The rest of the night had been a nightmare to Elena.
The small arena in a converted warehouse in Pushkino north of the Outer Ring Circle was ringed by wooden benches. The first row had blue-cushioned seats with armrests, certainly the place where the big bettors sat. All the seats were set up high so the spectators could look down at the dirt-covered ring.
When Sasha, Elena, and the others arrived, a badly mauled and dying black-and-white mongrel was being carried off by two men. The dog was on a canvas litter, his mouth muzzled to keep him from one last angry attack at the men who carried him out.
Sasha nodded and with Illya’s help moved the cage to the side of the fighting ring next to a blue stick standing over the back of the circle.
“You start here, at the blue side,” said Boris.
The crowd was loud, angry, crying out, “Let’s go. We haven’t got all night.”
In fact, Elena thought, they probably did have all night and more.
The air was thick with smoke. Elena tried not to cough. There had been cushioned seats reserved for the six arrivals. The seats were comfortable. The smoke was unbearable.
“What if one of the dogs jumps over the wall and gets into the crowd?” Elena asked the young woman at her side. “The wall is low.”
“Shooter,” the young woman said, pointing at a man who stood in the entranceway, arms folded. He wore jeans, a white T-shirt, and a denim jacket that did nothing to hide the gun he wore under it.
Tchaikovsky’s opponent was huge, a mastiff with a long, ugly white scar along its right side. The mastiff seethed with anticipation but was held back by his trainer. Tchaikovsky, on the other hand, simply stood inside his cage, looking at his opponent.
“Bets down, side bets require ten percent for the house. We don’t care if you give odds. With rare exceptions, house bets are even money. We are here to watch an ancient and honorable sport,” said the sweating announcer who wore an incongruous green tuxedo and used a handheld microphone. “Blue is Tchaikovsky, the pit bull whose record, if any, cannot be verified. Red is English, who many of you have seen here before. Eight victories, all kills.”
It took five minutes of loud wrangling, taking bets, and having a quintet of well-built men going up and down the aisles taking the house percentage and making eye contact with the three shills in the audience whose job was to spot bettors who tried to bypass the house.
“Now,” said the announcer, backing up to the entrance near the shooter to be out of the way of animals and out of the sightline of the nearly rabid audience. “Release our gladiators.”
The crowd went silent. The mastiff charged and for a moment it looked as if the pit bull would not even make it out of the cage. The crowd laughed at the impassive dog still standing in the cage. The laughter stopped when Tchaikovsky suddenly dashed through the cage door and leapt at the mastiff, which raced toward him. The mastiff snapped his jaws and missed the smaller animal. Tchaikovsky did not miss. He dug his teeth into English’s neck just below the ear.
The big dog tried to shake the pit bull off but couldn’t. English twirled in pain. The pit bull bit even deeper. The mastiff tried rolling on the ground. Tchaikovsky held fast. Blood was coming now, spurts of blood all over the ring and the face of the smaller dog.
The crowd went wild. The mastiff made sounds of pain which drove the crowd to even further madness. The big dog, with the pit bull appended, sank down on his belly. Tchaikovsky ripped the flesh in his mouth and stood back to look at his dying opponent. The pit bull dropped the piece of flesh and fur on the dirt floor and trotted back to his cage, ignoring the shouts and applause of the crowd.
By that time, Elena was ill, ill from the smoke, ill from repulsion, and most of all, ill from the blood-and-battle-hungry crowd. The now-dead mastiff was taken away in the canvas blanket by the two emotionless men.
The announcer moved forward and tried to quiet the crowd.
“The winner, Tchaikovsky, will be here tomorrow to face the winner of our next and main battle. The champion of our circuit, Bronson, will be in the blue. Bronson, who has twenty-two consecutive kills and almost no scars, is clearly the favorite, but his opponent, Rado, the pit bull, has seven victories, bloody and swift. He had to be restrained with nets after his last kill. He is more than a worthy opponent for the champion. However, in view of Bronson’s record, the house will suspend its own rule and provide odds of five to one in favor of Bronson.”
The crowd grumbled. Their chance for easy money-in-the-pocket had just been taken away. Few were surprised. None complained. This had happened before and complaining would not be wise.
The fight between Bronson, the black-and-white mongrel, and the brown pit bull took a bit longer than Tchaikovsky’s battle. The pit bull had attacked quickly, but the battle-wise Bronson dashed to his left and got behind the other dog, who turned to face him and showed his teeth. Bronson leapt, leapt high. The crowd cheered. Rado the pit bull looked up in confusion at the shaggy opponent who seemed to be flying toward him. Bronson came down on the back of the pit bull and bit it in the rear.
Rado howled in pain and when Bronson let go, the pit bull ran across the ring and turned. He looked back at his bloody rump but had no time to deal with it. He attacked again. Bronson was ready. He neither moved to the side nor leapt into the air. As Rado jumped for the other dog’s throat, Bronson snapped forward and brought his jaws down on the pit bull’s muzzle. This time he did not let go. Rado struggled but couldn’t get loose. After a minute or two, the pit bull sank back and stopped struggling.
“The fight is over,” said the announcer, moving forward. “Perhaps Rado will survive his wounds and live to fight another day.”
Rado was unsteady on his legs. His muzzle and rump were bloody blotches, but the pit bull still looked ready to attempt a resumption of the battle he had already lost. Rado’s trainer entered the ring with a leather noose at the end of a leather-covered stick. He slipped it around the wounded animal’s neck and led Rado to his cage.
Untouched and without noose or command, Bronson returned to his cage, to the applause and cheers of the crowd.
“They should have let Bronson kill him,” a man behind Elena said.
They had witnessed the last fight of the evening. Illya drove them back to the Arbat and waited for Sasha and Boris to get the pit bull back into his cage in the garage. There was no conversation in the car while they were gone, but Elena could see Illya looking at her in the rearview mirror. One of the girls was fighting sleep. The other put her arm around the tired girl. Elena thought their night might not yet be over.
Back at the hotel Elena congratulated Sasha on his performance. He waved a weary hand of acknowledgment in her direction. When they got to the room, Sasha said one word, “Sleep.” He headed for the bed and, still dressed, flung himself down on his stomach. He was very gently snoring in seconds. Elena was still slightly ill and wondered if she would have to go the next night for the fight between Tchaikovsky and Bronson. Maybe she could provide some excuse to stay away.
She changed into her pajamas, took the pillows on the bed, and went to sleep on the sofa.
Then, in the morning, with Sasha still asleep, Elena had gone out for a walk to clear away her headache and nausea. The man following her today was neither of those from the day before. This one was very young and very inexperienced. She had stopped for a roll and coffee and was now crossing the nearly empty lobby. The images of the night before would not go away, and she knew she had suddenly developed a fear of dogs, all dogs.
Her bag slung over her shoulder, she pressed the button for her floor and stood back against the wall, trying not to remember what she had seen.
What happened next came so fast that Elena had no time to think or react. A dog came through the closing doors. It was moving with great speed and it leapt at Elena, sinking its teeth into her left shoulder. The pain was searing, and Elena had a flashing vision of herself sinking to the floor of the elevator with the dog ripping at her fle
sh and going for her face or neck the way the animals had done to each other the night before.
She wanted to scream out for help but she couldn’t.
The elevator door was almost closed. She punched the determined dog’s snout with her fist and leaned over to sink her teeth into the neck of the animal. Pain drew her head back. She was vaguely aware that someone was forcing the door back open, someone was entering the elevator, the door of which slid shut as the figure entered.
Elena fought off the urge to pass out. As she sank down along the wall with the dog still tearing at her shoulder, she turned her head, opened her mouth, and leaned painfully toward the thick furry neck of her attacker.
Chapter Nine
“I WILL HAVE TO TAKE the body back to my laboratory,” said Paulinin, gloves on his hands, kneeling on a bath towel which had been brought to him.
Iosef, Zelach, and two uniformed policemen stood watching the wild-haired man poke, prod, and examine the badly burned body.
“I can tell you several things, however. First, I may be able to salvage a few of the photographs and maybe usable pieces of tape. Second, this is not Yevgeny Pleshkov. I have seen newspaper photographs of Pleshkov smiling. In spite of his fame and following, Pleshkov has Russian teeth, uneven, a few twisting, and certainly with a filling or more made of inferior material. This man has perfect teeth, all capped, almost certainly by a dentist in or from a Western country.”
Iosef was taking notes.
“Further, this man was younger and not as heavy as Pleshkov. I will need to examine him carefully in my laboratory, but it appears this man was murdered and then burned. The skull is recently scarred and several splinters of burned wood are embedded here.”
He pointed to the blackened skull.
“Also,” Paulinin said, “there are splinters in the neck wound and one of the ribs has a fracture, a hairline fracture. I would guess with confidence that he was stabbed in the neck with a splinter of wood and beaten by something heavy, also wood.”
“A stake. Like a vampire,” said Zelach. “Maybe whoever killed him thought he was a vampire?”
It was one of the longest statements and one of the few observations Akardy Zelach had made since Iosef met him. Iosef was reluctant to simply dismiss the question.
“It is a possibility worth exploring,” said Iosef. “You believe in vampires, Zelach?”
“My mother does,” he said, looking at the body. “She says she has seen them. I … I don’t know.”
Paulinin shook his head, considered saying something to Zelach, and decided instead to continue his search. “Ah, some hairs.”
He took one of the half-gallon Ziploc bags from his right jacket pocket. There were also smaller plastic bags, which Paulinin seldom used.
“Why,” the scientist said, finally rising, “is Emil Karpo not on this case?”
“He is on another important assignment,” Iosef said.
Paulinin’s face showed great irritation. “I’ll carry these pieces of evidence myself. You carefully get this body and anything else that may be of interest to my laboratory. Where is Emil Karpo or Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov when I need them? They would know what I would be interested in seeing. Don’t answer. I’m leaving before it rains.”
The sky was indeed dark. Iosef ordered the two policemen to call for a police ambulance to take the body to Paulinin’s laboratory. Paulinin left and so did the two policemen.
Zelach and Iosef stood looking down at the burnt debris and the body.
“I wonder how easy it is to get out of here without being seen,” said Iosef. “Service doors, emergency exits. How did Pleshkov get out past the doorman, who claims he did not leave?”
Iosef had asked himself the question, but Zelach answered. “Maybe he didn’t get out,” said Zelach.
“We looked everywhere,” said Iosef patiently. “We have had every corner, every apartment searched.”
“No,” said Zelach.
“No? Where didn’t we look?”
“Yulia Yalutshkin’s bedroom,” Zelach said, slouching forward, his eyes fixed on the body.
Iosef looked at him with new respect. Zelach may very well be right. In which case, Iosef would look like a fool when he explained to his father that they had not checked the bedroom. If Zelach was right, Yulia had performed magnificently. Iosef dashed for the door to the roof, with Zelach right behind. If Pleshkov had been in the bedroom, he might still be there. He had to be there. There was an armed guard at the door of Yulia Yalutshkin’s apartment.
What troubled Iosef even more than the likelihood that Pleshkov had eluded him was the very real possibility that the distinguished member of the congress, probably the next president of Russia, may well have been involved in or even committed a brutal murder. What led Iosef to this conclusion was the distinct possibility that the burned body was that of Jurgen, Yulia’s German lover and protector, who probably had good Western teeth.
Paulinin would find out if Iosef was correct. Meanwhile, Iosef had to find Yevgeny Pleshkov.
The jaws of the dog opened and Elena felt the animal’s weight lift from her. Her own teeth had been about to sink into the animal’s neck and she had tasted fur when the weight was lifted. She could feel the elevator slowly going up. She opened her eyes, sat up as best she could, and saw Porfiry Petrovich holding the dog by the neck. The dog was writhing and growling, snapping at air with blood on his teeth, Elena’s blood.
“Be calm, dog,” said Rostnikov, placing the animal on the floor but maintaining his grip. “I have no wish to hurt you. Neither do I have a wish to take you home as a pet.”
The dog suddenly grew quiet.
“Good,” said Rostnikov, putting the dog at his left side. “Be reasonable and you will survive.”
The dog, however, let out a growl and sank its teeth into Rostnikov’s leg. His teeth and jaws suddenly quivered with pain. The dog let go and backed into a corner, cowering. He had never encountered anything like Rostnikov’s prosthetic leg.
“Now,” said Rostnikov, “sit and be quiet. If you try to bite me one more time, you will further destroy my clothes, which I can ill afford, and I will have to kill you. I have never killed a dog or a cat or a beetle. Remind me someday to tell you a story about beetles.”
The frightened dog had appeared to be listening, and Rostnikov had spoken to him in the same way he would talk to a human.
The elevator moved up.
Porfiry Petrovich took three steps across the ascending elevator and leaned over to examine Elena’s shoulder.
“We need towels,” he said. “You will need a tetanus injection and some stitches.”
“How, why are you here?” Elena said painfully as she stood.
“To save your life,” he said. “An informant overheard two men talking in a booth of a restaurant. That is the informant’s job. The two men were talking about killing you. I came here to get you out and maybe Sasha.”
“Your timing was perfect,” Elena said after biting her lower lip to keep away the pain.
“Not really,” said Rostnikov. “I was following you when you went out for coffee. When you returned here, a man got out of a car with the dog. I moved as quickly as I could but I couldn’t get to the dog quickly enough. The man said ‘Kill’ and pointed at you as you stepped into the elevator, and then the man stepped outside. I got to the elevator just in time to get my hands on the closing door. The rest you know.”
“Let’s get Sasha and leave,” said Elena.
The elevator came to a stop at the floor of the suite.
“I may have an alternative idea,” said Rostnikov, looking back at the dog which had crept forward on its belly. “Back,” he said firmly.
The dog slunk back, not wanting the clamp of the man’s fingers around his neck or the taste and texture of the strange leg. By now the dog was firmly convinced that the man was completely made of plastic and metal and could not be hurt.
The elevator door slid open.
Awkwardly bu
t gently, Rostnikov helped Elena out of the elevator and reached back in to press the button for the first floor. The dog looked up at Rostnikov and Elena as the door slid closed and the bloody elevator started down with the dog inside.
“You said you have an alternate idea?” said Elena as Rostnikov lifted her in his arms and asked her which room was hers and Sasha’s.
“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “I’m afraid you are going to have to die.”
“I don’t understand,” said the confused young man in uniform and helmet, weapon at his side, helmet strap digging deeply into his chin.
They were standing outside of Yulia Yalutshkin’s apartment. Zelach had been sent down to the lobby. Iosef had checked the bedroom. Yulia was gone. It was clear that someone had slept in the bed besides the woman. The bed was still slightly warm and there were a few dark hairs between the sheets, possibly pubic hairs.
“A man came out of this apartment while you stood guard,” said Iosef, trying to remain calm. “And the woman is gone.”
“No man came out,” the young policeman said. “And she didn’t … I thought she was …”
“What happened?” asked Iosef.
“She asked me to come in,” the policeman said. “She needed someone to help her button the back of her dress.”
“So you went into her bedroom?”
“For an instant. I could see her the entire time.”
Zelach reappeared, panting, and said, “The doorman saw Pleshkov and the woman leaving the building about ten minutes ago.”
“Your name, Officer,” asked Iosef.
“Nikita Sergeivich Kotiansko,” the young, bewildered man said, looking at the closed door.
“How long have you been a police officer?”
“Six weeks,” Kotiansko said.
Actually, Iosef knew it wasn’t a matter of experience as much as common sense. Nikita had neither tool to fall back on.
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