Wolves Eat Dogs

by Martin Cruz Smith

"He was the devil. I heard every word." She got one good spit in before Arkady calmed her down and mopped up Alex's face. There wasn't a visible mark on him. His eyes were clear, his mouth set in a knowing smirk, his irises and muscle tone just starting to go slack. Arkady had to press his finger into Alex's ear to find the bullet's borehole and a dot of blood.

  "Will they arrest me?" Oksana asked.

  "Does anyone else know that you supply skins for your grandfather to mount?"

  "No, he'd be embarrassed. You knew?"

  "I assumed the skins were from Karel until I saw his condition. Then I knew they were from you."

  "Can they trace the bullet?"

  "A sophisticated lab could, but there are a lot of swamps around here. Tell me about Hulak." Arkady could barely stand, but he had a feeling that Oksana was a rarely seen moth, that he could talk to her now or never.

  "He told my grandfather he was going to get your money and give you a taste of the cooling pond."

  "You waited in a boat?"

  "I fish there sometimes."

  "And shot Hulak."

  "He had a gun."

  "You shot Hulak."

  "He was dragging my grandfather into things."

  "And you protect your family?"

  Oksana frowned; her baldness exaggerated every expression. No, she didn't like that question. She made room for herself on the couch and rested Karel's head in her lap.

  Arkady asked, "Do you know how your brother got so sick?"

  "A saltshaker. He told me he was adding cesium to a saltshaker when he dropped a grain. Maybe two. He wore gloves, and nothing should have happened, but later, he ate a sandwich and..." Her face twisted. "Do you mind if I sit here for a while?"

  "Please."

  "Karel and I used to sit like this a lot."

  She reached over her brother's shoulder to smooth the folds of his hockey shirt, place his hands together, primp his braids. Oksana became more and more absorbed, and gradually Arkady understood there were not going to be any more answers.

  "I have to go," Arkady said.

  "Can I stay?"

  "The city is yours."

  Arkady drove Alex's truck down the river road, down to the docks and the scuttled fleet, over the bridge and the hiss of the weir. His motorcycle was in the back of the truck. There was no other way to get there in time. For what, he didn't know, but he felt enormous urgency. Along the housing blocks, virtually empty, always virtually empty, and the twin track of a car path through a field of swaying ferns, to a garage half hidden by trees and a bank of lilacs.

  He turned off the engine. The white truck seemed to fill the yard. The cabin was silent and had about it an air of darkness and grief. Wind softly heaved the trees, and the screen door slammed.

  Eva was in her bathrobe, her eyes blurred, but she held her gun steadily with both hands. She stumbled across the ground in bare feet, but the sights stayed fixed on him. She said, "I told you if you came back, I'd shoot you."

  "It's me." He started to open the door and get out of the truck.

  "Don't get out, Alex." She kept moving forward.

  "It's all right." Arkady swung the door open and stepped down so she could see him more clearly. He was ashamed, but he wasn't going away. Besides, he was exhausted. This was as far as he could go. She stepped closer until she could not miss before she distinguished him apart from the truck. He knew he didn't look good. In fact, the way he looked would have scared most people off. She began to shake. She shook like a woman in icy water until he carried her inside.

  Chapter Eighteen

  * * *

  Zurin was put out because Arkady wouldn't sit in the VIP lounge. The prosecutor had arranged admission, but Arkady refused to spend hours waiting for the plane to Moscow with nothing to entertain him but the sight of Zurin consuming single-malt whiskey. Zurin considered a little comfort in a plush setting his due, after coming all the way to Kiev to fetch his wayward investigator. However, Arkady had walked out and settled in an Irish pub exactly where the traffic flowed into the main hall.

  He hadn't seen a child in over a month. Had seen hardly any clothes but camos. Had gone nowhere without being aware of the diamond-shaped scarecrows of Chernobyl. Here people bulled ahead, eyes on the linoleum as they dragged suitcases of monstrous proportions. Businessmen as weary and creased as their suits tapped on laptops. Couples heading south to Cyprus or Morocco wore extraordinary colors to signal a holiday frame of mind. Men stood transfixed before the flight board, and though morning sun poured through the glass front of the hall, Arkady could see from the way the men stared that for them the hour was the middle of the night. It was wonderful.

  After the empty apartments of Pripyat, families seemed miraculous. A baby wailed and beat on the bar of its stroller. Another in diapers decided, for the first time, to walk. Twins with round heads and blank blue eyes strolled hand in hand. An Indian or Pakistani boy was carried in a quilt like a prince by his tiny mother. A veritable circus.

  "Enjoying yourself?" Zurin inquired. "You stall until I have to come get you myself, then you act as if you're still on vacation."

  "Was that a vacation?"

  "It wasn't work. I ordered you back seven days ago."

  "I was under medical care." Arkady had the bruise to prove it.

  However, Zurin had ostensible grounds for complaint. True, the prosecutor had set up every obstacle to a successful investigation of Lev Timofeyev's murder, but the fact remained that Arkady had failed to find out who had cut Timofeyev's throat.

  "You could have come back with Colonel Ozhogin."

  "We talked briefly. I had more questions about security at NoviRus, but he had to run."

  "Ozhogin proved a disappointment. Although no worse than you. Here, this came to the office yesterday." Zurin flipped something at Arkady that hit him in the chest and dropped into his lap. "What is that?"

  "It's a postcard." On the glossy side was a picture of nomads in blue robes riding camels across desert sands. On the reverse was Arkady's name, office address and the message "Two is cheaper than one." "A postcard from Morocco," Arkady added.

  "I can see that. What's it about? Who is it from?"

  "I have no idea. It's not signed."

  "You have no idea. A coded message from Hoffman?"

  Arkady studied the postcard. "It's in Russian and in a Russian hand."

  "Never mind." Zurin leaned forward. "Doesn't it stick in your craw that you got absolutely nowhere in the investigation? What does that say about you as an investigator?"

  "Volumes."

  "I agree. Why don't you enjoy another bottle of Irish beer while I visit the duty-free shop and see if I can dig up some decent cigars? But stay here."

  Arkady nodded. He was diverted enough by watching the parade. A boy walked in slow motion behind his GameBoy. A beautiful woman rolled by in a wheelchair, her lap covered with roses. A group of Japanese schoolgirls gathered for a photograph around two militia officers with a dog. The girls giggled behind their hands.

  The same night Arkady had driven Alex's truck to Eva's cabin, they returned to Pripyat with her car to leave the truck behind. The following day the four bodies were discovered, and Captain Marchenko's small militia force was overwhelmed. Also compromised, since three of the dead were the captain's own men. Detectives and forensic teams were dispatched from Kiev, but their examination of the crime scene was rushed due to the background radioactivity of the site. One of the bodies was radioactive, and another was a Russian executed by a shot in the head in a totally professional style. How coincidental was it, Kiev asked, that on the night of the attack, a Russian security team under the command of Colonel Ozhogin happened to be in the Zone? It was the sort of question that demanded a frank dialogue country to country, and a thorough-going, no- holds- barred investigation of not only the crimes but the militia and the administration of the Zone; in short, an honest look at the entire squalid situation. Or a quick flush of the problem down the drain.

  Arkady h
ad that second beer and bought a newspaper to peruse. He thought it might be wise to catch up. Zurin seemed content in the duty-free shop, choosing among French cognacs, silk neckties and paisley scarves. The Japanese schoolgirls trooped by again. Coming the other direction was a girl of about eight years old, with big eyes and straight dark hair cut shoulder-length. She had a wand and streamer that she twirled as she skipped. He had seen her dance much the same way in Kiev's Independence Square. It was the dentist's daughter.

  Arkady picked up his newspaper and followed. The waiting hall was a scene of family encampments, of slumber, of unshaved anxiety and a slow but constant milling around souvenir shops, ATMs and newsstands. The girl darted into a crowded music store, and he kept track of her by her upraised wand until she appeared in a back corner with a woman in a stylish Italian-looking traveling suit. Dr. Levinson. Victor had been concerned about the dentist's physical safety, but she could not have seemed happier, an attractive woman who could not completely contain her travel excitement. The girl collected a kiss and ducked out of sight.

  The wand and streamer reappeared at a newsstand, a catchall of paperbacks and magazines, perfumes and nail polish, condoms and aspirin. A display of lipsticks was stacked three levels high. The girl squeezed through the crush and took the hand of a man choosing among brands of toothpaste. He was dressed like an American golfer in a windbreaker and cap. His hair was brown instead of bleached, and a wedding band had replaced his diamond horseshoe ring, but Arkady recognized the sloped shoulders and heavy jaw of Anton Obodovsky. This toothpaste promised whitening power and the other a brighter smile. How to decide? Anton joked with the girl, who demonstrated a radiant grin. His laugh faded when he saw Arkady coming down the aisle. Anton's eyes screwed down. He sent the girl off with a kiss and replaced the toothpaste on the shelf.

  Arkady moved down the aisle as if considering the toiletries. "Going somewhere?"

  "Away." Anton kept his voice down.

  Arkady spoke softly, too. He played the game. "Let me see your passport and ticket."

  "You don't have any authority here."

  "Let me see them."

  Anton pulled them from the windbreaker. He swallowed hard and tried to keep a smile pasted on while Arkady read, "Final destination, Vancouver, Canada, for Mr. and Dr. Levinson and their daughter. A Ukrainian passport and a Canadian immigration visa. How did you manage that?"

  "As an investor immigrant. You put money in their bank."

  "You bought your way in."

  "It's legal."

  "If your past is clean. You changed your name, you changed your hair, and I'm sure you changed your record. Anything else?"

  "There was a Levinson. He ran out on them."

  "And you came to the rescue?"

  "Yes. Two years ago. I was already her patient. But Rebecca wants nothing to do with the Mafia. We're married, and I only get to see her and the girl maybe once a month because I couldn't let anyone find out, most of all, my former colleagues."

  "And the hygienist?"

  "Her? I had to have a cover to be around the office. Anyway, I'm sure she's having a good time in Morocco. A nice kid."

  "That's what Victor said."

  "I saw Victor. I dragged him around Kiev. He's looking better."

  "The call you made from Butyrka Prison to Pasha Ivanov, what was that about?"

  "It was a warning, or it would have been a warning if he'd ever returned the call."

  "Warning Pasha about what?"

  "Things."

  "You'll have to do better than that."

  "Come on."

  "Let me help you. Karel Katamay. He's dead, by the way."

  "I saw on the news." Anton backed into a lipstick display like a fighter who'd decided to absorb punishment. "Okay, I knew Karel from Pripyat, from when he was a kid. I knew what he went through. I remember the evacuation and how people treated everyone from Pripyat as if we had the plague. I was lucky I was a boxer; no one made much fun of me. It was tough for Karel. I'd hear from him a lot when he was little, then nothing for the last few years until suddenly he calls up, says he's in Moscow and needs to borrow a van. A fumigator van. He never asked a favor before."

  "Did he say why?"

  "He said, a stunt. A joke on a friend."

  "And you got him the van?"

  "What, do you think I'm crazy? I'm going to put the future of my family in jeopardy to steal a van for a kid I haven't seen for years? When I said no, that's when he told me he came to Moscow to take care of Pasha Ivanov. Trying to impress me, saying we'd get even. I told him there was no way of getting even with Ivanov, ever. What's done is done. Then I put myself away into Butyrka until the thing blew over. I called Ivanov but he never called back. I tried."

  "And now you're going to run?"

  "I'm not running. There comes a point when you've had enough. You just want to live somewhere normal, with laws."

  "With your criminal background, how do you think you can get out?"

  "Like this. Walk out the door. Get on a plane. Start over."

  "What about the heads you broke and the people you ruined? Do you think you can leave them behind?"

  Anton gathered his hands into fists. The lipstick display began to tremble. Arkady glanced at the waiting hall and saw Dr. Levinson and the girl standing with their assembled bags, their eyes on the tickets in his hand. He could almost see the floor open up beneath them.

  "No," Anton said. "Rebecca says I take them all with me. The ones I hurt, they all go with me. I never forget."

  "She's going to redeem you?"

  "Maybe."

  "Renko!" Zurin waved with great agitation from across the hall. "Damn it, Renko!"

  For the first time Arkady saw Anton's eyes truly open, as if there were an interior never seen before. Anton opened his hands and let them hang. Arkady felt the entire hall go still.

  "Renko, stay there!" Zurin ordered.

  "Gate B10," Arkady read from Anton's boarding pass. He handed back the tickets and papers. "I'd go to the gate now if I were you." When Anton started to say something, Arkady gave him a push. "Don't look back."

  Anton joined the mother and daughter; framed by them, he did look more human. Arkady watched them gather their carry-ons and join a general migration toward the gates. Anton put on sunglasses in spite of the gloomy lighting. The girl waved.

  "Renko, will you stay in one place?" Zurin arrived with a stamp of his foot. "Who was that man?"

  "Someone I thought I knew."

  "Did you?"

  "As it turned out, not a bit."

  They returned to the pub. Zurin lit a cigar and read the newspaper. Arkady tried but couldn't sit still enough, not when there were so many people, so many possibilities, so much life rushing by.

  Chapter Nineteen

  * * *

  They paid a visit in December. Eva decided that one day's exposure was permissible, although Zhenya went with all the enthusiasm of a hostage. At least Arkady had the boy wear a new jacket, which was victory enough.

  A light snow had fallen, giving the village a crisp jacket of white. Brambles were transformed into snowy flowers. Every tumbledown cabin was traced in white, and every abandoned chair held a cushion of snow. The entire population had turned out: Klara the Viking, Olga with her foggy spectacles, Nina on her crutch and, of course, Roman and Maria, to distribute a welcome of bread and salt and samogon. Vanko had come from Chernobyl. Even the cow lifted her head from her stall to see what the noise was about.

  Maria stuffed everyone into the cabin for warm borsch and more samogon. The men ate standing up. Windows steamed and cheeks got red. Zhenya studied the oven, with its shelf for sleeping, and it occurred to Arkady that the boy had never seen a peasant cabin except in fairy tales. He turned to Arkady and mouthed, "Baba Yaga." The room was exactly as Arkady remembered: the same woodland tapestries and red-and-white embroidered cloths, the family icon high in its corner and, on the wall, photographs, the coexisting moments of a young Roman and Maria,
of their daughter with her husband and little girl, of the same granddaughter on a Cuban beach.

  Eva was the center of attention because Maria and her friends wanted to know what Moscow was like. Although she made light of it, Arkady knew that for Eva the move to Moscow was not always a happy situation. She'd gotten away from the Zone and found work at a clinic, but many days she felt she was occupying Irina's place or was a shell of a woman pretending to be whole. But other days were good, and some were very good.

  Under the influence of the samogon, Vanko confided that since Alex Gerasimov's death, funding from Russia for ecological research had slowed to a trickle. A research team from Texas was moving in, however, and they would probably need someone local. Perhaps the British Friends of the Ecology would like to contribute. He hoped so.

  Maria laughed at everything Eva said. In her bright scarves, Maria looked like a twice-wrapped present, and her steel teeth gleamed. An almost childish glee seemed to have infected all the old villagers, an excitement that bubbled over in spite of their politeness.

  Roman shyly pulled Arkady aside to say, "None of our families have visited for almost a year. Not even to the cemetery, if you can imagine."

  "I'm sorry to hear that."

  "I understand. They're busy people, and they're far away. I hope you don't mind if I take advantage of your visit, but I don't know when I will have three men here again. It takes at least three men. That's why I invited Vanko. Don't worry, I have old clothes for you to wear."

  "That's fine with me."

  "Good!" Roman refilled their glasses.

  Arkady backtracked. "Three men to what?"

  Maria couldn't hold it in any longer. "Kill the pig!"

  Snow was falling again in soft handfuls.

  Roman came out of the barn in boots and a rubber apron. Vanko had tied one of the pig's legs across its chest to keep it off balance, but Sumo was strong and agile, and it understood in a moment that the same people who had been its benefactors for a year were going to slaughter it. Dragging Vanko in its wake, the pig squealed its outrage and terror, plunging one direction and then another while Roman hung a double pulley and rope over the barn door.