Stuart Kaminsky - The Dog Who Bit a Policeman

“Those are yours,” the German said. “Keep them. Destroy them.

Listen to the tapes. Some of them are difficult to understand.

Many of them are of indiscretions on your part, in which you reveal information of a highly sensitive nature about others in the government and secret actions, which I am sure were not meant to be revealed outside of a very small circle in the Kremlin. Some might even say that the sharing of such secret information with a woman would constitute treason.”

“I don’t have money,” Yevgeny said, closing the box with a sudden snap and handing it to Oleg.

“Money,” the German said, running a hand down Yulia’s body.

“No, I am not after money. I need your power, your influence. I need to be able to go to business and political sources in other countries and guarantee them certain things from Russian governmental agencies, things which you can arrange.”

Yevgeny had swayed slightly, his eyes on the German. Oleg had no idea what his friend was thinking. Yevgeny cheated on his wife-which, considering his friend’s wife, was completely understandable. Yevgeny was often away from his role in running the fragile government; he gambled away his money and was ever prepared to take offense at a look or a comment. He was easily swayed by a pretty face.

On the other hand, Yevgeny Pleshkov was an honest man who stubbornly held to his own principles in spite of pressure from his own party, from outside lobbies, and sometimes from the press.

The people seemed to love him. An honest man in a dishonest world. A compassionate man who was frequently quoted. Once he had said, “To err is divine. To forgive is human.” People who loved Yevgeny and did not know him smiled when they spoke these words. In the valley of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. Yevgeny might well become a political king. Oleg didn’t always agree with what his friend said and stood for, but he admired and respected his courage in saying what he thought, doing what he believed was best for Russia.

Maybe he was thinking about such things as he looked down at the wooden box. And then he looked up and saw the German’s hand move under Yulia’s gown and between her legs. She neither protested, moved, nor indicated in any way that she welcomed being used.

Oleg knew what was coming. He had seen Yevgeny like this before when he had been drinking. Oleg wondered if Yulia had warned the German, and if the German knew some kind of mar-tial art or had a gun, but he was stark naked. There was no place to hide a weapon.

The German stood, working his hand between Yulia’s legs, under her open gown.

Oleg reached for his friend’s arm as Yevgeny strode forward toward the couple and made a deep animal sound. The German spread his legs, amused for a moment, but only a moment. Oleg had no idea what the German had expected, but he certainly didn’t expect to be hit in the face with the wooden box. The German staggered back in surprise and pain. Blood spurted from his nose.

A purple welt like a fat worm streaked over his left eyebrow.

Yulia stepped away, watching, no sign of fear or a move to escape the room or step between her lovers. She was, Oleg thought as he rushed quickly forward to restrain his friend, indifferent. She takes drugs, Oleg had thought. A normal person wouldn’t act like this.

Oleg put his arms around Yevgeny, but the drunken man of the people was beyond restraint. He shook Oleg off. The German, his left eye closing quickly, started toward a door that must have been the bedroom. He moved on legs far less steady than the drunken Pleshkov. The German got about five feet before Yevgeny caught him and with a two-handed grip slammed the wooden box against the side of the fleeing man’s head.

The box splintered and came apart at the hinges. Photographs and cassettes sprayed around the room. The German was on his knees now, holding the side of his head. Yevgeny stood over him, breathing heavily, a piece of the shattered box in each hand. The piece in his right hand was a jagged splinter.

Oleg was afraid to tackle his friend again but he knew he had to try. But before he could do so, the German turned on his knees, a dazed look on his face, blood trickling down his lips and into his mouth.

Yevgeny plunged the splinter into the man’s neck.

The German said something like “Ahhggg,” and Yevgeny stepped away, watching the German fall to the floor on his back and attempt to remove the sharp broken wood from his neck. It was useless. He rolled over atop photos and cassettes and died trying to curl up into a ball to escape the pain.

Yevgeny was breathing hard. He looked around as if he did not know where he was. First he looked at the piece of the box in his hand. Then he looked at the German and at Oleg and finally he looked at Yulia, who walked over to the dead German and poured the remains of her drink on his body.

She placed her glass on a small table next to a lamp and took two steps to the bewildered Yevgeny Pleshkov.

“Sit, Yevi,” she said, leading him by the arm to one of the chairs the German had offered him. Pleshkov sat and Yulia took the remains of the box from him and dropped them on the floor.

“Yevgeny,” Oleg said, “let’s get out of here.”

Pleshkov looked at his friend as if surprised to see him there, wherever there might be. Yevgeny did not rise. In fact, he sat back and closed his eyes.

“Help me clean up,” Yulia had said to Oleg.

“The body?” Oleg asked.

“We’ll think of something when we come to that,” she said. “I’ll change into something that won’t be ruined by the blood.”

Oleg got on his knees and began picking up photographs, many of them splattered with blood, and cassettes, some of which had broken and flown across the room, leaving a brown vinyl trail of thin tape. And there were dozens of pieces of wood. In his hurry, Oleg picked up a splinter in the palm of his hand. There was enough visible to pull it out, though his hand was shaking.

Oleg found a wastebasket and was filling it when Yulia reappeared in faded blue jeans and a blue sweatshirt.

“No,” she said, handing Oleg a large green plastic garbage bag.

“Fill this. I can dump it in the trash. It will be picked up in the morning. Put in everything.”

The man and woman worked together. Yulia produced a blanket to wrap the German’s body, which they did with surprising ease, though Oleg did his best not to look at the grotesque naked man with the battered face and the sharp piece of wood buried in his neck. Without hesitation, Yulia pulled the wooden stake from the neck of the man who had humiliated her. She wiped it to remove any possible fingerprints and dropped it into the rapidly filling bag.

Then she produced two electrical extension wires and used them to tie the top and bottom of the makeshift shroud in which what was once a man was wrapped.

The blood was the most difficult part of the operation. Yulia said, “I’ll be right back. Try to rouse Yevi. We will need his help.”

Oleg did as he was told and tried not to look at the bundle on the floor. Yevgeny Pleshkov did not respond to his entreaties, but he did look into Oleg’s face as if trying to recognize him. Oleg gave up and resumed his cleanup, wondering if Yulia would suddenly appear with armed policemen and point her finger at the scene, denouncing Oleg and Yevgeny.

She did reappear with a bucket containing a variety of plastic cleaning items, a pair of brushes, and some towels.

“Took them from the storage closet on the next floor,” she explained. “I will have to get them back soon. Let’s put the body by the door. See if he is leaking through first.”

Again, Oleg did as he was told. The blood did not seem to be spreading, at least not yet. Together they moved the wrapped corpse near the door.