Ivan Medivkin decided to leave the compound of the Union of the Return less than five hours after he had arrived.
He had eaten with Artyom Gorodeyov, whom the men, women, and children in the compound obeyed without question, happy to get a nod of approval or a new task from Gorodeyov.
This baffled Ivan, who saw not a benevolent father figure but a dour, ill-dressed, and sloppy man of neither wit, wisdom, nor charisma. Ivan wondered why Klaus Agrinkov had brought him here.
“I have decided to go,” he announced to Gorodeyov as they took a walk down a muddy road outside the compound walls.
“There is no place safe for you but with us.”
“I should be in Moscow looking for a murderer.”
“It is not a good idea.”
“Do you plan to try to stop me?”
Gorodeyov, a sprig of radishes in hand on which he had been munching, stopped and looked up at the giant beside him.
“It would be very difficult to stop you. But it would be a great risk for us to help you go back.”
“All I need is a vehicle to borrow.”
“In the barn, there is a backup truck. It is not in the best of condition. You may take it. You disappoint me, Ivan Medivkin. You have failed to allow yourself to remain and thus learn that you can be a great tool in getting all of Russia to know that there is a force rising throughout the land, a force to return our nation to glory and respect.”
“I am going,” said Ivan.
Gorodeyov shrugged and said, “Suit yourself. Think about what I have said. Consider. The Union of the Return is here to welcome you as a brother.”
“Yes, I have a red car,” said Klaus Agrinkov.
The fight manager and the two policemen were sitting in a corner of the gym, where Agrinkov held in place a heavy dangling canvas bag. A big heavily perspiring young man in sweat-soaked gray shorts and a green T-shirt pounded away at the bag, pushing Agrinkov back half a step with each blow.
There was no one else in the gym, which smelled even more stale and rancid to Iosef than it had earlier.
“Popovich here is big, strong, willing,” said Agrinkov, “but he lacks something.”
“Heart?” said Iosef.
“Power in his left jab,” said Zelach.
Both the fighter and the manager looked at Zelach, and Agrinkov said, “You’ve seen him fight?”
“No,” said Zelach. “But he does not put his weight from his left leg into the blow.”
“See?” said the manager to the boxer. “If the policeman knows, everyone will know. Go take a shower.”
“No hot water,” said the fighter, chest rising and falling.
“Then shower cold or towel down and go home and shower.”
Popovich walked off, using his teeth to take off the lightweight gloves he wore.
“Only one Medivkin,” said Agrinkov, watching his fighter walk away. “He is not just a giant of a man. He has the determination, the will to win. I had it, but not the size to make it to the big money as a heavyweight or the ability to get my weight down to where I could be a middleweight.”
“Red car,” said Iosef.
The fight manager considered, folded his arms over his chest, and pursed his lips in thought. He wore a gray cotton shirt with long sleeves and the word “Medivkin” across the front.
“Ivan did not kill her,” he said. “I would stake my life on it. I would stake my mother’s soul and that of my father on it. He could not. I am certain.”
“Not because in losing him you would also lose your most precious asset?”
“Of course I want to keep him fighting, winning, making us both rich, but he is my friend first. He did not kill Lena. He loved her beyond reason. She did not deserve his love, but he loved her.”
“You picked him up at the apartment of Vera Korstov,” said Iosef. “He called you. Where did you take him?”
“I took him to the new Russia Hotel.”
“You did not,” said Iosef. “We would know by now if you had. A famous giant boxing champion wanted as a suspect for murder does not just check into a large hotel unnoticed.”
“That is where I left him,” Agrinkov insisted.
Zelach was staring at the battered nose of the manager, the badge of pugilistic honor. The image of the old Chinese man moving in slow motion near the single barren tree came to Zelach. He wondered if this man had ever tried tai chi.
“We can arrest you for assisting in the hiding of a fugitive,” said Iosef.
“What good would that do?” asked Agrinkov.
“None, other than to let the world know that not only is your meal ticket wanted in association with a particularly unpleasant murder but that you too are wanted in connection with the crime. It might make it very difficult for you to continue to function as a manager.”
“The public will thank me.”
Iosef knew Agrinkov was right, but the policeman pressed on.
“He is just postponing the inevitable,” said Iosef.
“Aren’t we all?” said Agrinkov.
Agrinkov shook his head, unfolded his arms, and slapped his calloused hands against his thighs.
“I tell you I do not know where he is. He did not ask to be taken to a hotel. He asked to be taken to a Metro station and. .”
“Compound of the Union of the Return,” said Zelach.
Both of the other men looked at him.
“In your office where we were this morning,” said Zelach, “there are photographs on the wall. One was of a training camp in Saslov. You were smiling and so were Artyom Gorodeyov, the head of the Union of the Return, and Deputy Russian Minister Borodin. His arm was around your shoulder. The Union of the Return compound is no more than two hours from Moscow.”
Iosef smiled.
“I could be wrong,” said Zelach. “I probably am.”
“But maybe you are not,” said Iosef, who turned his head to Agrinkov, who was rubbing his thumbs against his fingers nervously. “I think you are not.”
“I have told you nothing,” said the manager.
“You have told us everything,” said Iosef. “We are going to this compound to get Medivkin and you are going with us.”
Iosef motioned for Agrinkov to move ahead of him. Were the former boxer to put up a fight, Iosef, though certainly strong, and Zelach, a zealous combatant, would probably be no match for him. For an instant Iosef wondered if his partner might possess some strange martial-arts moves in slow motion that would subdue even the strongest of men. Little that Zelach could do would surprise Iosef.
“Artyom Gorodeyov will not easily give up someone under his protection,” warned Agrinkov as he moved ahead of them.
“Then it will be his mistake. Move.”
Iosef did not want to draw his gun, but he would have if the man in front of them showed any signs of resistance. Iosef Rostnikov, unlike his father, had a very short temper, which he strove, usually with adequate success, to keep under control, but he would not actually fire his weapon on an unarmed suspect.
Zelach shuffled at the rear. The image of the slow-moving Chinese man under the light rain returned and Zelach had an almost uncontrollable urge to call his mother to see if she was all right.
