“No,” he said, “don’t. You are beautiful as you are and. . this is Inspector Rostnikov. . no, the other one. I need backup, quickly.”
Elena and Iosef smiled at each other. Iosef ’s anger was gone, the Pleshkov situation of minor interest compared to the beauty of this moment.
He hung up the phone.
“They’ll be here soon,” he said.
“Meanwhile,” she said, “we can watch and talk. We have plans to make.”
It was dangerous. It was stupid, but Sasha was frantic. When the meeting with the Frenchmen was over, hands were shaken, drinks downed, and talk was almost nonexistent.
“At some point, if we are to work together,” said the rugged youngest man, “you will both have to learn a little French, come visit us in Marseilles.”
“I am very bad with languages,” said Sasha.
“And I am not interested in any language but the one of my people,” said Nimitsov.
More amiable silence. A few toasts to the future. The old men showed nothing.
When the rugged Frenchman looked at his watch and said,
“Time to go,” Sasha followed Boris and Nimitsov into the entry hall. The door closed behind them.
“I have to make a call,” said Sasha.
“No time,” said Peter Nimitsov.
“There’s plenty of time,” said Sasha.
“Who are you calling?” asked Nimitsov.
“A woman,” said Sasha, flashing a huge false and leering smile.
“No time,” Nimitsov repeated. “We must get back, prepare.”
“I could have had the call finished by now,” said Sasha. “I must make the call.”
Nimitsov played his teeth against his lower lip and nodded at Boris. “There’s a phone in the kitchen. Boris will show you. Be quick.”
There was no doubt that Nimitsov was suspicious. There was no doubt that making this call was madness. There was no doubt that Sasha didn’t care.
Boris led Sasha through an arch, down a stone-floored hallway lined with cabinets containing dinnerware, large serving bowls, service for dozens.
They entered the large kitchen. There was an oven, a refrigerator, a freezer locker, a stone table in the center of the room and knives, pots, and pans hanging on hooks along the wall.
“There,” said Boris.
Sasha went to the phone on the wall, picked it up, and dialed his home. After three rings, Maya answered.
“Maya,” he said, trying not to betray himself to Boris. “It is me, Dmitri.”
“Dmitri? Sasha, are you drunk in the middle of the day?”
“No,” he said with a laugh.
“Someone is listening to you?”
“Of course,” Sasha said, grinning hugely.
“They could. . maybe someone is listening on an extension?”
she said.
“It’s possible,” he said, winking at Boris.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“Don’t you know?”
“Dmitri,” she said, using his cover name, “you are mad.”
“It’s worth the risk. Don’t leave.”
“Your uncle Porfiry came to talk to me about our problem,” she said.
“And?” he said, knowing that his mother had certainly interfered again.
“Are you going to be home soon?”
“Late tonight,” he said. “Will you be there?”
“You are in danger.”
“Of course,” he said.
“Be careful. We will be here.”
“I have to go now,” he said, looking at Boris. “Wear your silk nightgown, the clinging one.”
“If I had such a thing, this would not be the night I would wear it. Be careful.”
Sasha hung up and sighed deeply. “It’s good to keep them happy,” he said.
“Till you tire of them,” said Boris.
“True,” said Sasha. “Let’s go.”
One hour later Sasha was in a dogfight arena, definitely upscale compared to the one where he thought he would be, the one he had been in the night before. This room was air conditioned and im-maculately clean. There were fewer seats, but the men in them were better dressed and the betting in the first fight had been handled by men in matching dark suits. Drinks were served. If there were a shooter present to control any dog that might go wild, that shooter was not immediately visible. It was all very respectable, and the noise level, except when the fights were taking place, was relatively low and conversational, with much laughter.
The first was not civilized. A pair of malamutes from the same litter were matched against each other. One dog was completely white except for a healed pink scar on his rump where hair would not grow. His brother was black and white. The trainers had held the straining dogs back till a man in dark slacks and a white jacket over a black shirt with a white tie announced that all bets were in and the trainers could release their dogs.
There was no familial recognition in the animals, which attacked each other with fury. They were noisy even above the frenzy of the crowd. Sasha turned his eyes from the animals and looked at the front row where the three Frenchmen sat, not joining in the insanity, not interested in the battle before them. In seats flanking the three were four men, one almost as old as the two older Frenchmen. The other three were young, wearing masks of indifference.
Twice, Sasha had caught one of the young men looking at him.
When Sasha decided to meet his eyes, the man did not turn away.
Definitely a bad sign. It was also a bad sign that all of the Frenchmen were armed. Sasha had looked for and immediately seen the signs of weapons under their jackets.
When Sasha turned back to the fight, it was over. The all-white dog was bloody. His brother lay dying with a terrible gash across his nose and right eye. The white dog was restrained but tried to get at his brother, to finish him. The dying dog snapped at the trainer who tried to help him up. The dying dog whimpered from the effort. The trainer backed away.
Sasha still had to deal with whether to let Tchaikovsky try to win or to do something to insure the dog’s loss. Sasha had not the slightest idea of what he could do to hamper the dog, and besides, he had decided that he had no intention of contributing to the murder of the animal.
Sasha looked at the seven men in the front row. The one who had been looking at him looked again. Nimitsov was suddenly at Sasha’s side.
“We are next,” said Nimitsov. “You know, this used to be a children’s circus arena? I’ve considered staging fights between children.
There are plenty of them on the street. You could give them knives and promise them more money than they dreamed of if they won.”
Sasha looked at the smiling young man at his side. Nimitsov was not just evil, he was quite serious and quite mad.
While the blood was being cleaned from the dirt ring, Sasha decided that he had to act, even though the action was loathsome.
“I understand French,” Sasha said, pretending interest in the cleanup.
“Interesting,” said Nimitsov. “I may learn the language. Now that we have French partners.”
“They plan to kill both of us,” said Sasha.
Nimitsov turned to look at Sasha. They were only a few feet apart.
“You are telling the truth.”
“I am telling the truth.”
“When?” asked Nimitsov.
“After the fight sometime,” said Sasha. “Tonight.”
Nimitsov looked at the rugged Frenchman, who nodded. Nimitsov nodded back and said to Sasha, “Dmitri, we could all have been very rich men. These Frenchmen are fools. You and I will have to kill them first, after Bronson destroys your dog.”
“I do not intend to do anything to contribute to my dog’s destruction,” said Sasha.
“Then I will have to kill you too.”
“You were planning to anyway. However, I think we stand a better chance of survival if we form a temporary partnership.”
Nimitsov’s smile was sincere
as he put his hand on Sasha’s shoulder. “I almost like you, Dmitri Kolk, but you are too clever, too dangerous. Bronson can win without your help. You and I are partners, but just for the night.”
“You should tell Boris,” said Sasha.
“He would be useless in a battle,” said Nimitsov. “He can’t shoot straight. Actually, he is a good front man but a terrible cow-ard. No, I’m afraid it will be just you and me. A partnership made in hell, to face the demon hordes.”
Sasha went to get Tchaikovsky. The pit bull was lying in the cage ears up.
“Tchaikovsky,” said Sasha, “you are on your own, and, it appears, so am I.”
The cage was heavy. A strong young man who watched over the dogs in a back room helped Sasha bring the cage out and place it on one end of the ring. Bronson was uncaged, standing alert, teeth showing in clenched anger. The trainer, a crook-backed man with no hair, spoke soothingly to the dog. The betting was furious. The room, now full of smoke, was alive with debate about the animals, particularly the almost legendary Bronson.
Nimitsov stood, Boris at his side, hands folded in front of him.
He was directly across from Sasha, who was suddenly afraid, very much afraid.
The announcer stepped forward and said loudly, “All bets are in.
The battle begins.”
Sasha opened the cage door and Tchaikovsky stepped out, facing the dog across the ring. Sasha was holding the cord around the pit bull’s neck, but the dog was not straining at it. The man who had helped Sasha pulled the open cage back and out of the ring.
The moment had come.
Sasha let the rope loose at a signal from the announcer.
“Survive, Tchaikovsky,” he whispered. “It is what I plan to do.”
Bronson leapt across the ring and landed on the pit bull’s back.
The crowd went mad with killing frenzy, all except the seven men in the front row.
Bronson had bitten into the smaller dog’s back but he suddenly released his hold. Tchaikovsky had calmly ignored the pain and sunk his teeth deeply into the left foreleg of the dog on his back.
Bronson turned, unable to free himself from the teeth that dug into his leg. He snapped at Tchaikovsky’s left ear and took a small piece of it. The pit bull showed no pain but bit even more deeply into the leg.
“Fight,” shouted someone. “Let go of his leg and fight.”
Tchaikovsky paid no attention.
Bronson was now trying to get away. On his three good legs he pulled the smaller dog around the arena, turning every few seconds to try to sink his teeth into the pit bull.
“Stop it,” shouted someone. “It’s boring.”
Others told the shouter to shut up. The crowd was in a fighting mood. This was not the fight they expected, not the fight they had been led to expect.
Bronson’s foreleg was bleeding badly. He kept thrashing, trying to escape. It was clear to all that the only way he would get away from the pit bull’s grip was to lose his leg.
Bronson lunged awkwardly, teeth apart, at the pit bull’s head.
Tchaikovsky, without loosening his grip, calmly turned his head down toward the dirt floor and out of reach of the madly snapping larger dog.
The fight was clearly over. Tchaikovsky seemed almost sedate and clearly determined to never loosen his jaws.
“Tchaikovsky, stop,” shouted Sasha.
Instantly the pit bull loosened his grip and walked away from his bloody opponent, who tried to move after him on his remaining three legs. The almost severed foreleg made it impossible for him to pursue. He took two steps and rolled over on his side, now trying to lick his bloody wound.
Meanwhile, Tchaikovsky walked indifferently toward his cage, ignoring his own significant but clearly not crippling or life-threatening wounds. There were shouts, demands for the return of bets, while others shouted that there had been nothing wrong with the fight. Drinks spilled. Cigar and cigarette butts were thrown.
Bronson would never fight again. He might survive to walk three-legged through life, but that was the best the animal would ever achieve.
Tchaikovsky entered his cage, turned to face the action in the arena and to watch Bronson hobbling toward his trainer, who stood next to Nimitsov.
“You did well, Tchaikovsky,” said Sasha.
The dog blinked.
Nimitsov looked at Sasha, smiled and shrugged.
What happened next came so fast that Sasha was not really aware that Nimitsov had saved his life. The pudgy young madman had stepped into the ring where the dogs had fought and bled. He faced the seven men in the first row.
Over the crowd roar, Peter shouted, “Betrayers. French scum.”
The Frenchmen in the front row and the crowd heard the elated shriek of madness from the man in the ring. The Frenchmen began to go for their guns. Sasha was frozen for an instant and then dived for Tchaikovsky’s cage and the compartment where the gun was hidden. There was a momentary standoff in the arena because Nimitsov now stood feet apart, a gun in each hand, a very happy look on his face.
The crowd began to scramble for the exits, pushing, trampling each other, growing louder in their panic.
Sasha had just opened the drawer when the first shot was fired.
For an instant he did not know who had started the insane battle, and then he felt the body fall on his back. He heard an explosion of gunfire from the ring and the first row. Sasha pushed the body off of him. It was the young Frenchman who had stared at him.
He was still staring, but now with a third, round eye in his forehead, a simple, bleeding dark hole from which blood and something yellow was seeping. The dead man held a gun loosely in his right hand.
Peter Nimitsov had saved Sasha’s life.
Sasha took the dead man’s gun in one hand, his own in the other, and rolled over shooting toward the first row, over the wooden rim of the ring.
The madness of the battle equaled the madness of the dogfights. Seven men were in that front row, each with a gun in hand.
Two of them were now dead. The remaining five were shooting at Nimitsov, who stood unprotected.
A fat man dashed out of the stands and waddled past Nimitsov, who was firing rapidly. A bullet took the fat man in the back.
Sasha aimed more carefully and put a bullet into the rugged Frenchman who had ordered the death of Peter and himself. The rugged man bit his lower lip and closed his eyes, falling forward.
Now some of the Frenchmen began firing wildly at Sasha.
Except for the combatants, the arena was almost empty. Sasha glanced at the now-wounded Nimitsov, who was on his knees, still firing. One of Nimitsov’s bullets took the oldest Frenchman in the chest and then Nimitsov fell forward on his face. His fingers kept pulling the triggers of his weapon and the random shots shattered through the roof and into empty seats.
The four remaining Frenchmen turned their full attention on Sasha. They had all scrambled for some cover when Nimitsov fell.
Sasha fired almost blindly, hitting nothing.
And then silence. Nimitsov was no longer firing, and since no gunfire was coming from the Frenchmen, Sasha forced his shaking hands to stop pulling the trigger. He had no idea of how many shots he had fired or how many were left or if he was wounded.
His hope that the four men had fled was destroyed when he heard a voice in French say, “You two that way, around. Martin, hold him down. Maurice, go the other way.”
The gunfire resumed. A single person resumed firing at Sasha to keep him in place till the others came around him from the sides or rear. Sasha didn’t shoot. There was no time to think through the slightly controlled panic. Sasha went into a crouch and raced toward the man shooting from the cover of the aisle chairs. While the others flanked him, there was only one man between Sasha and a chance at the exit. Sasha ran right, turned and ran left, took two steps back to the right and then dived forward, now no more than a dozen feet from the man who had him pinned down. Bullets echoed. Sasha’s last bullet tore into t
he man’s left arm. The man’s gun was in his left hand. Sasha fired again. Nothing.
A wild thought. He turned to go for the guns in Nimitsov’s hands, but it was too late. The Frenchmen had moved into the open and now stood in a circle along the rim of the low wall around the ring.
It was Sasha’s turn to entertain.
“I am a police officer,” Sasha said in French, panting, sitting back, still hoping for a chance at Nimitsov’s guns.
“We suspected,” said the very old man in French. His gun, like the others, was pointed at Sasha. “You have killed my nephew. You have left our business in the hands of old men. Your being a policeman makes no difference.”
“It makes a difference,” came a voice from the darkness of one aisle of the arena.
The Frenchmen turned their guns toward the voice.
Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov stepped into the light. So did five uniformed and helmeted men in flak jackets, all carrying modified Kalishnikov automatic rifles.
There was a moment, only a moment, in which the eyes of the old Frenchmen turned toward each other. They had the least to lose in death. The pause was long and then the oldest man dropped his weapon. So did the others.
“I’m sorry to be a bit late, Sasha,” Rostnikov said awkwardly, going over the rim of the ring and reaching down to help Sasha to his feet. “We had an informant, but she had some difficulty telling us where the fight would be.”
The policemen herded the Frenchmen out of the arena. Sasha saw the old man look toward the body of the rugged man. There were tears in the old man’s eyes as he left the arena.
Sasha, breathing heavily, turned over the body of Peter Nimitsov, who looked up at him. The two guns were still in his hands. Nimitsov let the guns go. The number of bullet holes in the young man was remarkable, including one in his neck and one through his cheek. What was even more remarkable was that Peter Nimitsov was still alive.
“What did you tell them, in French?” Nimitsov asked in a gur-gle that Sasha could barely hear.
“That I am a policeman.”
Nimitsov nodded as if everything were clear now. “I’ll never get the chance to save Russia,” the dying man said.
“You saved me,” said Sasha. “Why?”
“Destiny,” said Nimitsov, choking.
The Dog Who Bit a Policeman ir-12 Page 26
