probably wasn’t. It had been too early. It would be hours before backup came. Nimitsov had said they would be picking Sasha up much later.
At the converted garage at the end of the narrow passageway off the Arbat, Sasha made as much noise as he could, talking loudly to Boris, telling him an off-color story he had actually heard from the mistress of a car- hijacking gang when Sasha had been undercover several years earlier. The woman, with Sasha’s cooperation, had seduced the policeman. Boris was in no mood to laugh at the joke.
He had seen Peter Nimitsov kill Illya Skatesholkov. Boris had no particular fondness for Illya, though they had worked reasonably well together. But Boris did have a fondness for Boris, and if Nimitsov could go wild and kill a man who had simply protected Peter’s prize dog, what might Boris accidentally do that would earn him a bullet in the brain? The baby-faced Nimitsov was definitely getting crazier and crazier. Boris had spent much of the day trying to figure out how he might be able to get some money and go somewhere far away-Canada, Australia, Japan. Hidden in his small apartment was a very legal passport Boris had bought with bribes, for one thousand dollars. One could get a passport by simply applying for one, but that meant long lines and weeks of waiting.
Boris had received his passport in less than a day.
And so Boris was in no mood to laugh at the loud off-color joke he would normally have found funny. And he was too preoccupied to notice that Dmitri Kolk’s voice had grown uncharacteristically loud when he told his joke.
Sasha made as much noise as he could reasonably make as he opened the unlocked door, held it half open, and said something to Boris that he hoped would alert the trainer inside the garage. It did, but the trainer was not doing anything that would have alerted Boris in any case. He was exercising one of the dogs, a German shepherd, in the mesh-surrounded area in the middle of the garage.
“I need Tchaikovsky now,” said Sasha.
The trainer, wearing black denims, a white T-shirt, and thick leather gloves, nodded and climbed into the exercise pen. The shepherd looked up, sensing that his time uncaged was shorter than usual. It was a sensation he did not like. The dog began to growl.
Boris and Sasha stood watching as the trainer slapped the side of his leg. This time the dog trotted to his side.
Less than five minutes later, Boris and Sasha were carrying the cage containing the pit bull to the car. The gun in the tray under the cage was inside a holster firmly taped to keep it from sliding.
Sasha had a fantasy of getting the weapon, shooting Boris, Nimitsov, and anyone else at the meeting, and running to stop Maya from taking the children to Kiev. Kiev wasn’t even safe. People were still dying there from the Chernobyl fallout.
But Sasha knew he would do no such thing, and he had little hope that his wife and children would still be there when he got home.
“Deputy Pleshkov,” Iosef said, “we would like you to accom-pany us back to Moscow.”
Akardy Zelach stood back but forced himself to keep from looking down. Yaklovev himself had, according to Iosef, ordered them to take a car, with a driver, out to Pleshkov’s dacha.
Both policemen anticipated that the confrontation at the end of the journey would not be easy. And it wasn’t.
Pleshkov looked sober, somber, cleaned, and well groomed. This was the Pleshkov of television interviews, the confident man with the smile of understanding.
Pleshkov’s wife stood behind him in the small reception area of the dacha. The son, Ivan, was nowhere in sight.
“No,” said Pleshkov. “I am sorry. I’m too busy. I have a speech to give at the assembly tomorrow. I must get it finished today. A trip to Moscow and then back would interrupt my thoughts and eat too deeply into my time. The day after tomorrow might be possible.”
“Deputy Pleshkov,” said Iosef politely, “this is very important.”
“I’m sorry,” said Pleshkov, looking genuinely sorry.
“May we speak to you in private?” asked Iosef.
“My wife can hear anything you might have to say,” he said.
“Murder,” said Iosef.
“Murder?” repeated Olga Pleshkov.
“Murder? ” said Yevgeny Pleshkov.
“A German,” said Iosef. “Wouldn’t you like to come with us?”
“Perhaps I should,” Pleshkov said with a sigh. “If this is about a murder and you think I may be able to help.”
“What is this, Yevgeny?” Pleshkov’s wife asked.
“You heard the young man,” Pleshkov said. “Apparently a German has been murdered.”
“So?” she asked. “What has that to do with you? Germans are murdered in Moscow all the time. Frenchmen are murdered. Finns are murdered. Americans are even murdered. You are not called to Moscow for every murder. What is so diplomatically significant about this German that your presence is immediately required?”
“That is what I intend to find out, my dear,” said Pleshkov, looking not at her but at Iosef.
When they were in the car watching Pleshkov’s wife through the window, the deputy, seated between Zelach and Iosef, said,
“Would you have arrested me had I refused to come?”
“Yes,” said Iosef.
“I see,” said Pleshkov as the car pulled away onto the dirt road.
“I’m sure we can settle this quickly and I can be back at my desk in a few hours, finishing my speech.”
“I don’t know,” said Iosef, looking forward, as was Zelach. “That will be up to Director Yaklovev.”
Pleshkov turned to look back at his wife standing tall, hands clasped in front of her. Ivan Pleshkov suddenly appeared in the doorway of the dacha. They both watched the unmarked police car head toward Moscow.
Pleshkov looked up at the sky. Still no rain. He had never seen anything quite like this in Moscow. The sky had been dark for days.
Thunder crashed. The wind swirled, but it did not rain. Yevgeny Pleshkov did not believe in omens, but he silently cursed the sky and to himself said, Rain, damn you. Rain.
The room was not large and contained relatively little. A bed with a pillow and a green blanket, a small table with two chairs, an electric hot plate, a cabinet that certainly held a few plates and cups, a sink, a battered chest of drawers, and a curtained-off area in a corner.
Raisa Munyakinova should have been in bed after her night of work, but she was dressed and tired when Rostnikov knocked at her door. She did not appear surprised when she opened the door and saw him and Karpo standing before her.
“You know why we are here?” Rostnikov asked gently.
“You have found the killer,” she said. “Come in. Would you like some tea, coffee? I don’t have too much to eat or drink at the moment. I’ve had little time to shop.”
“I’ve already had tea,” said Rostnikov.
“Thank you, no,” said Karpo.
Raisa moved to sit heavily on her small bed.
“It is not the man I described, is it,” she said. “Not the man in the coat.”
“No,” said Rostnikov.
He and Karpo stood before her. She looked up at them, nodding in understanding.
“May I sit?” asked Rostnikov.
She pointed to one of the wooden chairs. Rostnikov sat with some difficulty, holding onto the table to keep from toppling backward. Karpo continued to stand.
“You were on the cleanup crew at the Leningradskaya Hotel last night,” said Rostnikov, looking at Raisa, who showed only a distant blankness. “You work there regularly in addition to doing shifts at several hotels.”
“Yes,” she said.
“In fact, you were working the hotels on the nights when five Tatar and Chechin Mafia men were murdered,”
