurry.
“The German,” Iosef said.
“Jurgen,” she said. “I would guess that he too is hiding.”
“Why? From whom?”
“Enemies,” she said. “When and if you meet him you will understand his ability to make enemies easily.”
“And you don’t know where he is hiding?”
She shrugged.
“I would like to talk to him.”
“I would not,” she said. “I threw him out last night. I could see he was working himself up to hit me. I’ve had more than enough of that and I had warned him. As he was about to strike me last night, I screamed. I have perfected a scream that would penetrate the walls of the Kremlin and cause the body of Lenin to rise and open his eyes. Jurgen told me to stop, that he was going, that he would not give me another ruble. Confidentially, I gambled away what little he gave me and lived on money from Yevgeny. Jurgen conveniently overlooked the fact that I gave him far more money than he ever gave me. Would you like a drink? Water with ice?
Pepsi-Cola?”
Zelach looked at Iosef, who nodded his consent, and Yulia rose elegantly, crossing the floor to the small refrigerator where she pulled out a bottle of Pepsi, opened it, and poured it over a glass she had half filled with ice.
She handed the drink to Zelach, who took it with thanks.
“And you, big policeman? What can I give you?” She stood provocatively over Iosef with the touch of an inviting smile.
“Yevgeny Pleshkov,” he said. “The German. Do you have either of those or know where I can get them?”
“Vodka, ginger ale, Pepsi, brandy, whiskey, and even some French wine,” she said, “but I am all out of Yevgeny Pleshkovs and Germans named Jurgen.”
“A man of Pleshkov’s description was seen entering this building late last night,” said Iosef. “He is a very famous man. People remember him.”
“I was out,” she said. “At Jacko’s Casino.”
“I was there,” said Iosef. “I didn’t see you.”
She shrugged. “We must have missed each other. That is too bad. I would have been happy to entertain you for the evening. I understand that I have a well-developed ability to keep men, and occasionally women, happy, sometimes for an entire night.”
Zelach shifted uneasily. Iosef went on. “Yevgeny Pleshkov and another man were seen leaving this building two hours after they arrived,” said Iosef. “What did they do for two hours if you were not here?”
“I must make a note to give the doorman a smaller bonus,” she said, looking at the end of her cigarette.
“Where were you?” Iosef repeated.
“Jacko’s and then dinner with some businessmen,” she said, going back to the sofa. “I don’t know their names or where they live. I may have seen them about before.”
“Can you explain what Yevgeny Pleshkov was doing in this building for two hours?” asked Iosef pleasantly.
“Perhaps business?” she tried. “Yevgeny knows many people.”
“I am sure,” said Iosef. “But in this building I think he knows only you.”
“Then,” she said, “who knows?”
“Perhaps we will,” said Iosef. “There are twelve uniformed officers checking all the apartments in the building.”
“Impressive,” she said. “You must want Yevgeny very badly.”
“Very badly,” said Iosef.
There was a knock at the door and Yulia gracefully crossed the room to answer it. Iosef thought she looked remarkably beautiful.
“Inspector Rostnikov, Inspector Zelach,” the young policeman with a thin mustache said, unable to take his eyes from the tall beauty before him. “Please come. We think we have found Yevgeny Pleshkov.”
“Where?” asked Iosef, rising.
The young policeman looked at Yulia, unsure of what he should say.
“Where?” Iosef repeated.
“A shed on the roof of the hotel,” the young man finally said.
“He-the body-is badly burned.”
“I think,” said Iosef to Yulia, “you had better get dressed. Do not leave the apartment. Inspector Zelach and I will come back shortly to continue our chat. There will be a uniformed officer outside your door.”
“For my protection?” she said with a smile.
“Of course,” said Iosef.
Zelach quickly finished his Pepsi-Cola and placed the glass on the table as he rose.
Perhaps a second after the door to the apartment had closed and the two policemen had departed, the bedroom door opened and a very sober Yevgeny Pleshkov said, “I heard.”
“So,” she said, moving past him toward the bedroom and touching his bristly cheek on her way, “you are the brilliant politician, the hope for Russia. What do we do now?”
Pleshkov had no idea.
“We had better think quickly,” she said, putting out her cigarette and taking off her pink pajamas.
Yevgeny Pleshkov headed for the cart containing the liquor bottles.
“Well,” Yulia said with a sigh. “Let us try what has always worked in the past.”
“Which is?” asked Pleshkov.
“Yevgeny,” she said, “you may be a brilliant politician, but you lack common sense. Go in the bathroom. Shave quickly. I’ll get you out of here.” Standing naked and looking quite beautiful to Yevgeny, Yulia began to laugh.
“What is funny?” he asked.
“I am an uneducated high-priced prostitute,” she said, “and I am giving orders to the man who may soon rule all of Russia.”
“You are very beautiful,” Yevgeny said, pouring himself a drink.
“Let us hope the policeman outside the door agrees.”
The lobby of the hotel was relatively empty as Elena Timofeyeva headed toward the elevator. Sasha Tkach, she was sure, was still asleep. The night before they had seen a lot and drunk more than a human being should be expected to. They had been guided by Illya and Boris to a lobster dinner at the Anchor in the Palace Hotel-Sasha had never had lobster before and had to watch Elena proceed before he began. Elena had eaten lobster more than once when she had been a student in the United States.
Both Illya and Boris were accompanied by young women, very young women, professionally made up and wearing dresses that were definitely French designed. The two women had spoken fewer than five or six words each. They smiled politely at jokes and were serious at proper moments. After the dinner, which was liberally accompanied by mixed drinks, the group moved on to three casinos-drinking, gambling, laughing. Elena hadn’t liked it, nor had she liked Boris checking his watch and saying, “It’s time.”
“For what?” Sasha had said drunkenly.
“The dogfight,” said Illya. “Now, tonight. Let’s go get your dog.”
“I thought that was tomorrow,” Elena said.
Boris leaned toward her, his breath strong and unpleasant, and said, “The fight between your Tchaikovsky and our Bronson is tomorrow night, if they are both in shape. Tonight is just to get the bettors interested. Promotion, hype, like the Americans with boxers.”
It was Sasha’s call, and Elena hoped that he was sober enough to make the right one. She thought of saying something like, “We haven’t prepared our dog for anything tonight,” or “Dmitri wouldn’t risk his prime animal before a big fight.” But she couldn’t speak. She was a woman. Sasha was supposedly the scheming, fear-less, and ruthless man.
“Fine,” said Sasha with a smile, wiping his face with a napkin and tearing the tail off of a shrimp from the huge chilled pile on the table.
“We had better go now,” said Illya. “After we finish our final drinks. A toast.” He raised his glass. “Mir i Druzhbah, peace and friendship.”
When his last round of drinks was finished, everyone at the table rose, Sasha reaching for one last shrimp. Neither Boris nor Illya appeared to pay the bill. When the group was out on the street, all six of them climbed into the black limo that appeared at the curb. The failure of the threatened rain to begin falling was beginning to bother Elena. When it finally rained, it might be an omen that something bad was going to happen. It was a thought worthy of Zelach’s mother. Elena shook off the idea. Touches of superstition that were also the legacy of her mother back in Odessa. Anna and her sister, Elena’s mother, had the same general build, the same voice, and almost the same face, but they were nothing alike in background and thought. Elena’s mother was a fish sorter on the docks. She was uneducated and surrounded by demons. Elena had escaped from her mother and her family in Odessa the day she turned eighteen.
And now Elena was surrounded by demons.
The three couples were driven to the hastily built kennel in the garage behind a pair of stores on the Arbat. The three men and Elena had gone single file down a narrow passageway between two buildings. The two young women, fearful of ruining their clothes, had remained behind in the car.
Sasha used his key, went in ahead of them, and turned on the lights.
Elena and Sasha were not sure of what they would see. The space had been prepared during the day by a quartet of carpenters who were accustomed to doing such jobs for people on both sides of the law, though one of them had commented as they had worked that it was more and more difficult to see the difference.
Traffic back and forth between the good guys and the bad had almost erased the line.
The carpenter who had expressed these beliefs was a set designer and builder for television shows and movies. He took each job without questioning, without asking for reasons.
Both the criminals and the law considered him a genius, and when Elena looked around the room, which could easily have held three huge twelve-wheel trucks, she found it difficult to keep from examining the brilliant set. After all, she was supposed to have been here at least several times before.
Along the wall across from the garage doors were a series of large metal cages. In each was a dog. In all there were six dogs. The dogs were silent, which impressed Boris and Illya.
“Well trained,” said Boris.
“I have a clever dog trainer from England,” Sasha improvised.
“And don’t bother to try to find out who he is. He is my prized possession, more important than the animals. The animals, except for Tchaikovsky, are expendable.”
A training ring, basically the ring of a small circus, with a red wooden wall circling it, stood in front of the wall at the end of the line of cages. Directly in the center of the garage was an oval exercise area complete with Astroturf. Two doors of the garage were blocked by shelves of items for the care of fighting dogs.
“No dog food?” said Boris, looking at the shelf.
“We feed them only fresh raw meat and water with vitamin supplements and injections,” said Sasha, who had no idea what he was talking about.
Elena had to admit that he was doing a remarkably good job. Alcohol may have blurred his memory but it loosened his imagination.
“They use the exercise pen,” Sasha said, nodding at the Astroturf-covered ring. “But one at a time. We wouldn’t want valuable dogs killing each other without an audience and the chance to place some bets.”
Illya nodded in understanding and said, “Let’s go. They’ll be waiting.”
There were two large wooden free-standing walk-in storage rooms next to the shelves. Elena knew Sasha was trying to figure out which one might hold transport cages for the animals. Perhaps they both did. Perhaps neither. He walked slowly and a bit un-steadily on his feet to the storage room on his right. He opened the padlocked door with his key and stepped in. Elena was right behind him, as were Illya and Boris.
There were no cages. The small space held an old but still-humming refrigerator and cleaning instruments to take care of the dog refuse. The tools looked used. Sasha went to the refrigerator, opened it, and marveled that his lie about raw meat was supported by the evidence inside the cold, lighted box. There were dozens of half-gallon-sized plastic containers through the sides of which raw, red meat could be clearly seen.
“Good,” said Sasha, closing the door and turning to the others.
“Lokanski prepared a new supply.”
“We are in a hurry,” Boris said impatiently.
“I take care of my dogs,” Sasha said indignantly.
“Get a cage,” said Illya. “Let’s go.”
Sasha moved to the next padlocked storage room and once again took out the keys he had been given. Elena controlled her near panic. If a transport cage were not inside, Sasha would be very hard pressed to come up with an explanation for why he did not know where things were in his own kennel. Relying on his drunken for-getfulness would not work with these men. Elena tried to think of what she could do, but she was still certain that her intervention would not be appreciated by the two men. They had pointedly ignored her all evening, and she had accepted their rudeness with gratitude. She did not have to speak any more than the two young mannequins who were waiting in the car parked on the Arbat.
Sasha opened the door of the second storage room, stepped in, and reached up for the string that turned on the light. Stacked on the far wall were six metal-mesh cages with handles on top. Hanging almost carelessly on the wall on hooks were a wide variety of ropes, muzzles, things she could not identify and was certain Sasha could not either. One other item hung on the wall, one Elena and Sasha both recognized, an electric prod.
Sasha, with some difficulty which required him to ask Boris and Illya to help, got down a top cage and said, “Gentlemen, we are late.”
Sasha, she could see, had glanced at the wall of dog-control items, possibly considering if he should take one, for he had no idea of how to get the pit bull into the cage. He rejected the idea and, carrying the cage awkwardly, had moved past a curious rottweiler, a pair of large mongrels, a German shepherd, and a sleeping St. Bernard, toward the pit bull. Elena was relieved that there was only one pit bull in the garage.
Moving to the front of the cage of the pit bull, who stood looking into the face of the man, Sasha lifted the door which covered the entire front of the transport cage. He pushed the open cage in front of Tchaikovsky’s cage, which he opened, lifting the sliding door slowly.
Now, the difficult part: getting the pit bull to go into the transport cage. The dog did not move. Sasha was supposed to be the expert. He had to get the animal in the transport cage and do it quickly without destroying his cover as Dmitri Kolk.
“You need help, Dmitri?”
Elena could tell from the look on his face that for a moment he did not remember that he was Dmitri. Then he recovered and said,
“No, I have my own methods for doing things. If I need anything, it is another small drink.”
Sasha’s improvised method was to squat behind the transport cage and talk to the dog the way Elena had seen him talk to his baby son. Elena thought quickly about finding a weapon if they were unmasked. She decided that the best, though riskiest, thing to do would be to kick the transport cage out of the way and let Tchaikovsky free to attack, hoping he would go for Illya and Boris.
But miraculously the pit bull quick-stepped into the smaller cage and Sasha dropped the door, trying not to show his relief.
Illya had to help carry the animal to the car. There were metal grips on each of the top corners of the cage, which made the task easier. Tchaikovsky stood all the way to the car, maintaining his balance and dignity.
The limousine was large, but with six people and a dog there was not a great deal of room. They placed the cage next to the driver, who looked straight ahead and made no comment or response. The two beautiful young women ignored the animal and Elena, and talked softly to each other as they rode. Boris and Illya pressed Sasha for information about his operation. Since he had no information and was obviously thinking about the coming battle, Sasha did not want to make up any more tales.
The rest of the night had been a nightmare to Elena.
The small arena in a converted warehouse in Pushkino north of the Outer Ring Circle was ringed by wooden benches. The first row had blue-cushioned seats with armrests, certainly the place where the big bettors sat. All the seats were set up high so the spectators could look down at the dirt-covered ring.
When Sasha, Elena, and the others arrived, a badly mauled and dying black-and-white mongrel was being carried off by two men.
The dog was on a canvas litter, his mouth muzzled to keep him from one last angry attack at the men who carried him out.
Sasha nodded and with Illya’s help moved the cage to the side of the fighting ring next to a blue stick standing over the back of the circle.
“You start here, at the blue side,” said Boris.
The crowd was loud, angry, crying out, “Let’s go. We haven’t got all night.”
In fact, Elena thought, they probably did have all night and more.
The air was thick with smoke. Elena tried not to cough. There had been cushioned seats reserved for the six arrivals. The seats were comfortable. The smoke was unbearable.
“What if one of the dogs jumps over the wall and gets into the crowd?” Elena asked the young woman at her side. “The wall is low.”
“Shooter,” the young woman said, pointing at a man who stood in the entranceway, arms folded. He wore jeans, a white T-shirt, and a denim jacket that did nothing to hide the gun he wore under it.
Tchaikovsky’s opponent was huge, a mastiff with a long, ugly white scar along its right side. The mastiff seethed with anticipation but was held back by his trainer. Tchaikovsky, on the other hand, simply stood inside his cage, looking at his opponent.
“Bets down, side bets require ten percent for the house. We don’t care if you give odds. With rare exceptions, house bets are even money. We are here to watch an ancient and honorable sport,” said the sweating announcer who wore an incongruous green tuxedo and used a handheld microphone. “Blue is Tchaikovsky, the pit bull whose record, if any, cannot be verified. Red is English, who many of you have seen here before. Eight victories, all kills.”
It took five minutes of loud wrangling, taking bets, and having a quintet of well-built men going up and down the aisles taking the house percentage and making eye contact with the three shills in the audience whose job was to spot bettors who tried to bypass the house.
“Now,” said the announcer, backing up to the entrance near the shooter to be out of the way of animals and out of the sightline of the nearly rabid audience. “Release our gladiators.”
The crowd went silent. The mastiff charged and for a moment it looked as if the pit bull would not even make it out of the cage.
The crowd laughed at the impassive dog still standing in the cage.
The laughter stopped when Tchaikovsky suddenly dashed through the cage door and leapt at the mastiff, which raced toward him. The mastiff snapped his jaws and missed the smaller animal.
Tchaikovsky did not miss. He dug his teeth into English’s neck just below the ear.
The big dog tried to shake the pit bull off but couldn’t. English twirled in pain. The pit bull bit even deeper. The mastiff tried rolling on the ground. Tchaikovsky held fast. Blood was coming now, spurts of blood all over the ring and the face of the smaller dog.
The crowd went wild. The mastiff made sounds of pain which drove the crowd to even further madness. The big dog, with the pit bull appended, sank down on his belly. Tchaikovsky ripped the flesh in his mouth and stood back to look at his dying opponent.
The pit bull dropped the piece of flesh and fur on the dirt floor and trotted back to his cage, ignoring the shouts and applause of the crowd.
By that time, Elena was ill, ill from the smoke, ill from repul-sion, and most of all, ill from the blood-and-battle-hungry crowd.
The now-dead mastiff was taken away in the canvas blanket by the two emotionless men.
The announcer moved forward and tried to quiet the crowd.
“The winner, Tchaikovsky, will be here tomorrow to face the winner of our next and main battle. The champion of our circuit, Bronson, will be in the blue. Bronson, who has twenty-two consec-utive kills and almost no scars, is clearly the favorite, but his opponent, Rado, the pit bull, has seven victories, bloody and swift. He had to be restrained with nets after his last kill. He is more than a worthy opponent for the champion. However, in view of Bronson’s record, the house will suspend its own rule and provide odds of five to one in favor of Bronson.”
The crowd grumbled. Their chance for easy money-in-the-pocket had just been taken away. Few were surprised. None complained. This had happened before and complaining would not be wise.
The fight between Bronson, the black-and-white mongrel, and the brown pit bull took a bit longer than Tchaikovsky’s battle. The pit bull had attacked quickly, but the battle-wise Bronson dashed to his left and got behind the other dog, who turned to face him and showed his teeth. Bronson leapt, leapt high. The crowd cheered. Rado the pit bull looked up in confusion at the shaggy opponent who seemed to be flying toward him. Bronson came down on the back of the pit bull and bit it in the rear.
Rado howled in pain and when Bronson let go, the pit bull ran across the ring and turned. He looked back at his bloody rump but had no time to deal with it. He attacked again. Bronson was ready.
He neither moved to the side nor leapt into the air. As Rado jumped for the other dog’s throat, Bronson snapped forward and brought his jaws down on the pit bull’s muzzle. This time he did not let go. Rado struggled but couldn’t get loose. After a minute or two, the pit bull sank back and stopped struggling.
“The fight is over,” said the announcer, moving forward. “Perhaps Rado will survive his wounds and live to fight another day.”
Rado was unsteady on his legs. His muzzle and rump were bloody blotches, but the pit bull still looked ready to attempt a re-sumption of the battle he had already lost. Rado’s trainer entered the ring with a leather noose at the end of a leather-covered stick.
He slipped it around the wounded animal’s neck and led Rado to his cage.
Untouched and without noose or command, Bronson returned to his cage, to the applause and cheers of the crowd.
“They should have let Bronson kill him,” a man behind Elena said.
They had witnessed the last fight of the evening. Illya drove them back to the Arbat and waited for Sasha and Boris to get the pit bull back into his cage in the garage. There was no conversation in the car while they were gone, but Elena could see Illya looking at her in the rearview mirror. One of the girls was fighting sleep.
The other put her arm around the tired girl. Elena thought their night might not yet be over.
Back at the hotel Elena congratulated Sasha on his performance.
He waved a weary hand of acknowledgment in her direction. When they got to the room, Sasha said one word, “Sleep.” He headed for the bed and, still dressed, flung himself down on his stomach. He was very gently snoring in seconds. Elena was still slightly ill and wondered if she would have to go the next night for the fight between Tchaikovsky and Bronson. Maybe she could provide some excuse to stay away.
She changed into her pajamas, took the pillows on the bed, and went to sleep on the sofa.
Then, in the morning, with Sasha still asleep, Elena had gone out for a walk to clear away her headache and nausea. The man following her today was neither of those from the day before. This one was very young and very inexperienced. She had stopped for a roll and coffee and was now crossing the nearly empty lobby. The images of the night before would not go away, and she knew she had suddenly developed a fear of dogs, all dogs.
Her bag slung over her shoulder, she pressed the button for her floor and stood back against the wall, trying not to remember what she had seen.
What happened next came so fast that Elena had no time to think or react. A dog came through the closing doors. It was moving with great speed and it leapt at Elena, sinking its teeth into her left shoulder. The pain was searing, and Elena had a flashing vision of herself sinking to the floor of the elevator with the dog ripping at her flesh and going for her face or neck the way the animals had done to each other the night before.
She wanted to scream out for help but she couldn’t.
The elevator door was almost closed. She punched the determined dog’s snout with her fist and leaned over to sink her teeth into the neck of the animal. Pain drew her head back. She was vaguely aware that someone was forcing the door back open, someone was entering the elevator, the door of which slid shut as the figure entered.
Elena fought off the urge to pass out. As she sank down along the wall with the dog still tearing at her shoulder, she turned her head, opened her mouth, and leaned painfully toward the thick furry neck of her attacker.