Wolves Eat Dogs

'Fuck off.'

'I bet your brother is tired of being your brother. I think it's time he stood on his own two feet.' Arkady pushed off the pistol's safety and, to be convincing, put the muzzle to Dymtrus's head.

'Wait. Fuck. Katamay who?'

'Your friend and teammate, your fellow militia officer Karel Katamay. He found the Russian at the cemetery. I want to talk to him.'

'He's missing.'

'Not to everyone. I talked to his grandfather, and soon two thugs, you and your brother, begin playing hockey with my head.'

'What do you want to talk about?'

'The Russian, pure and simple.'

'Let me up.'

'Give me a reason.' Arkady applied more weight to the decision making.

'Okay! I'll see.'

'I want you to take me to him.'

'He'll call you.'

'No, face-to-face.'

'I can't breathe.'

'Face-to-face. Arrange it, or I will find you and shoot off your knee. Then we'll see how you skate.' Arkady applied one last squeeze before getting up.

Dymtrus sat up and rubbed his neck. He had a sloped face like a shovel and small eyes. 'Shit.'

Arkady gave Dymtrus his mobile-phone number and, since he felt Dymtrus tensing for a fight, threw in as an afterthought, 'You're not a bad skater.'

'How the fuck would you know?'

'I saw you practice. You prefer ice?'

'So?'

'I bet you're wasted on the league down here.'

'So?'

'Just an observation.'

Dymtrus pushed his hair back. 'So what? What do you know about ice hockey?'

'Not much. I know people.'

'Like who?'

'Wayne Gretzky.' Arkady had heard of Wayne Gretzky.

'You know him? Fuck! Do you think he'd ever come down here?'

'To Chernobyl? No. You'd have to go to Moscow.'

'He could see me there?'

'Maybe. I don't know.'

'But he might? I'm big and I'm fast and I'm willing to kill.'

'That's an unbeatable combination.'

'So he might?'

'We'll see.'

A Dymtrus with a more positive frame of mind got to his feet. 'Okay, we'll see. Could I have my gun back?'

'No. That's my guarantee that I will meet Katamay. You get your gun back after.'

'What if I need it?'

'Stay out of trouble.'

Feeling in a better frame of mind himself, Arkady rode to the cafe, where he found Bobby Hoffman and Yakov working on black coffee in the absence of a kosher kitchen.

'I figured it out,' Bobby told Arkady. 'If Yakov's father was here when they sank the ferry full of Jews, and that was 1919, 1920, that makes Yakov over eighty. I didn't know he was that old.'

'He seems to know his business.'

'He wrote the book. But you look at him and think, All this guy wants is to sit in a beach chair in Tel Aviv, take a nap and quietly expire. How are you feeling, Renko?'

Yakov raised a basilisks gaze. 'He's fine.'

'I'm fine,' Arkady said. Despite the accumulation of bruises, he was.

Yakov was tidy, like a pensioner dressed to feed the birds, but Bobbys face and clothes were corrugated from lack of sleep, and his hand was swollen.

'What happened?'

'Bees.' Bobby shrugged it off. 'I don't mind bees. So what about Obodovsky, what's he doing in Kiev?'

'Anton is doing what you'd expect someone of his stature to do when he's visiting his hometown. He's showing off money and a girl.'

'The dental hygienist?'

'That's right. We're not in Russia. Neither Victor nor I have any authority to pick him up or question him.'

Bobby whispered, 'I don't want him questioned, I want him dead. You can do that anywhere. I'm out on a very long limb here. And nothing is happening. My two Russian cops are taking tea, visiting the malls. I give you Kuzmitch, you don't want him. You see Obodovsky, you can't touch him. This is why you don't get paid, because you don't produce.'

'Coffee.' Yakov brought Arkady a cup. There was no waiter.

'And Yakov, here, he prays all night. Oils his gun and prays. You two are a pair.'

Arkady said, 'Yesterday you were patient.'

'Today I'm shitting a brick.'

'Then tell me what you were doing here last year.'

'It's none of your business.' Bobby leaned to look out the window. 'Rain, radiation, leaky roofs. It's getting to me.'

A militia car swung into the space beside Yakov's battered Nissan, and Captain Marchenko emerged slowly, perhaps posing for a painting called The Cossack at Dawn, Arkady thought. A lot of things had escaped Marchenko's notice-a slit throat, tire treads and footprints at a murder scene-but the Zone's two newest residents had caught the captain's eye. The captain entered the cafe and affected friendly surprise at the sight of Bobby and company, like a man who sees a lamb and the possibility of lamb chops. He came immediately to the table.

'Do I see visitors? Renko, please introduce me to your friends.'

Arkady looked at Bobby, asking in a silent way what name he would care to offer.

Yakov stepped in. 'I am Yitschak Brodsky, and my colleague is Chaim Weitzman. Please, Mr. Weitzman speaks only Hebrew and English.'

'No Ukrainian? Not even Russian?'

'I interpret.'

'And you, Renko, do you speak Hebrew or English?'

'A little English.'

'You would,' the captain said, as if it were a black mark. 'Friends of yours?'

Arkady improvised. 'Weitzman is a friend of a friend. He knew I was here, but he came to see the Jewish grave.'

'And stayed overnight not one night but two, without informing the militia. I talked to Vanko.' Marchenko turned to Yakov. 'May I see your passports, please?' The captain studied them closely, to underline his authority. He cleared his throat. 'Excellent. You know, I often say we should make our Jewish visitors especially welcome.'

'Are there other visitors?' Arkady asked.

There was an answer-specialists in toxic sites-but Marchenko maintained a smile, and when he handed back