Stuart Kaminsky - The Dog Who Bit a Policeman

Slowly, Rostnikov crossed the street, carefully waiting for traffic to pass.

Meanwhile, in the room he had shared with Elena, Sasha sat dressed and ready for the knock that came on his door. Cup of coffee in hand, he moved across the room and found himself facing Peter Nimitsov and Boris Osipov. Illya Skatesholkov was absent.

There was a very good reason why Illya was not there. He was dead. Illya had made a decision on his own not to send Bronson into the hotel elevator to kill the woman. He didn’t want to risk the animal getting killed. It didn’t take their best dog to do the job.

Illya didn’t intend to tell Peter what he had done.

Immediately after the attack Illya had returned the dog to the kennel and gone to Peter Nimitsov’s office to report that the po-licewoman was dead.

“And Bronson?” Peter had asked.

“Fine,” Illya had answered.

“Because,” said Peter, “he was never at risk. I told you to send Bronson to do the job.”

“I. . the woman is dead. Romulus did the job.”

“It is not a question of whether she is dead or not. It is a question of doing what you are told. This will be only a start. You will keep doing things like this. It is inevitable. History, Illya. Our history. Nicholas let Rasputin destroy the Russian Empire. Peter, my namesake, more than two hundred and fifty years ago was advised to move the capital from Moscow to St. Petersburg. But Moscow has remained the heart, the brain of Russia. If Russia is to survive, Moscow must live. The first Russian university was founded here, the first Russian newspaper published here. It is here the working people have first risen up against oppression for more than eight centuries. Did you know that Moscow University was the center of the Decembrist movement?”

“No,” said Illya.

Peter was pacing and Illya was mute and confused. Did this young man with the white scar across his nose want to, really expect to be the leader of a new Russia? And what kind of leader? A new monarchist or the focus of a new uprising led by the working people of Moscow? It seemed to change almost daily.

“No. . never again,” said Peter. “The essence of my success is complete loyalty and obedience. Czars have fallen because of dis-obedience. It will not happen to me.”

Illya had looked at Boris, who stood off to the side. It had been clear from the look on Boris’s face that he had no intention of intervening.

“I was going to kill you, Illya,” Peter had said. “But we’ve been together so long I didn’t have the heart. So I decided Boris should do it.”

“No,” Illya pleaded. “It was just. .”

“All right, all right. Don’t weep. I’ve changed my mind,” Peter had said.

Illya had just started to look relieved when Peter took out his gun. “I will kill you.”

With that, Peter Nimitsov had fired four times, and Illya Skatesholkov had died.

Now, his gun replaced by a fresh one and the old one dropped into the river, Peter Nimitsov stood at the door of the hotel room registered in the name of Dmitri Kolk of Kiev.

“May we come in, Dmitri?” asked Nimitsov, standing with Boris in the doorway.

Sasha stepped back to let them enter. They did, and the young criminal entrepreneur looked around the room while Sasha closed the door.

Nimitsov was dressed in a neatly pressed dark suit and a conservative silk tie. Boris wore the same suit he had worn the night before. An attempt had been made to press or iron it, but the job had been bungled. Sasha wondered if Boris had a wife or mother.

Peter sat in a chair after examining it to be sure there was no dust or dirt on it. Boris stood. Boris tried not to show it, but he glanced from time to time at Peter Nimitsov with a look of fear that Sasha noted.

“Would you like some coffee? Tea?” Sasha asked.

Peter crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. “No, thank you,” he said. “Did you see that your Segei Bubka had won another world title?”

“Yes,” said Sasha.

Bubka was the Ukrainian pole-vaulter who had won seven world titles and Olympic gold medals. He was a national hero.

“Did you know that Lyuba Polikarpova is dead?”

“I know,” said Sasha, moving to the table to pour himself more coffee. “I could never remember her last name. Then, of course, I knew her only a short time.”

“She was killed by a dog in the elevator of this hotel,” Peter said, watching Sasha, who took a sip of coffee.

“A dog?” said Sasha. “The man at the desk told me she was attacked, but he didn’t say whether it was by a human or animal. I had assumed it was a human animal-thief, rapist, madman.”

“And?” asked Nimitsov.

“And what?” asked Sasha. “It was a dog attack, a very flamboy-ant one, and I assume you were responsible, that you were sending a message to me. Tell me, what is the message?”

“She was a police officer,” said Nimitsov.

Sasha scratched an itch on his cheek and said, “I had considered that possibility myself. There was something about her-the way THE DOG WHO BIT A POLICEMANNN177

she watched me, how badly she performed in bed, several things.

You’re sure? I could never find any definite proof.”

“Yes,” said Nimitsov. “I am sure.”

“I’ll have to find some other woman to amuse me,” said Sasha, sitting. “Perhaps the woman from the other night.”

“Tatyana,” Peter Nimitsov said.

“Yes.”

“It can be arranged,” said Peter. “Right, Boris?”

“It can be arranged,” said Boris.

“Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” asked Sasha.

Nimitsov stared at Sasha, who waited patiently and drank his coffee. “Tonight,” he finally said, “I want your dog ready. I want a good fight before Bronson kills him.”

“Tchaikovsky will not lose,” said Sasha.

“He will lose,” said Nimitsov. “Or you will die. Many people are betting on your dog. The odds are going down. Overfeed your animal. Give him a drug, nothing too strong. I want a decent fight, with Bronson having just the edge he needs to insure his victory.

There will be people there I wish to impress, people you will wish to impress. These people have heard about Bronson. They do not know your dog.”

“You don’t think your dog can win without help?” asked Sasha.

“I don’t wish to take a chance,” said Nimitsov, a smile suddenly appearing on his baby face. “I intend to make a great deal of money tonight, and much more in the future with the help of these people I have mentioned. I can arrange for you to place a very large bet that will give you plenty of money to buy a new dog anywhere in the world. Besides, you have other dogs.”

“None as good as Tchaikovsky,” said Sasha, trying to contain himself.

“It cannot be helped,” said Nimitsov, rising.

“A good fight and a dead pit bull. I’m more interested in our progress in getting me and my animals into the syndicate,” said Sasha, reaching over to put down the coffee cup.

“We will make arrangements before the fight,” said Nimitsov, moving toward the door. “We will discuss our future before the fight.”

“What about now?” asked Sasha.

Nimitsov simply shook his head.

“Then tonight, before the fight,” Sasha said. “I am not losing my best dog without assurance that the sacrifice will be worth it.”

“You’ll make a great deal of money tonight,” Nimitsov said.

“I want a future with a great deal more than I can make in one night. My dog doesn’t fight and die till we talk and I get some information from you.”

“Dmitri,” Nimitsov said, shaking his head and touching the scar across his nose. “I could kill you here and now. I would enjoy doing it. I have not yet decided whether I like you or not.”