Valery Grachev existed no longer. There was only Kon. He had changed his mind after talking to the old man from whom he bought the shirts. He would only truly become a king if he were to survive to claim victory. An attack doomed to defeat had its compensations, but it did not create a king.
The bus, green and slow, made many stops. Each stop was painful. A sudden jerk and
The bus was not crowded, but it was far from empty. He had moved to the rear, covered his bleeding wound as well as he could, and gripped the top of the empty seat in front of him.
When he finally got off the bus, arms folded in front of him as if he had a chill, he staggered. Soon, he feared, fevered hallucinations would come. They would have to wait. The bus door closed and he knew the driver and the passengers on this side were looking at this young drunk as he moved down the street.
Will yourself to keep moving, he told himself. Your will can carry you through. Your will power. It can be done. You cannot quit before the game is ended.
He couldn’t go home. He couldn’t go to work. He did not have enough money left to buy bandages or a fresh jacket or shirt to cover his wound. And he certainly could not go to a hospital. He went the only place he could.
“You want to buy a bicycle?” the shopkeeper said.
“Yes,” said Valery Grachev.
“I think you’re sick,” said the man, one hand on the wheel of the upside-down bicycle in front of him. “I think you have a fever and should go to the hospital.”
“You want to sell a bicycle?”
“Yes, but I don’t think you can drive one.”
“That is the concern of Kon, not yours.”
“Kon?”
“Yes, will you sell me a bicycle, now?”
The shopkeeper had a weak heart and no stomach for trouble. “How much can you afford?”
Kon shook his head and smiled.
“Price is no concern,” he said. “Something simple, no gears.”
The man moved down the aisle and selected a bicycle from the many lined up on both sides.
“This?” he asked, pointing to a bicycle.
“Fine, perfect. I’ll take it.”
“It will cost you …”
“I don’t care. I told you, Kon doesn’t care.”
The shopkeeper shrugged. “You need to know so you can pay me,” he said.
“I have no money with me. When I return, I’ll pay you double whatever you ask.”
“I don’t think …”
“You do not have to think. Kon is thinking. I’ve been renting that closet from you for months. You have overcharged me. Have I ever missed a payment? Ever?”
“No, but …”
“I’m taking the bicycle. I have no time to argue.”
“Take it. You’ll pay today?”
“And for the rest of my life,” said Valery Grachev.
The shopkeeper returned to his work. The man was drunk, in a fever, or crazy, or all of these, but he was surely trouble. He heard the man go to the closet, open it, make some noise. Then the man moved slowly to the bicycle, pulled it out of the line, and wheeled it past the shopkeeper. There was now a very large and clearly very heavy backpack strapped over the shoulders of the man who was now calling himself Kon.
The shopkeeper watched as the man struggled to get on the bicycle, the pack on his back heavy and awkward. Finally, he succeeded and managed to drive away down the street.
Fortunately, the bike he had given his customer was one he had been trying to get rid of for two years. It was fortunate because the shopkeeper had a feeling that he would not be seeing this young man again.
A man fitting the description of the one who had shot at Sasha and killed Yuri Kriskov had been reported to a policeman on the embankment of the Moscow River, across from the Kremlin. The policeman had been directing traffic when a man and woman approached him and said that a bleeding man was weaving back and forth on his bicycle and talking to himself. The policeman had nodded professionally, checked the traffic, and moved to the police phone station across the street to call in the report and then go back to directing traffic. The policeman thought little of the report, but he had learned that he should cover his back if he were to survive and possibly some day escape dodging maniacs in red cars. He had reported. He was done.
The report had been taken by a desk clerk who had just received a copy of the description of a Valery Grachev. Grachev, the report said, was dangerous, armed, and probably wounded. The clerk, like the policeman directing traffic, did not wish to lose his job should anything come of this coincidence, should it be but a coincidence, which was likely. The clerk had a wife, a grown daughter, and a gambling habit that required his small but steady salary. He picked up the phone and called the sighting of the wounded bicyclist in to Petrovka, suggesting that it be passed on immediately to the officers investigating the man named Grachev.
It was this that sent the helicopter allocated to the Kriskov murder down the embankment of the river where the pilot saw a man sitting on the narrow line of rocks along the water. The pilot dropped lower and reported over his radio that there was a child on one side of the man and a large cloth bag that looked like a backpack on the other. It was then that the man raised his arm and fired a shot at the helicopter.
The pilot heard the bullet hit not far from his window. He took the helicopter up two hundred feet quickly and noisily and reported in again, trying to keep his voice calm as he told of the shot fired. The pilot was a veteran of the Afghan war. He had been shot at before, but it had been a long time ago, and now that it had happened again the knowledge of how close he had come to dying in that distant rocky wasteland rushed into his consciousness. He was afraid, but he would not show it.
“Man and boy on the embankment of the Moscow River almost directly across from the Kremlin,” he said. “Man fits the description of Valery Grachev. There is a bag at his side. When I approached, he fired one shot from a handgun, hitting but, I believe, not causing serious injury to the craft. I could not determine if he might be wounded or the extent of any wounds.”
“Very good,” came the voice of the pilot’s supervisor. “Remain in place until you see police vehicles at the scene and then return to base for a damage assessment.”
The supervisor ended the transmission and the pilot allowed himself to take some serious deep breaths.
Grachev was still sitting in the same position that the pilot had reported, when Sasha Tkach and Elena Timofeyeva arrived at the embankment in the police car they had been in for the past hour and a half. By this time, other marked cars with flashing lights had converged and a pair of uniformed policemen were directing traffic away from the site, creating a lengthy traffic jam and drawing camera-armed tourists.
Sasha had said little during the ride. Elena had only repeated that she was certain that Vera Kriskov was involved in her husband’s death. Sasha’s mind was elsewhere. Once again he had almost died. He had imagined Maya and the children crying at his grave site. He imagined his mother shouting at Porfiry Petrovich, telling him how many times she had pleaded with him to give her only son a safe job behind a desk. The helicopter pilot and Sasha had a great deal in common this morning: both had almost been shot by the same man.
When Elena and Sasha stepped out of the car, a uniformed policeman pointed to the concrete balustrade that ran along the river, keeping drunken motorists from plunging into the water. Elena reached the concrete barrier first and carefully looked over. Sasha moved to her side and looked down at Valery Grachev to their left. Grachev was holding a gun in his lap. The weapon was pointed at a boy of about eleven, no more than a foot or two from Grachev.
“A special-division marksman is here,” the policeman said. “He says he can safely put a bullet into the man’s head. It is an easy shot, the marksman says.”
“If one puts a bullet into a man’s head, the word
