Andrew Kaplan - Scorpion Winter

“I’m a Kiwi,” Scorpion said.

“What’s that?” Bohdan asked, wincing.

“From New Zealand. Good to remember.”

“Sure,” Bohdan said, wincing again. “Wherever the yob that is.”

“Far away.”

“I understand. Vy ne frantsuzy,” you are not French, Bohdan said in Russian.

Scorpion pulled the knife out and put it away. He called one of the girls over and asked for a handkerchief. If Bohdan holding his hand bleeding was an unusual sight here, she didn’t say anything about it.

“So did he tell you anything, this makler?” Iryna asked now, raising her voice. The music was blaring so loud it was hard for them to hear each other.

“Not much,” Scorpion said. “No one’s bought a high-powered rifle or explosives in the past week. What about your mole?”

“She saw Pyatov yesterday.”

“Where?”

“Cherkesov’s hotel. The lobby.”

“The one on Voroghilov Street?” Cherkesov’s Dnipropetrovsk headquarters; where Scorpion had met with Gorobets.

“Mmm,” she nodded, lighting a cigarette, the match flaring in the darkness.

“What else?”

“She doesn’t know. If he’s not going to use a rifle or explosives, how’s he going to do it?”

“With this,” Scorpion said, taking one of the black armbands with the yellow Ukrainian cross out of his pocket.

Iryna looked at him, her eyes reflecting the light from the stage in the darkness.

“Where’d you get that?” she asked.

“From Oliynyk, one of their campaign leaders here. I’m their pal, their drooh.”

“Are you?” she said, and he could hear the fear in her voice.

“Don’t be stupid.”

According to the TV and Internet, there had been street fighting all over Ukraine between supporters of Kozhanovskiy and the Black Armbands. In Kyiv and Dnipropetrovsk, Black Armbands had smashed Jewish shop windows. In Kharkov, three students and one Black Armband had been killed in a riot near the National University. Scorpion had seen it on TV that afternoon at the car rental shop where he’d rented a BMW 328i all-wheel-drive in case he needed a getaway through the snow from the stadium.

“They should shoot them all,” the car rental manager had said, referring to the TV.

“Who?” Scorpion had asked.

“Those studentov,” meaning the students supporting Kozhanovskiy. “All they do is make trouble. They should get a job, have to work like every Vasja Pupkin, instead of all the time marching, making trouble. Am I right, bratan?” meaning bro, clapping Scorpion on the shoulder.

Later, trying out the BMW’s AWD on the slushy streets on the way to his RDV at the Paradise Club, he had seen groups of Black Armbands brandishing clubs and spoiling for a fight heading toward Maidan Zhovtneva, October Square, the main square in Dnipropetrovsk.

“We have to fight them,” Iryna said, sitting next to him in the club. “If we let the Chorni Povyazky go unopposed, people will be afraid to even show up to vote.”

“I don’t think you should come to the stadium,” Scorpion said.

“Now who’s being stupid?” Iryna said. “All you’ve got is a photo and a hunch. I’ve seen Pyatov. Hell, I was the one who hired him! You need me. Anyway, it’s settled. I’m coming.”

“You’re too well known. How long do you think it’ll be before someone in the crowd recognizes you?”

“I brought these,” she said, taking black plastic-rimmed glasses out of her handbag and putting them on. “What do you think?”

With her blond wig and bright red lipstick, he thought it made her look like a schoolteacher moonlighting as a hooker.

“Perfect if you want to give blowjobs to professors,” he said. “Go back to the campaign, Iryna. Now, while you still can.”

“No,” she said softly. He had to strain over the loudspeaker music to hear her. “This is my fight, my country. If you don’t let me come, I’ll take off the disguise and walk in there openly.”

In spite of the glasses, Scorpion could see the bravery shining in her eyes. She’s bluffing, he thought. Or crazy. Either way, she was a hell of a woman. He couldn’t just leave her as a loose end. He waved at one of the dancers with a surgically enhanced chest, wearing nothing but a G-string the size of dental floss. When she came over, he ordered Nemiroff for both of them.

“What’s this?” Iryna asked when the dancer brought the drinks.

“Might as well, because the odds are we’re both going to die tonight. You, almost certainly.”

“In that case, za zdorowya ta scasty vam!” she toasted. Health and good luck.

“We’ll need it,” Scorpion said.

Stadion Dnipro

Dnipropetrovsk, Ukraine

It was dark when they arrived at Dnipro Stadium. Scorpion parked the BMW on a side street. If they needed to get away, he didn’t want to be tied up in a parking lot. If anything went wrong, they’d meet at the car, he explained. They walked on icy sidewalks toward the stadium. Iryna was bundled up in a heavy outer coat and hood. Only a few yellow curls of her wig were visible under the hood, and with her glasses and lipstick, she’d be hard to recognize, Scorpion thought. But it was still iffy.

The street became crowded as they approached the Khersonska Street entrance. They were joined by more and more people heading to the stadium. Militsiyu police outside the stadium entrance watched the crowd pouring in. Vendors sold handheld blue and yellow Ukrainian flags and small black flags with the yellow Ukrainian cross, while Black Armbands near the gate handed out signs for people to carry. The signs read: HET KOZHANOVSKIY, Down with Kozhanovskiy; CHERKESOV MAYBUTN OMU, Cherkesov is the future; and CHERKESOV DLYA PREZYDENTA, Cherkesov for President.

Scorpion bought one of the Ukrainian flags and handed it to Iryna. A Black Armband tried to hand him a sign. Scorpion shook him off.

“Zhurnalist,” he said, pointing to his Reuters badge that he wore on the lanyard outside his coat. They joined the crowd pressing through the gate.

“Khay zhyve Cherkesov!” Long live Cherkesov! one of them shouted, and people around them cheered and clapped. Scorpion and Iryna made their way up a staircase and along a ramp. They came through an opening and into the oval stadium filling with people and more pouring in.

The snow on the playing field had been cleared away. Thousands of people were sitting on chairs on the field and microphones and lights had been set up on a stage in the middle. A giant TV screen showed patriotic images: the gold-domed churches of Kyiv, the Carpathian mountains in spring, peasant girls in costume, the Ukrainian flag, Ukrainian soldiers goose-stepping to the sounds of military music. Around the field, Black Armbands guided people to their seats or scanned the stands for trouble.

“Not here,” Scorpion said to Iryna, pulling her toward an exit. Pyatov wasn’t going to take a potshot from the stands, and trying to pick him out of tens of thousands of people was next to impossible. Pyatov would try to get close to Cherkesov, Scorpion thought, but in a place where he had a chance to get away. He and Iryna made their way back down the stairs against the flow of people still coming in and toward one of the entrances to the field. A half-dozen Black Armbands blocked the way.

“Ask him where Oleksandr Gorobets is,” he whispered to Iryna. “We’re supposed to be his guests. You’re my translator.” A Black Armband who was missing several teeth stood in front of them.

She told the Black Armband. He peered at Scorpion.

“Khto vy?” he asked. Who are you?

“ Zhurnalist Reuters,” Scorpion said, holding up his ID and pointing to it.

The Black Armband said something.