Chris Kuzneski - The Hunters

As Cobb watched, two workers approached with the special license plate Papineau had secured; a license plate, he assured them, which would allow them to go anywhere the RZD ran. Cobb was always impressed by the red tape the Frenchman seemed able to cut.

Or maybe it’s just foreign money , he thought.

Papineau signed for the plate and slipped the workers a gratuity. From their grateful expressions, the Frenchman clearly owned them for life.

Cobb stepped to the side to take in the rest of the engine’s architecture. Ten high-set, square windows, sixteen air vents, and two doors on each side. No ladders or narrow walkways along the outside. Cobb nodded with appreciation. Easy to defend, tough to attack . He was certain Dobrev had not taken that into consideration, but Cobb was pleased to see it nonetheless.

Dobrev moved forward to personally supervise the linking up with the rest of the train.

Cobb noted Jasmine’s gaze. ‘You’re watching him closely.’

She nodded with concern. ‘He’s immersed himself in the work. I’m not a psychologist, but I suspect from the tone of his voice that he’s trying to avoid thinking about what he did last night — and why he had to do it.’

‘There’s another thing, too.’

‘Oh?’

‘I bet he feels like this is his last adventure,’ Cobb guessed. ‘He, and his metal friend there, had been put out to pasture. This is his chance to prove that they still have some worth.’ Cobb watched as Dobrev instructed the younger workers on the best way to treat the locomotive. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he had named this old girl.’

Jasmine grinned at the comment. ‘Ludmilla. He named it Ludmilla.’

Cobb smiled at the humanity of it.

That was rare in his business.

Vargunin took an unlabeled bottle of clear liquid, two small glasses, and a small jar of raw peppercorns from his desk’s lower drawer. Then he poured the liquid in the glasses, dropped two large peppercorns in each, and handed one over. He held up his glass.

‘To new times’ sake,’ Vargunin said pointedly.

Borovsky grinned. It was said that only problem drinkers don’t toast — and both men had seen ample proof of that among their comrades over the years — so he raised his glass, too. Both threw the vodka deep into their throats, but only Borovsky choked, coughed, and slapped the desktop.

Vargunin simply laughed.

‘At least distilling has been improved,’ Borovsky managed to choke out. ‘Why do you still insist on drinking “two balls”?’

The balls were the peppercorns, used for millennia to soak up the poisons from regional vodka. The good stuff had always been exported, leaving the rotgut like this to the residents.

‘To me,’ Vargunin answered, ‘it always reminds me of my lost youth.’

Borovsky smiled wistfully. ‘Good times.’

‘Good times, indeed.’ Vargunin began to put away the drinking paraphernalia. ‘You have to admit that this battery acid is, at least, an improvement.’

Borovsky nodded. It was time to get down to business. ‘All right, my friend. Now that you’ve tried, unsuccessfully, to kill me, bring me up to date on things.’

‘Gelb and Klopov,’ Vargunin said as he reached for a file. ‘Cops on the take, but they only seemed to be out for themselves. Petty stuff, mostly. Links to the underworld were never fully established, nor had they ever received administrative penalties.’

‘Yes, and somehow they managed to pass the new qualification tests.’

‘You’d be surprised, my friend,’ he told Borovsky. ‘They might not have been great officers, but they were cunning and resourceful in their own ways. They had learned a lot about how to protect themselves on the street.’

Borovsky nodded. ‘Which is why I was a bit surprised to hear that one was in the hospital and one was in the morgue. What has Klopov told you?’

‘Nothing. He’s still in a coma.’

‘Expected to recover?’

Vargunin shrugged. ‘Circumstantial evidence suggests a clash between the two officers and a local sect of the RNU led by Pavel Okecka.’

‘What has he told you?’

‘Also nothing.’

‘Coma?’

‘Close. Severe shock. He was found with his face collapsed and his memory gone.’

‘So there are no clues.’

‘Not quite,’ Vargunin said.

‘Oh?’

‘Back in the day, what was it that I always said?’

‘You said many things, most of them complaints,’ Borovsky noted.

‘True, but I also said: The absence of evidence is sometimes a clue .’ Vargunin leaned back in his chair. ‘The crime scene did not look like a normal brawl. In fact, the lack of evidence tells me it was more than that. It tells me someone messed with the crime scene.’

Borovsky grimaced in surprise. ‘Someone messed with the crime scene?’

Vargunin nodded. ‘The clash was violent. No one falls down holding their weapons, other than clowns who collide in the center ring.’

‘How violent was it?’

Vargunin checked the paperwork. ‘Two men dead — Officer Gelb and a local member of the RNU — both from blunt force trauma.’

‘I know about Officer Gelb,’ Borovsky stated. ‘Tell me about the other one.’

‘Marko Kadurik, a local troublemaker. Nothing major of note, but he was questioned in connection with a disappearance. A man named Dobrev.’

Borovsky arched his brow. ‘Dobrev? As in Andrei Dobrev?’

Vargunin looked over with interest. ‘No. His grandson, Yury. He disappeared about a year ago.’ He paused for a moment, waiting for an explanation from his old friend. When none was offered, he asked the obvious. ‘How do you know Andrei?’

‘Our paths have crossed at a function or two. Is he involved?’

Vargunin referenced his paperwork. ‘It seems that this incident took place in front of his apartment building. Coincidence?’

‘If it is, it’s unfortunate for Andrei,’ Borovsky answered. ‘What did he have to say about the matter?’

Vargunin glanced at his notes. ‘He has yet to be located.’

‘I see. Go on.’

Vargunin studied his friend’s face for any clues, then returned his eyes to the report. ‘Little more to say. Officer Klopov is in a coma, and the surviving neo-Nazis all have broken skulls and severe concussions. They are all, for the want of a better word, uncommunicative.’ He snapped the report closed, then looked back up at Borovsky. ‘The doctors say that the odds are even that the survivors won’t remember the attack.’

‘If they wake at all.’

Vargunin nodded. ‘If they wake at all.’

‘Who’s the supervising officer on the case?’

Vargunin checked the paperwork. ‘Sergeant Rusinko. Anna Rusinko.’

Borovsky’s reaction was immediate. ‘May I see her?’

‘Now?’

‘Right now.’

Vargunin was a bit taken aback by Borovsky’s urgency, but he immediately responded. ‘Of course.’

The colonel may have been an old friend, but he was still Vargunin’s superior — by quite a few steps up the ladder of command. The warrant officer leaned over to activate the intercom.

Borovsky interrupted. ‘I wish to see her in person.’

Vargunin stopped in mid-click. ‘Of course.’

The two men left Vargunin’s office and headed past the road safety office, the organized crime unit, the white-collar crime desk, and several other units. Workers moved briskly through the hallway because they knew a superior officer was coming; word spread ahead like a shockwave, informed by whispers, gestures, and veteran instincts that detected a change in the atmosphere in the building. Of course, some of the police officers were actually working hard and fast. Mostly the younger recruits, the ones who had their eyes on the jobs of the sluggish veterans, like great apes sensing frailty in the alpha male.