Wolves Eat Dogs

by Martin Cruz Smith

  "Dead or drunk?" Bobby asked.

  "He looks fine," Yakov said.

  Bobby settled into a chair next to Campbell to watch the game. It was a tape of two British teams playing a trench-warfare style of soccer devoid of Latin frills. Arkady doubted very much that Bobby Hoffman was a soccer fan; it was more as if he knew what was coming. Arkady ejected the game.

  "Got any baseball?" Bobby asked.

  "I have this." Arkady fed Vanko's tape into the player and pushed Play.

  Chernobyl, day, exterior: the crossroad of the café, commissary and dormitory established in a handheld shot. For atmosphere, a monument to firefighters, a statue of Lenin pushing out his chest, trees dressed in the bright green of early spring. A telephoto shot of an approaching bus that sinuously dipped up and down and spread into a long line of buses as they neared. Jump to buses parked in the dormitory lot and hundreds of bearded men, at first sight identical in black suits and hats, disembarking and milling around. At second sight all ages, including boys with side curls. And a separate bus of women wearing head scarves. A pair of militia with the sullen expression of the dispossessed. A close-up of Captain Marchenko shaking hands and welcoming a man whose expression was hidden in his beard.

  "This was taped last year by Vanko," Arkady said.

  A disorganized march – carrying a murmur in Hebrew and English – filled the road and spilled over onto the sidewalk, trying not to get too far ahead of patriarchs with beards that spread like unraveling silk. They had come from New York and Israel, Yakov said, that was where Chernobyl's Jews were now. A brief rinse cycle as Vanko ran ahead with his camera on. Cut to the bunker of the rabbi's tomb. Rabbi Nahum of Chernobyl, Yakov said. A great man, the sort who saw God everywhere. The visitors watched an elder arthritically remove his shoes, then enter. Yakov said that one grave in the tomb was for Rabbi Nahum, the other for his grandson, also a rabbi. Arkady remembered how tight the space was in the tomb, yet it appeared to swallow man after man, each shoeless and with an expression of walking on air. A pan of the ecstatic crowd, and there he was on the fringe, Bobby Hoffman in his suit and hat, but no beard to obscure his expression of agony.

  Arkady asked himself whether any rabbi, dead or alive, could meet the expectations of the people waiting their turn to enter. Many carried letters, and he knew what they asked: health for the ill, ease for the dying, safety from the suicide bomber. Arkady set the tape on slow motion to catch Bobby, about to take his turn, dropping out of line. For everyone else, there was a curious relaxation, as if they were all playing on grandfather's lap. Men sang and danced, hands on the shoulders of the man in front, and snaked back and forth across the street. Bobby stayed apart and moved only to shun the camera. When people unwrapped sandwiches and ate, Bobby disappeared. Vanko cut to more dancing, continuous visits to the tomb, then finally a prayer said by a long line of men facing the river.

  As Yakov sang along, his croak of a voice became sonorous: "Y'hay sh'may raho m'vorah, l'olam ulolmay olmayo." He translated: "Blessed and praised, glorified and exalted, extolled and honored, adored and lauded be the name of the Holy One, blessed be he." He added, "Kaddish, the prayer for the dead."

  The camera glimpsed Bobby with his lips sealed. Then the buses reloaded and formed their convoy and started the drive back to Kiev. In the room, Bobby's head dropped into his hands.

  "Why did you come last year, Bobby?" Arkady asked. "You didn't visit the grave or sing or dance or pray. You told me that you came to look into processing reactor fuel, and you certainly didn't do that. You arrived on the bus, and you left on the bus, but you didn't do anything, so why were you here?"

  Bobby looked up, his eyes hot and wet. "Pasha asked me."

  "To visit the tomb?" Arkady said.

  "No. All he wanted was that I prayed, that I said the Kaddish. I told him I didn't do that stuff. Pasha said, 'Go, you'll do it.' He insisted so much I couldn't say no. But I got here and it didn't matter. I couldn't."

  "Why not?"

  "I didn't pray for my father. He died in prison, but he wanted a Kaddish, from me especially, only I was already on the run over some stock swap. Unimportant. The thing is, I blew it. And what the hell kind of deal did God give my father, anyway? Half his life in jail, a disease that took half his body, my mother for a wife and me for a son. So I signed off on all this stuff. I just don't do it."

  "What did you tell Pasha when you got back to Moscow?"

  "I lied. The only favor he ever asked of me, and I let him down. And he knew it."

  "Why did he choose you?"

  "Who else would he? I was his guy. Besides, I told him once I was a yeshiva kid. Me, Bobby Hoffman. Can you believe it?"

  Before Bobby went completely down the emotional drain, Arkady wanted to get the facts straight. "The men facing the river were saying Kaddish for Jews killed in the pogrom eighty years ago?" A listless nod. "And that's what Pasha Ivanov sent you from Moscow to join?"

  "It had to be Chernobyl."

  "To say a prayer for victims of the pogrom here." That, at least, seemed understood.

  Bobby had to laugh. "You don't get it. Pasha wanted a Kaddish for Chernobyl, for victims of the accident."

  "Why?"

  "He wouldn't say. I asked. And after I went back to Moscow, he never mentioned it again. Months went by, and apparently no harm done, and then Pasha dives out a window and Timofeyev comes here to get his throat cut."

  Well, there had been a few signs of trouble brewing, Arkady thought. Isolation, paranoia, nosebleeds.

  Bobby said, "Somehow I can't help but believe that if I had only prayed when Pasha asked, he and Timofeyev would be alive today."

  "Was someone watching you?" Arkady asked.

  "Who would watch?"

  "The camera watched."

  "Do you think it would have made any difference?" Bobby asked.

  "I don't know."

  Out of mercy, Arkady switched tapes and stepped into the hall with Yakov.

  "Clever," Yakov said. The eye under the crushed brow shone in the light of the moon.

  "Not really. I think Bobby has been trying to tell us this since he arrived. That's probably why he came."

  "Now that he has, do you have a way to take us out?"

  "I have an individual in mind."

  "Trustworthy?"

  Arkady weighed Bela's character. "Reliable but greedy. How much money do you have?"

  "Whatever he wants, if we get to Kiev. On us now, maybe two hundred fifty dollars."

  "Not much."

  "It's what we have left."

  Not enough, Arkady thought. "That will have to do, then. Keep Bobby as quiet as possible and take off his shoes. And keep the television on; as long as the housekeeper thinks the Englishman's here, she won't go in."

  "You know Ozhogin?"

  "A little. He'll watch your car and the house first. Then he'll strike into the field. He's more a spy than military; he likes to operate alone. He might bring two or three men. All he'll want from Marchenko is to keep the checkpoints closed. When you leave, I'll follow you out."

  "No, I operate alone, too."

  "You don't know Colonel Ozhogin."

  "I've known a hundred Ozhogins." Yakov took a deep breath. Outside, the taller trees were starting to separate from the night. The first birdsong rang out. "Such a day. Rabbi Nahum said no man was beyond redemption. He said redemption was established before the creation of the world itself, that's how important redemption is. No one can take it away."

  Arkady went into his own room and packed, if for no other reason than to give the impression that he was leaving and following orders. His life – case notes and clothing – fit into a small suitcase and duffel bag with room to spare. There were flights all day to Moscow. He had options. He could change from camos, bungee-cord the suitcase and bag to the rear fender of the motorcycle and look like any other office worker making an early commute to the city. If he raced, he might still catch a plane and get to the prosecutor's office by noon. Where
would Zurin assign him next? Was there a position for a senior investigator out on the permafrost? The people of the Arctic Circle were said to be full of life. He was ready for a laugh.

  He noticed, at the top of his file, the employment application for NoviRus. He was surprised to find he still had it. He scanned the opportunities. Banking? Brokerage? Security or combat skills? It did nothing for his confidence to realize he had not one marketable talent. Certainly not communication skills. He wished he could start the night over again, beginning with Zurin's call, and clarify to Eva what he was doing. Not going, only helping a criminal flee the Zone. Was that better?

  • • •

  Bela was already up, having a daybreak coffee in front of CNN, when Arkady arrived.

  "I always like to hear the weather in Thailand. I picture listening to the soft rain as Thai girls walk up and down my back, kneading it with their little toes."

  "Not Russian girls in boots?"

  "A different picture altogether. Not necessarily a bad one. I judge no one. In fact, I always liked those Soviet statues of women with powerful biceps and tiny tits."

  "You've been here too long, Bela."

  "I take time off. I see the doctor. I walk around the whole yard every day. That's a 10K walk."

  "Let's walk," Arkady said.

  The scale of the yard was best appreciated on foot. As it broke the horizon the sun turned shadowy canyons into the neat ranks of a necropolis. The endless rows of poisoned vehicles evoked the hundreds of thousands of soldiers who had dug, bulldozed and loaded radioactive debris. The trucks were here. Where were the men? Arkady wondered. No one had kept track.

  "Two passengers," Arkady said. "You take them out like your usual customers."

  "But they're not regular customers. Things out of the ordinary make me nervous."

  "Selling radioactive auto parts is ordinary?"

  "Mildly radioactive."

  "Get out while you're ahead."

  "I could. I should be reaping the benefits of my labor, not living in a graveyard. The situation with Captain Marchenko has become intolerable, the bastard's always trying to get me dismissed."

  "Does he ever stop your van?"

  "He wouldn't dare. I have more friends upstairs than he does, because I'm generous and spread the money around. When you think about it, I have a good thing going here. I'm the only one in the Zone with a good thing going. I'm sitting pretty."

  "You're sitting in the middle of a radioactive dump."

  Bela shrugged. "Why should I jeopardize that for two men I don't know?"

  "For five hundred dollars that you don't have to spread around."

  "Five hundred? If you called a taxi from Kiev, he'd charge you for both ways, two people, luggage. A hundred dollars, easy. And then he couldn't get past the checkpoint."

  "What are you moving today?"

  "An engine block. I got a van specially outfitted, with jump seats for the customers."

  "Then they'll just be two customers riding along, as usual."

  "But I sense desperation. Desperation means risk, and risk means money. A thousand each."

  "Five hundred for both. You're going anyway. The real question is why you would come back."

  Bela spread his arms. His chains and medals jingled. "Look around. I've got thousands of auto parts to sell."

  "Because you're losing your hair. Look in a mirror."

  Bela touched his hairline. "What a joker. You had me for a second."

  Arkady shrugged. "And the virility is normal?"

  "Yes!"

  "Five hundred for transportation for two to Kiev, for a service that you usually provide for free. Half to start and half on arrival, to start immediately."

  "Immediately? We're pulling the engine now, but it's not ready." Bela glanced in the wing mirror of a car.

  "Any dryness of the mouth?"

  "It's the dust, the wind always kicking it up."

  "You'd know better than I. It's just that everyone rotates time here except you. I don't want to see you holding on to a sack of money with one hand and an IV tube with the other."

  "Don't lecture me. I was here for years before you showed up, my friend." Bela slapped dust off his sleeves.

  "My point exactly."

  "Change of subject!"

  They turned the corner onto an avenue of heavy trucks. Halfway down the row was a shower of sparks.

  "Fifteen hundred." Bela touched his hair again.

  "I hate haggling," Arkady said. "Why don't we do this? Clean your hairbrush and brush your hair. We'll start at five thousand. No, we'll start at ten thousand, and for every new hair in the brush, we deduct a thousand."

  "I wouldn't have any money left."

  "And we haven't mentioned yet that you're illegally selling state goods."

  "They're radioactive."

  "Bela, that's not a mitigating factor."

  "What do you care? They're Ukrainian goods. You're Russian."

  "I'll shut you down."

  "I trusted you."

  "Nothing personal."

  "Five hundred."

  "Done."

  To prevent the removal of the hotter engines, the hoods of some trucks had been welded shut. Bela's welder, in a mask and greasy coveralls, was cutting one open with an acetylene torch. A lifting sling and a crane stood by to pull the engine out; then the welder would seal the hood again. It was a perfect system. Arkady checked his dosimeter. The count was twice normal. Well, what was normal?

  Feeling high from a successful negotiation and the euphoria of a sleepless night, Arkady detoured. Instead of returning directly to the dormitory, he went to Eva's cabin to explain to her that while he had to report to Moscow, he could return in a day or two on his own. Even if he wasn't allowed back in the Zone, they could meet in Kiev. She was difficult. He was difficult. They could be difficult together. They could try to "forge the glorious future," as the banners used to say. Or fight and break up, like everyone else. He imagined the entire conversation in advance.

  As Arkady rode the motorcycle up to the cabin, he saw Alex's Toyota truck parked at the garage, and as he walked to the screen door of the house, he heard a scuffle within. There was something about the sound that prevented him from rushing in immediately. No one was in the front room; no one played the piano or sorted through the papers on the desk. He heard no real conversation: instead, a groan and a noise like shuffling feet.

  Arkady moved to the bedroom window, and there, through the lilacs, he had a view of Alex and Eva. They stood together. Her bathrobe was open, and he was pressing her against a bureau, his pants down, his buttocks flexing in and out. She clung limp as a rag doll, arms around his neck, as he pounded his flesh into hers, covered her mouth with his. Was this the magical dance floor from the night before? Arkady wondered. A change of partners, obviously. As Alex pulled Eva's head back by her hair to kiss her she saw Arkady at the window. She freed a hand to motion him to leave. The bureau, jostled, spilled brushes, pictures, perfume bottles. Alex saw Arkady in the bureau mirror and more vigorously lifted her with his strokes. As she rocked, Eva listlessly watched Arkady. He waited for some signal from her, but she closed her eyes and laid her head on Alex's shoulder.

  Arkady backtracked to the bike, staggering as if he'd lost his sense of balance. It was a little early in the day to cope with this. Apparently, Eva hadn't expected him back. All the same, it was, he felt, a little sudden. And it seemed to spell farewell. He felt a rage take over, although he wasn't sure at whom. This was, he understood, why domestic quarrels ended so badly.

  Alex came out of the cabin's screen door, tucking his shirt in, buckling his belt, the man of the house encountering an unexpected visitor. "Alas, poor Renko, I knew him well. Sorry you caught us like that. I know it's painful."

  "I didn't know you would be here."

  "I thought you were gone. Anyway, why not? She's still my wife."

  "Did you rape her?"

  "No."

  "Was there resistance?"


  "No. Since you ask." Alex looked back at the cabin as Eva appeared through the haze of the screen door. "It was very good. Felt like home."

  Arkady walked to the cabin door. As he reached the front step Eva bolted the screen door and backed up to the middle of the little parlor clutching her robe tight. "She'll get over it," Alex said. "Eva is tougher than she looks."

  Arkady rattled the door. He considered ripping it out, but she shook her head and said in a hoarse voice, "This is none of your business."

  "You're upsetting her," Alex said.

  "Are you bruised?" Arkady asked.

  Eva said, "No."

  "I need to talk to you."

  "Go away, please!" Eva said.

  "I need to –"

  This was exactly the sort of scene that police the world over hated. Two men starting to wrestle on the ground, a motorcycle kicked over, a woman sobbing inside the house. The gun in Alex's hand was the next escalation. He pushed it against Arkady's temple and said, "We had an understanding, you and I. You came here for an investigation. Fine, investigate. Any questions you want. But leave Eva alone. I take care of Eva. She needs someone reliable who will be here tomorrow and the day after. Go back to Moscow now, and no one's the worse."

  "I was lonely," Eva said. She came to the screen. "I phoned Alex and asked him over. It was my idea."

  "All of it?"

  But she retreated from sight.

  "Is that good enough for you?" asked Alex. "So, you're finished here, right? We can be friends again. We'll run into each other on the street in Moscow, remember our drunken samogon party and pretend to wish each other well. Agreed?"

  Alex was first to his feet. He tucked the gun, a 9mm, into the back of his belt. Arkady rose more slowly.

  "One question."

  "The investigator is back on the case. Excellent."

  "Who did they call?"

  "Who called who?"

  "At the samogon party, you did a hilarious impersonation of the control-room technicians, how they blew up the reactor and had to report to Moscow. Who in Moscow did they call?"

  "You're serious? What does it matter?"