Death of a Dissident

A bundled young man with a hip holster and no machine gun hurried over to the two detectives and eagerly reported, clearly relieved to have the responsibility taken from his shoulders, which were a few years younger than Tkach’s.

“Sergeant Petrov,” the young man said. His face was cold and freckled. “There are three of them,” he said, addressing Karpo. “They seem to be in their twenties. They are armed and have fired on us. We have waited for orders before returning fire.”

“Where are they in the building?” Tkach asked.

Sergeant Petrov turned his head to the younger detective.

“We’re not sure, comrade. They were in the store itself, but they may have gone anywhere in the building. They did not get away. We have all windows and the back door covered. Their car is in the rear, parked.”

“What we can-” Tkach began, but was interrupted by the cracking of the window of the police Volga at his side. The window had been no more than a foot from his stomach and he wondered what structural weakness had caused such an accident. Something inside him answered before his mind could accommodate the information. Sasha Tkach went flat in the snow next to Emil Karpo and Sergeant Petrov. They scrambled behind the car and waited for another shot.

“Shall we open fire?” asked the sergeant to Karpo.

Karpo raised an eyebrow and looked at Tkach.

“It’s your case,” said Karpo.

“Is there a way into the building with some cover?” Tkach asked.

“Yes,” said the young sergeant, pointing into the gloom. “Over the roof. The store manager says there is a skylight and a short drop to the floor. It would be possible to get to the roof from the building next door. We can stretch something, and some of my men can go across.”

“I’ll go,” Tkach said decisively, pulling out his gun to check it. He had never fired at a man before, though he had been outstanding on targets at the academy. “Karpo?”

Karpo nodded.

“We’ll need one man with an automatic weapon,” Tkach added.

“I’ll get one and go with you,” said Petrov.

“You needn’t…” Tkach said, looking into the freckled face.

“It offends me to be shot at,” the sergeant said seriously.

By working their way down the street, the trio managed to cross in five minutes. Petrov commandeered a Tete gun from one of the police, and the three made their way along the buildings on Zvenigorod. In the distance, not too far away, came a sound like a young girl laughing.

Five minutes later, the three men were on the roof piled high with snow. Their goal was a flat room, which made it easier to extend the ladder they had brought with them from the fire truck which waited below. If the hijackers were on the other roof, the three officers could be picked off as they crossed the small chasm between the buildings. Across the street an officer on the roof signaled to them with a flashlight that the roof of the building looked clear.

Sergeant Petrov and Tkach held the ladder while Karpo began to cross.

Neither Jimmy, Coop, or Bobby knew what had happened. Jimmy was sure there had been a burglar alarm in the liquor store. Although they had heard nothing ring, it must have been connected to a local police office or something. Coop was equally sure they had been spotted. The store was supposedly closed for repairs, but someone must have come back and seen them, then run to the nearest cop. Bobby didn’t know or care what had happened. He thought only that it had been a bad idea to rob the store during the day, even a dark day like this. Jimmy, who was the wildest of the trio, had seen it as a special challenge, and Coop had never allowed Jimmy to appear more brave than he, so they had ventured out.

They had one case of vodka into the car when they saw the first Volga with the flashing light. Coop had run for the back door, but a warning shot from outside drove him back in. They had huddled in the rear room, breathing heavily, when the voice from outside came, telling them to throw out any guns they had and come out the rear door slowly with their hands up.

Jimmy had responded by shooting out the front window and taking a shot at the Volga parked across the street. Return fire had been brief, and the three had scrambled up a stairway through broken glass and dripping bottles of alcohol.

Ten minutes later they had no plan.

“Maybe we should give up,” Bobby said.

“They’ll shoot us down when we go out the door,” said Jimmy.

“Why would they do that?” Bobby said. “We haven’t killed anybody.”

“We shot at the police,” Coop explained, his voice shaking.

“I don’t think they’ll kill us,” Bobby said.

“They’ll kill us,” Jimmy said with confidence.

They could barely make out each other’s faces in the daylight darkness. For minutes they sat waiting.

“Maybe we could get out over the roof,” Coop suggested.

“They’re up there,” Jimmy countered.

Silence again.

They didn’t know how much longer it had been before the new car had come and the two men without uniforms had jumped out. The three had watched the arrival from the second floor. One of the two new ones, even through the snow, looked like a skeleton.

“They called that one to kill us,” said Jimmy, pointing at Karpo. “But I’ll get him first.”

He had fired and jumped back, unsure of whether or not he had hit the man or hit anything at all. The sound of shattering glass suggested he had missed.

“So,” whispered Bobby.

“So, we wait,” said Jimmy. “It’s their move.”

“It’s just like the American movies,” said Coop.

No, thought Bobby, it’s not like that. It’s happening.

“I’m scared,” confessed Bobby to the darkness. “Let’s give up. They won’t kill us.”

“Shut up, shut up,” Jimmy shouted. Bobby thought there was a sob in Jimmy’s voice, but he had never heard such a thing from Jimmy.

“It’s happening,” shouted Bobby. “If we don’t give up, they’ll kill us, kill us.”

Jimmy swung out in the darkness at Bobby and missed him.

“Shut up, I said.”

Jimmy stood and was ready to find Bobby and beat him, hit him, shut him up. Bobby was confusing things, making him frightened. He didn’t want to die frightened.

The door through which the three young men had come burst open, and a flashlight struck them like a cold ball of snow.

“Don’t move!” came a deep voice behind the light, and Jimmy fired at the voice. The room was small and the explosion of fire resounded against the eardrums of the men who were firing at vague impressions between the flashes of shots.

Then the shots stopped, and someone sobbed.

Karpo turned on the lights and kept his pistol pointed toward the place where he had first seen the three figures standing. Two thin young men stood shivering, wide-eyed with their hands in the air. One of the two had clearly wet his pants. On the ground in front of them lay a third young man with a gun in his hand. All three were wearing black leather jackets with something written on them in French or English.

“Are you all right?” Karpo asked Tkach, whose gun was leveled at the two standing young men.

“Yes. Petrov is hit.”

Karpo knelt near the young sergeant.

“Stomach wound. He is alive. I’ll get help.”

Karpo went out the door, and Tkach moved forward across the small room, his gun leveled at the two young men, who backed away. Tkach kicked the body on the floor. He knew his first shot had hit him. It had been automatic, like hitting the targets at the range, but this one had been so much easier to hit, so much closer. He kicked the body over and looked down at the face.