“Coach Kisolev,” Iosef said gently to the coach, who was concentrating on the weaknesses of his players.
“Menchelev,” he shouted in exasperation, “you’re too far upfield. Their line will run right past you. Back up.” Kisolev shook his head. “Menchelev is a great fullback, but he thinks he can run like a track star. I—”
“We must talk to you now,” said Iosef.
Kisolev motioned Menchelev back even farther. Iosef reached over and grabbed the whistle Kisolev was about to blow. The whistle was on a cord around the coach’s neck. Iosef tugged at the whistle and Kisolev turned.
“What the hell you think you’re doing, you son-of-a-bitch bastard?” said Kisolev, pulling the whistle from Iosef’s hand. Red faced, he clenched his fists and looked into Iosef’s eyes.
Iosef smiled and said, “I suggest you smile and we talk, or you might well be spending a few days in a local police lockup. Do you know what they are like? No? Well, you don’t want to know.”
Kisolev looked at Zelach, who had no expression on his face, though his left eye seemed to be slightly glazed over.
“I have important friends,” said Kisolev.
“You have one important friend,” said Iosef. “And we’re looking for him. Yevgeny Pleshkov.”
Kisolev turned to the field, blew his whistle, and shouted, “Break. Get some vahdi, water. Don’t leave the area.”
“Thank you,” said Iosef.
“If you weren’t a policeman, I’d …”
“After we talk,” Iosef said, “I’ll be happy to go behind the stands and give you the opportunity.”
Kisolev looked at the young man, who was only slightly taller than he, and saw a new smile that made it quite clear that the good-looking policeman was not only unafraid but actually welcomed a chance at him. Kisolev caved.
“What do you want?”
“Yevgeny Pleshkov.”
“I don’t know where he is if not at home. He might be at his dacha.”
“He is neither there nor at his apartment in the city,” said Iosef.
“Then I can be of no help to you,” said Kisolev.
Zelach had wandered over to a cluster of four soccer balls a few feet away and had begun dribbling while Iosef and the coach continued to talk.
“Think. Where might we find him? Where might he be? Where does he go?”
“Who knows?” said Kisolev with a shrug and a scratching of his head of ample dark hair.
“You know,” said Iosef. “Where does he go when he drinks? How do we locate Yulia Yalutsak?”
“Yalutshkin,” Kisolev corrected.
“And where might we find her? It would be in your best interest for us to find him. He needs to be found soon.”
Kisolev looked down in thought and then said, “Why soon?”
“His political presence is needed,” said Iosef. “An important vote is coming up in the congress and he is needed for that and the debate that precedes it. His future may depend upon appearing, taking positions, and voting on several crucial issues.”
“Yevgeny, Yevgeny,” Kisolev said, sighing as he looked across the soccer field at his players who were lounging on the grass. “I love Yevgeny and we have been friends since we were children and I take great pride in that friendship, but no one can stop these … these benders. These lost weekends.”
“Can you help us find him?” asked Iosef, trying not to sound impatient.
“He hasn’t come to me,” said Kisolev, “but I can tell you where to find Yulia Yalutshkin. Almost every night at the Casino Royal. When he is like this, you are right, he goes to her. I don’t like her. I’ve told Yevgeny to stay away from her. She’s a whore. She gets picked up by Chinese, Mafia, sometimes Americans and Germans, mostly Germans. She probably has diseases.”
“The Casino Royal,” Iosef repeated patiently.
“Yes, a gambling palace now, but it was once a real palace where the czar stayed when he went to the horse races. I’m not a royalist. I’m not a Communist and I don’t like this new democracy and I don’t care if you know it. There were times and there are places that are part of our history.”
“History changes,” said Iosef.
Kisolev shook his head and looked at his whistle for an answer. “History changes,” he agreed. “Don’t go to the Royal before midnight. She won’t be there.”
“Thanks,” said Iosef. “As I said, Yevgeny is my friend. I don’t have many friends. I’m a tyrant as a coach and it carries over into my private life. I get paid to win. It is simple. To win I must be a tyrant. Tyrants have few friends and—”
The solid impact of a shoe against a soccer ball made both men turn and look at Zelach, whose left foot was still out following his kick. The ball was sailing high into the air and across the width of the field. It came down in the arms of one of the lounging players. The players looked across at Zelach and applauded.
“Can you kick like that often?” asked Kisolev.
Zelach nodded.
“Can you corner kick?”
Zelach shrugged and looked at Iosef, who shrugged back.
“Take a ball,” said Kisolev. “Go … you prefer the right or left?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Zelach.
“You kick like that with either foot?” asked Kisolev.
“Yes,” said Zelach, looking across at the players sitting on the grass.
“Please, go take a corner kick.”
“It’s all right,” said Iosef, interested by this unforeseen side of the man known derisively at Petrovka as “the Slouch.”
Zelach dribbled a ball slowly to the nearest corner of the field and placed the ball in the small chalked-in space for the corner kick. He stepped back five or six paces and took three long strides to the ball. He kicked the ball, which went soaring up in the air about twenty feet from the ground and came down about five yards in front of the goal. Again the lounging players applauded.
“Who do you play for?” asked Kisolev.
“No one,” said Zelach. “I’m a police officer.”
“I know that, but don’t you play for some club?”
“No.”
“Where did you learn to kick like that?”
“I don’t … when I was a boy, I practiced, alone. Many hours. I still go out in the park and kick. It makes me feel … I don’t know.”
“Would you like to play, professionally?” asked Kisolev. “I mean have a tryout, maybe play for one of our park teams for a while. You could do it and be a police officer. We have firemen, police, even one of the mayor’s staff.”
Zelach shook his head.
“Why?” asked Kisolev. “You’ll be paid.”
“I don’t play,” said Zelach. “I just kick the ball alone. And I have a bad back and my left eye is … spahssebah, thank you, no.”
The bad back and permanently injured left eye were the result of the attack on Zelach during a stakeout with Sasha Tkach. While Sasha was being seduced by a female member of the gang, Zelach had been beaten by three of the gang of computer thieves. Zelach had spent weeks in the hospital, and months recuperating.
“Well,” said Kisolev. “I guess you’re a little old for this anyway, but your kick is powerful, beautiful.”
“Thank you,” said Akardy Zelach sheepishly.
Iosef motioned for Zelach to follow him and the two men started to move away. Kisolev blew his whistle and the team members began to make their way back onto the field.
“If Pleshkov contacts you,” said Iosef, “call me at Petrovka. Office of Special Investigation. Iosef Rostnikov.”
“No,” said Kisolev. “I will talk to Yevgeny, try to get him sober, try to get him home, ask him to call you, but I cannot afford to lose my best friend by betraying him.”
“I’m sorry about—” Iosef began, but Kisolev waved him off.
“I probably deserved it,” he said. With that, Kisolev trotted onto the field toward his waiting team.
“You have hidden talents,” said Iosef as th
e two investigators walked out of the stadium. “Are there other things you can do, about which I know nothing? Throw a javelin, wrestle?”
“No,” said Zelach.
“Would you mind sometime if I made a wager on your kicking skills?”
“I don’t know,” said Zelach uncomfortably.
“We’ll talk about it. We have to be at the Casino Royal at midnight. You might want to go home and take a nap later this afternoon.”
“I cannot nap,” said Zelach as they reached the street where a kiosk stood selling American hot dogs. There was a small line.
Iosef got in the line and Akardy Zelach joined him. “You kicked that first ball fifty yards,” said Iosef.
“Perhaps,” said Zelach.
Iosef stood silently considering some way of capitalizing on the talent of the man at his side.
Sasha’s head was a hot balloon of searing hangover pain. His stomach threatened nausea. There was no place he wanted to be. He didn’t want to be lying down in the hotel room, where the ceiling insisted on going back and forth like a light boat on the water. Even if he could, he didn’t want to go home to his wife, children, and mother, where he would get no rest. And, besides, he had been ordered not to go home. He didn’t want a hot shower. He didn’t want to eat. All he wanted to do was sit alone in a darkened room and moan.
Instead, he leaned back confidently in the antique wooden-armed chair and accepted a cup of strong coffee from Illya Skatesholkov.
They were in a large, expensive, and tastefully decorated office in Zjuzino on Khaovka not far from the Church of Boris and Gleb. The office was on the second floor of a line of high rises built in the 1950s. This series of high rises was better maintained than most.
Sasha had been called and then picked up at the hotel by a white American Lincoln limousine. The driver had not spoken, and Sasha, who was supposed to be a Ukrainian, looked out at the miles of apartments, wasteland, and remaining memories of small villages. Down many of the roads, Sasha knew, were communities of dachas, many old and crumbling, some being renovated right down to Jacuzzis and swimming pools, which their owners could use only a month or two each year.
More than ninety percent of the people of Moscow live beyond the Outer Ring Circle. Tourists and visiting businessmen seldom go beyond the Ring, and even those who come frequently have no idea of how most Muscovites live. They live not well. Amid oases of parks, athletic stadiums, restored churches, and even a steeplechase race course are miles of apartment buildings from whose windows hang laundry and in whose corridors children steal from children, adults fight over water and inches of space, and families depressed by lack of food and money battle over meaningless slights.
Sometimes these conflicts led to serious injury or even death. On more than one occasion, if the identity of the one who committed the crime was not immediately obvious to the uniformed police who were first on the scene, Sasha had been part of an investigation.
A moment of near panic. What if someone in this building recognized him, approached him? This fear was a familiar one, one that came whenever Sasha went undercover, which was frequently. He had nightmares about being exposed, pointed at by a child or a woman carrying a baby, or by an old man. The person pointed to him and screamed his name and he tried to run, with some deadly presence close behind. He would pass people, young, old, and they would point at him and scream. Once, he had been pointed out in a dream by an obviously blind young man.
Sasha came out of the state of panic, hoping it had not been noticed. The pain of the hangover, that was what caused this weakness, that and … He turned his attention back to the bleak miles of apartment buildings.
Some of these complexes were in decay. Some were reasonably well maintained by residents determined to retain dignity if not great hope. Sasha had been in buildings like this. He knew.
And now he sat in a ground-floor apartment which had been converted into period luxury, right down to expensive wallpaper. Sasha felt as if he had walked through a door into another century. He sat with Illya Skatesholkov and Boris Osipov drinking coffee and discussing the events of the previous night. Both Boris and Illya, though they tried not to show it, were noticeably nervous.
“So,” said Boris, “what did you think of our little arena?”
Sasha looked around and said, “Impressive.”
Boris let out a mirthless laugh and said, “Not the office. The dog ring. Last night.”
“Impressive also,” said Sasha, drinking some coffee. The pain in his head was nearly unbearable, and he feared his nausea would force him to ask for the rest room. He fought the nausea and affected a small, knowing smile. The Yak had approved the purchase of three suits, complete with silk shirts, ties, and shoes. He was wearing the second of the suits. Elena was taking care of having the one he wore yesterday cleaned, a task she clearly felt should be his, but when the call had come she accepted the responsibility with minimal reluctance.
“And Tatyana?” asked Illya.
“Impressive,” Sasha repeated, taking another sip of his very good coffee.
So that was her name. Oh, he had been drunk. As his mother, Lydia, would say, remembering her long-dead husband, he had been “drunk as a cross-eyed cossack.” It had been Sasha’s impression since first hearing the expression that he had seen few cossacks and none that he could recall having crossed eyes.
“Versatile,” said Illya.
“Yes,” Sasha agreed, preferring not to discuss the woman who had led him off to a room after the dogfight. He had been drunk, but she had been beautiful and talented. She enjoyed her work and so had Sasha.
His two hosts smiled.
“We have made some inquiries about you and your Kiev operation,” said Boris.
Sasha noted that neither of the two men moved behind the huge cherrywood desk, impressive due to its size and ornate legs and because there was nothing on its polished surface, not even a telephone. Both of his escorts sat in chairs identical to the one in which Sasha sat back with his legs folded. The chair behind the desk, Sasha assumed, was reserved for the person for whom his hosts worked. “Chair” was hardly the word for it. It, like the desk, was of another century. The very high-backed chair, with each dark wood arm coming forward to clasp a wooden ball, looked as if it belonged in a museum.
“And?” asked Sasha, sipping carefully to avoid spilling on his perfectly pressed suit.
“We are informed that you have a growing operation,” said Boris, “not equal to ours, but growing rapidly.”
Sasha nodded.
“From what I have seen of your operation,” said Sasha, “I would say that mine is already equal to yours.”
“Let’s not bicker about size,” said Illya. “It is sufficient that you have a prospering operation. We would like to discuss a proposal, a proposal that would make your operation part of our operation, a proposal that would certainly double or even triple your earnings, a proposal that would make you part of an international syndicate growing each week. We would bring some of our dogs to Kiev. You would bring some of your dogs to Moscow. We would provide advice from our dog trainers. We would locate and draw bettors, high-stakes bettors, to your operation.”
“I am doing well on my own,” said Sasha.
“You could be doing better with us,” said Boris.
“I’ll consider it,” said Sasha. “I’ll have to talk to some of my people.”
“Of course,” said Boris. “We believe our arguments can be very persuasive.”
Boris spoke with a friendly smile but Sasha recognized the threat, as he was intended to do. “I’m sure,” Sasha said. “I have some questions about the details of this merger.”
“Ask your questions and we will come back to you with answers,” said Illya, leaning forward, hands clasped together.
“I would prefer to ask my questions and get my answers from your boss,” Sasha said, trying to duplicate the way Jean Paul Belmondo had said nearly the same thing in an old French movie Sasha had recently see
n on the television.
“Perhaps,” said Boris. “We will see. Meanwhile, you have a dog you wish to enter into our fights to show us the quality of your kennel?”
“A pit bull,” said Sasha. “If the effort proves profitable, he can fight again and we can begin our negotiations with my bringing more dogs.”
“Your animal is good?” asked Illya.
“My dog will win,” said Sasha with a smile and a tone of confidence he did not feel. He was speaking from information provided by an older uniformed MVD officer named Mishka, who had tended and overseen the training of the dogs of Petrovka for a quarter of a century. Mishka had dogs that could locate drugs, seek out hiding fugitives, and attack when signaled to do so. Mishka had assured Elena and Sasha that Tchaikovsky, the pit bull, would kill any human or animal on command. Mishka was particularly proud of Tchaikovsky, who had been named thus because the famous composer had lived in Mishka’s hometown of Klin, an hour northwest of Moscow on the old Leningrad Highway.
The beagle-faced Mishka had warned the two young officers that they were to be very careful with Tchaikovsky.
The white pit bull with black spots had seemed docile enough when Mishka had taken him from his pen, petting him and talking softly to the dog, even nuzzling the animal with his head. Tchaikovsky had wagged his tail.
“Don’t be deceived,” Mishka had said as he petted the animal. “Our Tchaikovsky can, on command or on his own if provoked, or even for no reason, attack and sink his teeth into an antagonist with deadly and determined ferocity. Getting Tchaikovsky to release his grip can be very difficult, and if it is a death grip, it can be nearly impossible until the victim is dead.”
“That is very reassuring,” Sasha had said, and Mishka, recognizing no irony in the comment, had responded:
“Yes.”
Sasha was not particularly confident about placing his safety in the jaws of a pit bull. These were dangerous men. If the pit bull didn’t do well, Sasha might be in very serious trouble.
Illya and Boris, a bit clumsily, questioned Sasha, whom they knew as Dmitri Kolk, about Kiev. Sasha had casually responded using his wife, Maya’s, history in Kiev as his own. In spite of the desire to get back to the hotel room, turn off the lights, and close the drapes, he chatted, drank, accepted some Italian biscotti, which he normally liked but which now caused a renewed wave of queasiness, and made himself as amiable as possible.
Dog Who Bit a Policeman Page 5