The thin young man said nothing and showed no emotion as he patted Rostnikov down, checking his wallet and even the paperback novel in the inspector’s pocket. He went so far as to examine Porfiry Petrovich’s artificial leg for secret compartments or listening devices. Satisfied, the ugly man reached over and touched the shoulder of the driver, who turned right at the next corner.
Halfway down the narrow street the car stopped and the ugly man reached over to open Rostnikov’s door. Rostnikov obliged by stepping out, which, given his leg, took a bit of time.
As soon as he had cleared the door, it closed and Porfiry Petrovich found himself on an empty street of houses and shops with boarded-up windows. There was another car, black, tinted windows, not large, parked directly across the street. The rear door to the car opened and Rostnikov proceeded to the car and climbed in.
He closed his door himself and looked over at the man at his side, as the car started and moved at a reasonable pace up the street.
“You wish to talk to me,” the man said.
He was about Rostnikov’s height but much lighter. He was also about Rostnikov’s age but looked much older. His hair was thin and straight. His skin, already dark, was weathered and wrinkled by the sun. The face, however, was dominated by a black patch that covered the man’s right eye. All these things Rostnikov had known about Casmir Chenko, Glahz, the Tatar.
“Valentin Lashkovich,” said Rostnikov, trying to find a comfortable position and keep his eyes on Chenko. “You know he is dead.”
“I know,” said Chenko.
“Do you also know who killed him?”
“The Chechin,” said Chenko.
“Shatalov?” asked Rostnikov.
“Shatalov,” said Chenko. “He uses no other name, so one of my men called him Irving. We all call him that now. Shatalov knows and it displeases him. We have reason to believe he is a Jew. So you see, Chief Inspector, we Tatars do have a sense of humor, perhaps not a profound one, but a sense of humor nonetheless. And we are not stupid, or foul-smelling, or particularly sullen.”
“I never thought you were,” said Rostnikov.
Chenko, who had sat forward when he spoke, now leaned back.
“What do you want, policeman?”
“You are going to kill one of Shatalov’s men in retaliation,” said Rostnikov as the car drove past the old Tretyakov Art Gallery.
“And you don’t want me to do it?” said Chenko.
“That is right,” said Rostnikov.
“This began when Shatalov killed one of my men two months ago,” said Chenko calmly. “Shot him in a hotel sauna. You knew that?”
“I knew that,” said Rostnikov. “I mean I knew that one of your men was murdered. I do not know that Shatalov did it. I have some reason to believe that it may indeed be someone else.”
“Who else?” asked Chenko.
“Another Mafia that wants you two to kill each other off so they can move in on your territories when you are both weak,” said Rostnikov. “A lone man, perhaps a member of one of your organizations, who sees an opportunity for advancement if a war breaks out between you. Perhaps. .”
“You are groping for diamonds in the Siberian tundra,” said Chenko. “Shatalov did it.”
“And you did it back and he did it back. And now it will continue.”
“I have not yet answered his affront. If someone has killed one or more of his people, let him look to his own organization. For the last time, policeman, what do you want?”
“A meeting between you and Shatalov.”
“I do not think that a good idea,” said Chenko.
“All right then, a promise from you that there will be no violence, no retaliation for Laskovich’s murder, not till my office has time to investigate.”
“That might be possible,” said Chenko, “if no more of my people are attacked by the Chechins, though I see no good that can come from a one-sided truce.”
“I will try to arrange a truce with a time limit,” said Rostnikov.
“You want something in return. You would not have agreed to see me if you didn’t want something.”
“The body of Valentin Lashkovich,” said Chenko. “Tonight. To be delivered to this location.”
Chenko handed Rostnikov a card. It contained a name and address of a well-known mortuary known to be used by criminals at all levels. It was more than suspected that the mortuary did more than handle the internment of the publicly dead. A large number of people who had unfortunately displeased criminals had disappeared, supposedly into unmarked graves far outside the city. Dis-posing of the dead was now big business in Moscow.
“It shall be,” said Rostnikov. “I have your word?”
“Under the conditions and if the Chechin agrees to the same terms,” said Chenko. “You are going to meet with Shatalov?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
Chenko opened a small zipper bag on the floor, took out a cell phone, dialed, and handed it to Rostnikov.
“A woman will answer,” said Chenko. “Tell her who you are. Tell her you have a message that must be delivered in person.”
Chenko handed the phone to Rostnikov. A woman’s voice said,
“Yes?” Rostnikov said what Chenko had told him to say and gave his office phone number. “I do not know any Shatalov,” the woman said.
“The message remains,” said Rostnikov.
Chenko reached over and took the phone from Porfiry Petrovich. “Natalya, daughter of a snake,” he said. “Tell Irving I will hang his head over my desk.”
Chenko pressed a button on the phone and put it back in the zipper bag.
“You think that will make it more likely that Shatalov will call me?” asked Rostnikov.
“It will make your request undeniable,” said Chenko. “Shatalov will be angry. Shatalov will want to save face. Shatalov will call you, meet with you, and give you a message for me. It will be a warning.
I will laugh at it.”
Rostnikov could not imagine Chenko laughing.
“There is no more to discuss,” said Chenko.
“I may wish to talk to you again when more is known,” said Rostnikov.
“If there is something to discuss,” said Chenko, “you know how to get a message to me. Final question, policeman.”
“Ask.”
“Why do you want us to stop killing each other? Why do you want to prevent a war?”
“Innocent people die in wars,” said Rostnikov. “Besides, it is an assignment that has been given to me by my superiors.”
Chenko made a sound. He may have been clearing his throat. It may have been his version of a laugh.
“Let me tell you something, Russian policeman,” said Chenko, cocking his head to one side to see Rostnikov. “We care nothing for your wars. We are Tatars. Until 1552 we were an independent state, and then Ivan the Terrible conquered us. In Kazan, the town where I was born, on a tiny island where the Volga and Kamra rivers meet, is a white pavilion built one hundred years ago in tribute to Ivan the Terrible. My mission in life is to return to Kazan and blow up that pavilion. Meanwhile, the self-declared Republic of Tatarstan flies only the red and green flag of ancient Tataria, and we have recently withheld tax payments from your corrupt government. When you people attacked Chechnya, Shatalov sat back in Moscow and let his people be murdered and crushed. If Russia attacks Tataria, we will wage a guerrilla war that will put Shatalov and the Irish Republican Army to shame.”
The car stopped. Chenko folded his arms and looked forward with his remaining eye. “If you give me Lashkovich’s body and the Chechin agrees, you will have your short truce. If you promise the prompt turning over of any of our people killed in battle in these streets, I will meet with Shatalov, but expect little from such a
