LORD climbed out of the police car. He was back on Nikolskaya Prospekt, where the shooting had begun. At the construction site he'd been lowered to the ground and hosed down to cleanse away the mortar and blood. His suit jacket was gone, as was his tie. His white dress shirt and dark trousers were soaking wet and stained gray. In the chilly afternoon they felt like a cold compress. He was wrapped in a musty wool blanket one of the workers had produced that smelled of horses. He was calm. Amazing, considering.
The prospekt was filled with squad cars and ambulances, light bars flashing, a multitude of uniformed officers everywhere. Traffic was at a standstill. Officers had secured the street at both ends, all the way to the McDonald's.
Lord was led to a short, heavy-chested man with a bull neck and close-cropped reddish whiskers sprouting from fleshy cheeks. Deep lines streaked his brow. His nose was askew, as if from a break that had never healed, and his complexion carried the sallow pale all too common with Russians. He wore a loose-fitting gray suit and a dark shirt under a charcoal overcoat. His shoes were dog-eared and dirty.
"I am Inspector Orleg. Militsya." He offered a hand. Lord noticed liver spots freckling the wrist and forearm. "You one here when shots were fired?"
The inspector spoke in accented English, and Lord debated whether to answer in Russian. It would surely ease their communication. Most Russians assumed Americans were too arrogant or too lazy to master their language-particularly black Americans, whom he'd found they viewed as something of a circus oddity. He'd visited Moscow nearly a dozen times over the past decade and had learned to keep his linguistic talent to himself-garnering in the process an opportunity to listen in on comments between lawyers and businessmen who thought they were protected by a language barrier. At the moment, he was highly suspicious of everyone. His previous dealings with the police had been confined to a few disputes over parking and one incident where he was forced to pay fifty rubles to avoid a bogus traffic violation. It wasn't unusual for the Moscow police to shake down foreigners. What do you expect from somebody who earns a hundred rubles a month? an officer had asked while pocketing his fifty dollars.
"The shooters were police," he said in English.
The Russian shook his head. "They dress like police. Militsya not gun people down."
"These did." He glanced beyond the inspector at the bloodied remains of Artemy Bely. The young Russian was sprawled faceup on the sidewalk, his eyes open, brown-red ribbons seeping from holes in his chest. "How many were hit?"
"Pyat."
"Five? How many dead?"
"Chet?yre."
"You don't seem concerned. Four people shot dead in the middle of the day on a public street."
Orleg shrugged. "Little can be done. The roof is tough to control."
"The roof" was the common way to refer to the mafiya who populated Moscow and most of western Russia. He'd never learned how the term came into being. Maybe it was because that was how people paid-through the roof-or perhaps it was a metaphor for the odd pinnacle of Russian life. The nicest cars, largest dachas, and best clothes were owned by gang members. No effort was made to conceal their wealth. On the contrary, the mafiya tended to flaunt their prosperity to both the government and the people. It was a separate social class, one that had emerged with startling speed. His contacts within the business community considered protection payments just another facet of company overhead, as necessary to survival as a good workforce and steady inventory. More than one Russian acquaintance had told him that when the gentlemen in the Armani suits paid a visit and pronounced, Bog zaveshchaet delit'sia-God instructs us to share-they were to be taken seriously.
"My interest," Orleg said, "is why those men chase you."
Lord motioned to Bely. "Why don't you cover him up?"
"He not mind."
"I do. I knew him."
"How?"
He found his wallet. The laminated security badge he'd been given weeks ago had survived the cement bath. He handed it to Orleg.
"You part of Tsar Commission?"
The implied question seemed to ask why an American would be involved with something so Russian. He was liking the inspector less and less. Mocking him seemed the best way to show how he felt.
"I part of Tsar Commission."
"Your duties?"
"That confidential."
"May be important to this."
His attempt at sarcasm was going unnoticed. "Take it up with the commission."
Orleg pointed to the body. "And this one?"
He told him that Artemy Bely was a lawyer in the Justice Ministry, assigned to the commission, who'd been helpful in arranging access to the Soviet archives. On a personal level, he knew little more than that Bely was unmarried, lived in a communal apartment north of Moscow, and would have loved to visit Atlanta one day.
He stepped close and gazed down at the body.
It had been a while since he last saw a mutilated corpse. But he'd seen worse during six months of reserve duty that turned into a year in Afghanistan. He was there as a lawyer, not a soldier, sent for his language skills-a political liaison attached to a State Department contingent-present to aid a governmental transition after the Taliban was driven out. His law firm thought it important to have someone involved. Good for the image. Good for his future. But he'd found himself wanting to do more than shuffle paper. So he helped bury the dead. The Afghans had suffered heavy losses. More than the press had ever noted. He could still feel the scorching sun and brutal wind, both of which had only sped decomposition and made the grim task more difficult. Death was simply not pleasant. No matter where.
"Explosive tips," Orleg said behind him. "Go in small, come out large. Take much with them along way." The inspector's voice carried no compassion.
Lord glanced back at the blank stare, the rheumy eyes. Orleg smelled faintly of alcohol and mint. He'd resented the flippant remark about covering the body. So he undraped the blanket from around him, bent down, and laid it across Bely.
"We cover our dead," he told Orleg.
"Too many here to bother."
He stared at the face of cynicism. This policeman had probably seen a lot. Watched how his government gradually lost control, himself working, like most Russians, on the mere promise of payment, or for barter, or for black-market U.S. dollars. Ninety-plus years of communism had left a mark. Bespridel, the Russians called it. Anarchy. Indelible as a tattoo. Scarring a nation to ruin.
"Justice Ministry is frequent target," Orleg said. "Involve themselves in things with little concern for safety. They have been warned." He motioned to body. "Not first or last lawyer to die."
Lord said nothing.
"Maybe our new tsar will solve all?" Orleg asked.
He stood and faced the inspector, their toes parallel, bodies close. "Anything is better than this."
Orleg appraised him with a glare, and he wasn't sure if the policeman agreed with him or not. "You never answer me. Why men chase you?"
He heard again what Droopy said as he slid out of the Volvo. The damn chornye survived. Should he tell Orleg anything? Something about the inspector didn't seem right. But his paranoia could simply be the aftereffect of what had happened. What he needed was to get back to the hotel and discuss all this with Taylor Hayes.
"I have no idea-other than I got a good view of them. Look, you've seen my security clearance and know where to find me. I'm soaking wet, cold as hell, and what's left of my clothes has blood soaked into them. I'd like to change. Could one of your men drive me to the Volkhov?"
The inspector did not immediately reply. He just stared with a measured mien Lord thought intentional.
Orleg returned his security card.
"Of course, Mr. Commission Lawyer. As you say. I have car made available."