Stuart Kaminsky - A Whisper to the Living

At this point, Elena stepped back and three SWAT-uniformed policemen armed with automatic weapons came out from behind her. The bald man dropped his gun and went to his knees.

The white-haired man dashed toward the open doors of the elevator at the end of the corridor. He had propped the doors open with a small wedge of wood so that he and the bald man could get away quickly after they killed Iris Templeton.

The man hobbled, grunting, leaving a trail of blood on the gray carpet. Sasha went after him. The man had a foot in the door of the elevator when Sasha landed on his back. The man twisted his hand behind him and fired his weapon. Sasha tore the gun from his hand, battered his face against the floor, and rolled onto his back.

“Are you all right?” asked Elena, who stood over Sasha as he moved over onto his back, from which vantage point he could see a small, old chandelier.

“I am,” he said. “Iris Templeton?”

“Unhurt. She crawled to the bathroom when the shooting began. The two men with guns were remarkably poor shots.”

“Just like in an American movie.”

Sasha was fascinated by the dozens of lights in the small chandelier in the ceiling directly above him.

A pair of policemen in protective wear hurried down the corridor dragging the bald prisoner, who looked back over his shoulder at Sasha.

“I think they will both live,” said Elena. “I will have them put into separate small cells.”

“The older one, make him comfortable. The bald one, give him some food and water and something to drink. . ”

“I know,” said Elena.

They would play the two men against each other. Maybe Chief Inspector Rostnikov would take care of that part of this. If they were lucky, one of them might turn Pavel Petrov in and with the tape from Sergei Bresnechov, Tyrone, they might be able to arrest Petrov.

Over Elena’s shoulder appeared the face of Iris Templeton.

“Are you shot?” she asked the fallen detective.

“No,” Sasha said. “I just want to lie here for a while. I like the view.”

Had hisfather ever come home sober from the furniture factory where he worked? He must have, but Aleks could not remember such a time. He was certain that his background must be known to the police. He was certain a dolt of an officer had or would come to the conclusion, with the help of a no-nothing psychologist, that in killing the alcoholic old men in the park Aleks was killing his father. Aleks did not want to kill his father. He was alive, still working, and quite available if Aleks wanted to kill him.

Perhaps Aleks could take this opportunity to lull the policeman into a nighttime stroll in the park from which only Aleks would return.

Aleksandr Chenko decided to take a walk. His apartment had begun to feel like a tight suit his parents had made him wear for a parade at the Kremlin. He had been eight years old and he was too short to see much of anything, though he could hear the grinding of tanks and the claps of marching boots. Aleks remembered the tight and itching suit and the fact that he had wet his pants. He had not told his parents, and when he got home he had hurried to the bathroom, stripped himself naked, and stepped into the shower. The shower had been cold. It was always cold. He ran it on his penis and between his legs where the redness itched.

Aleks’s father had shouted at him when he came out, called him a fool while his mother just shook her head and looked at the pile of clothes her son brought out.

Perhaps it would be a good idea to kill his father.

“Once moreI tell you, I do not know who killed your boxer, but I do know it was not your giant,” said Paulinin. “He was there, but DNA insists on another wielder of the weapon.”

“You are sure?”

There was a long pause and then Paulinin said, “When have you known me to speak without certainty?” He hung up before Iosef could say more.

Then Iosef said, “Who do you know who did not like Fedot Babinski?”

“His wife,” said Zelach. “Her knuckles.”

“Knuckles?” asked Ivan.

At theentrance gate of Petrovka stood a young man who held on to the fence’s iron bars and shifted from one leg to the other. He had told the guards whom he wanted to see, though he did not know the man’s name. The young man did know from Elena that she worked in the Office of Special Investigations. Therefore, he had asked for the boss of that department.

“What do you want?” asked the guard, who looked remarkably like one of the men who read the news on Russia Today television.

The guard stayed well back when he asked the question and waited for an answer.

“To give him something of great value. It is my civic duty. Tell him it involves the man from Gasprom in whom he is interested.”

“Wait.”

The guard moved away, replaced by another guard who looked like a little boy with a big gun.

Tyrone had done his best to dress respectably, which meant he had to buy new clothes with some of the money he got from the British journalist. He had been given the money in the hallway after he turned over the tape. He did not say it was the only copy, and it was not. In his pocket was another copy.

Tyrone’s request was brought to the Yak’s assistant, Pankov, who weighed it carefully and moved to the window where he had a partial view of the gate. The young man looked harmless, but who knew these days? Two Chechen suicide bombers had attempted to enter Petrovka in the last three years. Neither had succeeded, but there might always be a first. The young man seemed to be in some pain, but that might be Pankov’s imagination.

“Wait.”

Pankov rubbed his palms against the sides of his pants to keep from revealing his perspiring hands. He had worked for Colonel Yaklovev for five years, yet the prospect of entering the office with news that the Yak might not like still terrified Pankov.

He knocked and was immediately told to enter. Behind the desk directly in front of him sat Igor Yaklovev under a portrait of Lenin that one might be forgiven for thinking was a portrait of the Yak himself.

“What?”

“A young man wants to see you,” said Pankov. “He claims to have something you would like to have, related to the man from Gasprom.”

The Yak pondered the situation for a moment. In his three years as Director of the Office of Special Investigations, no one had ever simply come to the gate seeking him.

“Have him thoroughly searched, every thread of his clothing and every tooth in his mouth and all the recesses of every orifice of his body.”

“Yes, sir,” said Pankov. “Then should I bring him here?”

“No,” said the Yak. “Turn him loose naked and tell him never to return.”

“I-” Pankov began.

“It is a joke, Pankov,” said the Yak with some exasperation.

“Oh. . ”

Pankov had never before heard the Yak utter anything that even sounded like a joke.

“Bring him,” said the Yak, and Pankov hurried out the door.

Ten minutes later the young man was ushered into the office of Igor Yaklovev.

“You have been beaten,” the Yak said to the boy who stood before his desk, “beaten by professionals.”

“By people who wanted to destroy what I have for you,” the young man said.

The boy was skinny, pigeon breasted. He had made some attempt to pat down his wild hair, but that had only made it worse.

Tyrone would have liked to sit. Sleep would be even better, but the man who looked like Lenin did not offer him a chair.

“Your name?”