discovered.”
The angles of the entry wounds suggested that the men had died on their feet. In both cases the bullet entered through the right rear quadrant of the skull and exited through the opposite eye. Been executed, not died. The lack of blood on the headstone and on the ground around them indicated that the victims had been shot somewhere else and brought to Grisha’s headstone to add insult to injury.
“Like bookends,” Blok said.
“Like a gang war,” Slovo said. “Well, we’ll be out of it soon.”
“Counting the days.”
“Peace and quiet.”
Arkady played the beam of his penlight on one body and then the other. Revolvers were reliable and Glocks were in style, but real artistes used a pistol with a.22 slug that would carom like a billiard ball within the cranium and even stay inside. Nothing was so tidy about the dead men themselves. Bloodstains and gray matter speckled them from head to toe, as if they had shared one last, enormous sneeze.
Arkady said, “It makes no sense. Who would want to start a gang war now? The pot is always simmering, but there’s a rough understanding now. A parity. Everyone is making money.”
“That doesn’t change the fact they’re killers,” said Slovo.
“They’d shoot their mother if she was standing on a dollar bill,” said Blok.
“It looks like a gang war to me,” said Victor. “Now Alexi has to do something.”
Arkady took in Grisha’s headstone and its life-size portrait etched in granite. Was this a gangster’s pyramid, his landmark for the ages? Or a biography with just the good parts: the civic leader, bon vivant, generous donor, rugged sportsman, family man standing with one foot up on the bumper of a Jeep Cherokee, a ski slope in the background, with a yachtsman’s cap cocked on his head and on his face the grin of a man who had it all. Yet something was missing or out of place.
“The car key is gone,” Victor said.
It was snapped off at the surface of the headstone, a message that anyone could understand.
“That reminds me,” Slovo told Arkady, “Abdul Khan wants to see you.”
“
“Actually, he wants to talk to whoever is handling the Tatiana Petrovna case. I told him there was no case anymore but he refused to take no for an answer. I said you’d be in touch.”
“Abdul is one of your players in the Tatiana case,” Victor said.
“So far as I can see, there is no Grigorenko case or Tatiana case,” Arkady said.
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Blok.
“It’s a double negative,” said Slovo.
Victor said, “It’s a dog chasing his fucking tail.”
15
Abdul wore a black T-shirt with his name written in white across the chest and he delivered his video rap on a burned-out Russian tank, a rocket-propelled grenade launcher on his shoulder. Next, Abdul was in an iron cage, beating another man’s face to a pulp. Then he raced a BMW, a “Boomer” as they were known, in and out of high- speed traffic. Next, he carried the limp figure of a woman to a four-poster bed. Abdul had thick black hair and yellow eyes and Arkady would not have been surprised to see him lean back and howl like a wolf.
The screening room went dark and when the lights came up, Abdul was bent over a video console scribbling notes. An entourage of beefed-up guards stood with arms crossed. Beautiful women as listless as mannequins sprawled in leather chairs. They all wore black “Abdul” T-shirts. Arkady planned to interview major Mafia chiefs about Tatiana. Admittedly, there was no case, but maybe this was the best time.
“What do you think?” Abdul asked.
“Of the video? I’m really not a critic.” Arkady hoped he seemed impressed. The soundproofed walls, minibar, audio mixer and video console the size of a spaceship bridge were symbols of success. They were also subtle reminders of Abdul’s enterprises: the demolition business in Grozny, the cars he stole in Germany, the prostitutes he ran in Moscow’s finest hotels, all advertised to the insistent beat of rap.
“Your honest opinion?”
“Well, a bit. .”
“Yeah?”
“Over-the-top.”
“Over-the-top?”
“A touch.”
“Fuck you. My last DVD sold five hundred thousand copies worldwide. I get a thousand hits on my website in a day. Does that sound over-the-top?”
“It sounds frightening.” It seemed to Arkady that they were getting off track. “You told Detectives Slovo and Blok that you knew Tatiana Petrovna?” It still seemed unlikely to Arkady.
“Yeah.”
“On a friendly basis?”
“You find that unbelievable. A policeman should know that no one is one hundred percent saint or sinner.”
“And now you’re a good citizen?”
“Why not?”
Victor had selected Abdul, “Ape” Beledon and Valentina Shagelman as the Mafia heads most likely to order a bullet for Grisha Grigorenko. Otherwise, they were all good citizens.
“During the war Tatiana was a friend to the Chechen people and tried to make peace. Every time there was an atrocity-and, believe me, there were atrocities on a daily basis-she would show up, unbidden as it were.” He heard a snicker run through his entourage. “Get out. What the fuck are you sitting around for? All of you. Out!”
The men appeared used to their leader’s mercurial changes in attitude. They sighed and left and the women stumbled after. Abdul paused to let the dust settle.
“Cretins.”
“No problem. It sounds as if you and Tatiana got along.”
“Got along? You could say so. Twice in Chechnya I had my sights on her. The first time I noticed she was carrying a child covered in blood. The next time I had her in my sights, she was carrying a grandmother to safety. I decided that before I pulled the trigger I should try to discover who this person was.”
Was the story true? Abdul was an expert at creating his own legend.
Abdul dug into his minibar. “Would you like some water, beer, brandy?”
“No, thanks.”
“So I sought her out.”
“And?”
