man in the back.
Sasha aimed more carefully and put a bullet into the rugged Frenchman who had ordered the death of Peter and himself. The rugged man bit his lower lip and closed his eyes, falling forward.
Now some of the Frenchmen began firing wildly at Sasha.
Except for the combatants, the arena was almost empty. Sasha glanced at the now-wounded Nimitsov, who was on his knees, still firing. One of Nimitsov’s bullets took the oldest Frenchman in the chest and then Nimitsov fell forward on his face. His fingers kept pulling the triggers of his weapon and the random shots shattered through the roof and into empty seats.
The four remaining Frenchmen turned their full attention on Sasha. They had all scrambled for some cover when Nimitsov fell.
Sasha fired almost blindly, hitting nothing.
And then silence. Nimitsov was no longer firing, and since no gunfire was coming from the Frenchmen, Sasha forced his shaking hands to stop pulling the trigger. He had no idea of how many shots he had fired or how many were left or if he was wounded.
His hope that the four men had fled was destroyed when he heard a voice in French say, “You two that way, around. Martin, hold him down. Maurice, go the other way.”
The gunfire resumed. A single person resumed firing at Sasha to keep him in place till the others came around him from the sides or rear. Sasha didn’t shoot. There was no time to think through the slightly controlled panic. Sasha went into a crouch and raced toward the man shooting from the cover of the aisle chairs. While the others flanked him, there was only one man between Sasha and a chance at the exit. Sasha ran right, turned and ran left, took two steps back to the right and then dived forward, now no more than a dozen feet from the man who had him pinned down. Bullets echoed. Sasha’s last bullet tore into the man’s left arm. The man’s gun was in his left hand. Sasha fired again. Nothing.
A wild thought. He turned to go for the guns in Nimitsov’s hands, but it was too late. The Frenchmen had moved into the open and now stood in a circle along the rim of the low wall around the ring.
It was Sasha’s turn to entertain.
“I am a police officer,” Sasha said in French, panting, sitting back, still hoping for a chance at Nimitsov’s guns.
“We suspected,” said the very old man in French. His gun, like the others, was pointed at Sasha. “You have killed my nephew. You have left our business in the hands of old men. Your being a policeman makes no difference.”
“It makes a difference,” came a voice from the darkness of one aisle of the arena.
The Frenchmen turned their guns toward the voice.
Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov stepped into the light. So did five uniformed and helmeted men in flak jackets, all carrying modified Kalishnikov automatic rifles.
There was a moment, only a moment, in which the eyes of the old Frenchmen turned toward each other. They had the least to lose in death. The pause was long and then the oldest man dropped his weapon. So did the others.
“I’m sorry to be a bit late, Sasha,” Rostnikov said awkwardly, going over the rim of the ring and reaching down to help Sasha to his feet. “We had an informant, but she had some difficulty telling us where the fight would be.”
The policemen herded the Frenchmen out of the arena. Sasha saw the old man look toward the body of the rugged man. There were tears in the old man’s eyes as he left the arena.
Sasha, breathing heavily, turned over the body of Peter Nimitsov, who looked up at him. The two guns were still in his hands. Nimitsov let the guns go. The number of bullet holes in the young man was remarkable, including one in his neck and one through his cheek. What was even more remarkable was that Peter Nimitsov was still alive.
“What did you tell them, in French?” Nimitsov asked in a gur-gle that Sasha could barely hear.
“That I am a policeman.”
Nimitsov nodded as if everything were clear now. “I’ll never get the chance to save Russia,” the dying man said.
“You saved me,” said Sasha. “Why?”
“Destiny,” said Nimitsov, choking.
“Destiny?”
“You ask a madman a question and you’ll get a mad answer,”
said Nimitsov. “It was a good fight, wasn’t it?”
“A very good fight,” said Sasha.
“Now, if you will excuse me, I must die.”
And he did.
“Are you wounded, Sasha Tkach? An ambulance is coming.”
“No. I should be but, no, I am not. The dog is hurt.”
Rostnikov left Sasha looking down at the corpse of the lunatic killer who had saved his life, and moved toward the cage of the pit bull. Tchaikovsky was still inside, lying down now, watching the end of the show.
“Dog,” said Rostnikov, “someone will be here soon to take care of your wounds.”
The dog looked up at Rostnikov.
“The Hindus believe in reincarnation till one achieves Nirvana,”
Rostnikov said conversationally, watching Sasha kneeling at the side of Nimitsov’s body. “I would value your opinion, dog. What were you before? Who were you before? I doubt if one remembers when one is reincarnated. What will Nimitsov be? I think a bird, a small, vulnerable bird would be appropriate.”
Rostnikov looked down at the dog who was looking back up at him, his head cocked to the left. No one had ever spoken to him this way before.
“But,” said Rostnikov, now looking at the bodies in the front row. “The truth is that I don’t believe in reincarnation. Atheism when taught from an early age is a difficult religion from which to escape. Perhaps we’ll talk again, dog. As I said, help is coming soon for you.”
Rostnikov checked his watch. If he did the paperwork tomorrow and hurried, there was still a chance he and Sarah could make most of Leon’s concert. He would have preferred the blues, or 1950s American modern jazz on his cassette machine, but this was a celebration. He had hoped for the best and expected the worst when he discovered that his wife needed more surgery. The best, as it seldom does, had come.
“Are you all right, Sasha?” he asked, moving back to his detective, who rose.
“I don’t know what to think, to feel. I think I. . I feel alive.”
“And things that seemed important no longer seem so.”
“Yes.”
“The feeling comes more frequently as you grow older,” said Rostnikov. “Go home. Come in early tomorrow. Write a long report. Kiss your children for me. Kiss your wife for yourself.”
“If she’ll let me,” said Sasha. “You spoke to her.”
“Yes. Go home. Try,” said Rostnikov. “You want a ride? I have a car and a driver.”
“Yes,” said Sasha, following Rostnikov out of the ring and into the darkness behind the stands.
When all the humans were gone, the pit bull walked slowly out of his open cage, ignoring the wounds to his ear and back. He moved to the side of Peter Nimitsov and smelled death. He looked at the bodies in the first row and smelled their death too.
Tchaikovsky sat back and waited as the sound of a siren approached from too far away for a human to hear.
Rostnikov recognized the melody, could hear the playful interchange of themes and instruments. It was not unlike the best work of Gerry Mulligan and Chet Baker. Sarah took his hand. They were in the large auditorium of the Moscow Technical Institute. The room was about half full. Rostnikov estimated about one hundred people were listening, mostly older people, but a few of college age or a bit older. There were even two little girls in the audience. Sarah and Porfiry Petrovich had brought them. It had been Sarah’s idea.
The girls’ grandmother claimed she was too tired for a concert and that she had never learned to appreciate
