Tatiana

“He’s going to join us on Frontier Guards Day.”

That was a rash promise. On their day, the Frontier Guards were famous for drinking and mobbing Red Square.

“One more glass,” Victor begged Arkady.

“Stand up.”

“I can do it. I don’t need any help. For God’s sake, leave a man a little dignity.” Victor bowed theatrically and slid off the bench in a heap.

Arkady managed to get him to the car.

As they drove, Arkady noticed that the Natalya Goncharova, Grisha’s superyacht, was no longer anchored off the Kremlin Pier. In which case, where was Alexi staying? He had boasted to Anya about having a penthouse. Either way he was out of Arkady’s reach.

Victor hung his head out the window and sniffed like a connoisseur. “Fresh air.”

16

Whose ox was gored?

The question had a biblical resonance. Arkady imagined an ancient Sumerian standing in a field of trampled grain and asking the same question. Who suffered? Who gained?

Beledon and Valentina were established organizations, doing very nicely, thank you, and not likely to see any benefit in upsetting the apple cart. Or the ox.

Abdul observed no such niceties. You say, I don’t know whom to strike. I say, strike them all. But was a Chechen organization going to take on every Russian gang? Abdul seemed more involved with the sales of his DVDs than he was with revolution.

Alexi Grigorenko thought that he could inherit his father’s enterprises by making a public claim on them. Just by his ignorance, he was dangerous.

Whose ox was gored?

• • •

At night, Arkady drove along the halo of car dealerships and gentlemen’s clubs that stretched along the Ring Road. Zhenya called on Arkady’s cell phone and was even more maddening than usual.

“What is the notebook about?”

Arkady said, “It’s nothing. It’s just a notebook. The main thing is that you stole it and I want it back.”

“You said it was in code.”

“I don’t know what it is. It has no value.”

“Is that why you locked it in a safe? Maybe I should tear it up.”

“Don’t.”

“Maybe I should be asking for money too. But I’ll be generous. All I want is the parental form signed so I can enlist. I can join the army, and you can keep a notebook that nobody can read.”

“It’s for a dead case.”

“It’s not dead if you’re working it.”

“It’s for Tatiana Petrovna.”

“I know that.”

“How do you know that?” There were no names on or in the notebook as far as Arkady remembered.

An edge developed in Zhenya’s voice. “Just sign the permission.”

“Are you breaking the code?”

“I’ll give you an hour, and then I’ll start tearing up the notebook.”

“Have you been reading it? What else have you learned?”

“Sign the slip,” Zhenya said, and hung up.

“Shit,” Arkady said. No other word would do.

• • •

As soon as he reached his apartment, Arkady dropped onto his bed. He had heard not a sound from Anya’s flat and was not about to knock on her door. Perhaps she and Alexi were enjoying a pre-party party. Arkady didn’t care. All he craved was sleep, and he was still dressed when he pulled up his coverlet.

Fatigue conjured up the strangest dreams. He found himself following a tapping sound down a dark hallway, rapid claw taps on a wooden floor. As he caught up, it became evident that he was following a white rabbit that slipped in and out of red velvet drapes. Arkady was nearly within reach when the rabbit bolted into a room that was full of men in Nazi SS uniforms who bore horrible wounds.

Arkady’s father sat at a table with a revolver and three telephones, white, red and black. What the colors signified, Arkady didn’t know. Although the top of the general’s head was shaved off, he smoked a cigarette with aplomb and when the white cat jumped onto his lap, he let it nestle like a favored pet. Anticipation was building. Although Arkady didn’t understand a word, he was aware of hands pushing him toward the table. The pug turned his face up to Arkady.

The red telephone rang. It rang and rang until he woke in a sweat. The Germans and his father were gone. The revolver was gone and the nightmare was incomplete. The telephone, however, was ringing off its cradle.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Investigator Renko. It’s Lorenzo.”

Arkady found his watch. It was three in the morning.

“Lorenzo. .”

“From Ercolo Bicycles in Milan.”

“What time is it there?”

“Midnight.”

“I thought so.” Arkady rubbed sleep out of his eyes.

“You told me to call if I found the receipt or number of the bike we made for a Signor Bonnafos. You have a pen and paper?”

Arkady fumbled in the drawer of his night table. “Yes.”

“This will take just a second,” Lorenzo promised.

“I’m ready.”

“A bicycle is fitted like a custom suit, only more so.”

“I understand.”

“After all, a bicycle has to be not only a thing of beauty but durable enough to withstand the rigors of the road.”

“I’m sure. What is the number?”

“This took hours of research. Are you ready?” Lorenzo asked. He called out the identification numbers like a bingo master: “JB-10-25-12-81. JB-10-25-12-81.”

“Can you remember anything else about Bonnafos?”

“Cast bottom bracket and exposed cables.”

“I meant personally.”

“A fitness fanatic, but otherwise, I would have to say he had no personality.”

“Women?”

“No.”

“Politics?”

“No.”

“Sports?”

“Aside from biking, no.”

Arkady thought that Joseph Bonnafos sounded more and more a perfect cipher; perhaps that was an advantage for an interpreter.

“Anything else?” Lorenzo asked. “It’s getting late.”