The gray wolfhound entered the room and looked down at the four men seated behind the finely polished wooden table. “Reports today will be limited to direct criminal investigations in progress,” he said. “I have an important meeting with the Minister of the Interior in twenty minutes.”
Ever since the dissolution of Communism and the Soviet Union, the Gray Wolfhound had taken to wearing a green uniform of his own design. No one seemed to know or care if this act of creative military fashion was within the realm of protocol and law. But as the four men seated behind the table all knew but would admit to few, there was a kind of free-floating law in Russia-partly the remnants of Communism, partly an attempt to establish the semblance of a democratic process, and partly the whim of whoever was willing to act as if he knew what to do. The risk of taking this step forward was that it might well destroy one in the future. The political advantages of the move, on the other hand, were potentially great.
The Wolfhound’s uniform was, as always, perfectly pressed, presumably by his adjutant, who lived with the colonel in a small but sufficient dacha not far from Moscow. The colonel’s medals, his lone concession to the past, glittered on his chest. His mane of perfect white hair flowed back as if fashioned by a benevolent wind.
The senior staff meeting was being held, as always, in the colonel’s office in Petrovka 38, the central headquarters of the various police districts reorganized in the last several years by an unknown Yeltsin associate. Today’s meeting was out of the ordinary due to the presence of a solidly built man seated at the end of the conference table well apart from the others. He wore a blue suit and tie and had his curly black hair cut short. He looked decidedly athletic, and his age appeared to be somewhere between forty and fifty, though it was difficult for the colonel’s staff to gauge the age of a black man. The need to do so had come up infrequently in their careers.
At the center of the table sat Pankov, the near-dwarf who served as the colonel’s assistant. Pankov’s primary function was to appear in public at the colonel’s side, thus enhancing the image of the Wolfhound by comparison with the rumpled, unkempt, confused little Pankov.
To Pankov’s right was Chief Inspector Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov, who seemed to be taking notes on a large pad. Colonel Snitkonoy was well aware that the chief inspector was almost certainly drawing pictures of houses, people, books, flowers, statues, or even the window behind the colonel. The colonel had purposely sat the black man in the blue suit at the end of the table where he would not see such inattentive behavior.
To Pankov’s left sat Major Gregorovich, a thick man in his late forties who survived by displaying absolute public loyalty to the Wolfhound on all issues while secretly reporting on the Office of Special Investigation to officers in other bureaus jealous of the increasing power of the Wolfhound’s small but highly successful staff. Gregorovich, who had given up wearing any uniform other than a brown business suit, still held a faint hope that if the Wolfhound ever faltered, those to whom he had passed on information would wish Gregorovich to take over the directorship. It would not simply be a reward. Gregorovich was too smart to settle for that. It would be the expedient, self-serving thing for them to do.
“Chief Inspector,” the Wolfhound said. “Your report.”
Rostnikov put down his pad, and though it was upside down and a dozen feet away, the Wolfhound could see that the drawing Rostnikov had been intent on was the face of a woman with billowing hair.
“Four new investigations begun,” said Rostnikov. “Twelve ongoing, five closed with arrests.”
“New investigations only,” the Wolfhound said, looking at the clock.
Rostnikov seemed not to notice and went on. “Alexei Porvinovich. Owns several businesses, launders foreign money, and makes bribes to get permits. Suspected ties to several mafias, particularly the Afghan veterans. He was abducted on the street in a dark Mercedes-Benz by two men with automatic weapons. Both abductors wore ski masks. No body yet found. Wife reports ransom call. Three million American dollars.”
“Three million …” Pankov said, and then shut up after a stern look from the colonel.
“Go on, Chief Inspector,” said the Wolfhound.
“Another victim of an attack in the Strogino area,” Rostnikov said. “Face and head crushed by pavement pieces, ribs broken, organs ruptured. This is the eleventh such killing in less than a year.”
“If you think it is worth our attention,” the Wolfhound said, “then assign someone.”
“I will assign Inspectors Tkach and Zelach.”
“Fine, fine, what else?” asked the Wolfhound.
“Liaison with tax police on information provided by paid informant who led them to a hoard of valuable artifacts. Inspectors Karpo and Timofeyeva report that sometime between the discovery of the items by the tax police and the next morning all of the articles were removed. The estimated value of the find, according to Inspector Karpo, may be in excess of one billion dollars.”
“One bill-” Pankov started, and immediately shut up.
“We take these cases,” said Colonel Snitkonoy. “Gentlemen, this presents the proper moment for me to introduce our guest, Mr. Craig Hamilton.”
Rostnikov, Pankov, and Gregorovich now openly looked at the black man for the first time. Mr. Craig Hamilton looked at them, gave a small smile, and said in perfect and quite precise Russian, “It is a pleasure to meet you and an honor to be invited to your morning meeting.”
“Mr. Hamilton is with the American Federal Bureau of Investigation,” said the colonel. “He is here to observe our methods, help if he can in ongoing investigations, and prepare a report for his own superiors and ours. Mr. Hamilton is an attorney and an accountant with thirteen years of investigative experience. I am assigning him to you, Inspector Rostnikov.”
Rostnikov put the finishing touches on the drawing before him and put down his pencil.
“I will, with your approval, take the abduction myself and assign Elena Timofeyeva to the missing artifacts. Perhaps Agent Hamilton will be able to give us some assistance.”
“I would prefer that you or Inspector Karpo handle the missing treasures,” said the Wolfhound. “Inspector Elena Timofeyeva is lacking in experience.”
“I have taken the liberty of assigning Inspector Karpo to the street killings yesterday,” said Rostnikov.
“Five dead,” said the Wolfhound, displaying to the FBI agent that he was fully knowledgeable about day-to- day criminal activity in his city.
“I will supervise Inspector Timofeyeva and conduct the investigation of the abduction with the assistance and advice of Agent Hamilton,” said Rostnikov.
“Why assign Karpo to-?” the Wolfhound began.
“Inspector Karpo has a particular interest in the street killings,” explained Rostnikov, “and I believe he will be zealous in his investigation.”
“Particular interest?” asked the Wolfhound.
“A woman who was killed in the cross fire was a friend of Emil Karpo’s, a particular friend. Her name was Mathilde Verson.”
Sasha Tkach and Arkady Zelach sat in the small, drafty flat of Dmitra Klepikova, who wore a heavy blue man’s sweater and slacks and hugged herself in a way that made Sasha wonder if she was ill. She had thin bones and was a woman who seemed to be taking the winter badly. Her skin was already dry, and her gray-white hair was cut very short. She was forty-eight years old but looked two decades older.
Dmitra had handed each of the policemen a cup of tea and then taken a seat between them. In this intimate semicircle Zelach was not at all comfortable.
Dmitra was the local
She had never had a visit from criminal investigators before. In fact, she had never had a visit from any uniformed patrol at all. She had always gone to the run-down 108th Police District office to deliver her reports. In
