Dog Who Bit a Policeman Read online

  “I entered the house, heard noises from somewhere inside. The blond man told me that I was a little late and led me to a door, which he opened, increasing the noise. We went down a flight of stairs and I found myself in a big, high-ceilinged room with a wire-fenced square in the middle surrounded by about forty people, all men, standing. Two dogs were inside the wire fence.

  “The spectators placed bets with men who walked among them. The men who took the bets all wore blue blazers with a golden bear emblazoned on the breast pocket. The fight that was going on was almost over. A big black-and-white mongrel was bleeding but about to triumph over an equally large white German shepherd, which had lost its right ear in the battle and had lost a great deal of blood from numerous bites. It was disgusting. It was fascinating. The shepherd stood bravely on wobbling legs, showing its teeth in a final brave stance. The mongrel attacked with a growl and the fight was over.

  “A man appeared at my side. We had seen him in the restaurant earlier. He said his name was Boris Osipov. He is tall, wears good clothes, well built, dark hair, false smile and, I think, false teeth, though he can’t be more than my age or a little older.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out about him,” Elena said. “Go on.”

  Sasha touched his stubbly morning beard with the back of his hand and with the same hand attempted to tame his hair. His hair refused to cooperate.

  “Over the noise of bettors arguing with each other about the merits of the dogs in the next fight, Boris explained that bets could be made only with the house men in the blue blazers. Side and private bets were not permitted. Drinks were available at slightly more than a reasonable price. I asked for a Scotch on the rocks. It was the first of several. Boris raised a hand. A waiter appeared, took the drink order. He was back with it almost immediately. I reached for my wallet. Boris stopped me and said the first one was on him. I thanked him. Two men in jeans and black shirts removed the dying German shepherd and led the victor off to have his wounds tended.

  “‘You know dogs?’ asked Boris.

  “‘A bit,’ I said.

  “‘What do you say about these two?’ Two fresh dogs were led into the fenced square. One, tall, black and brown, a Doberman, was straining toward the other dog, growling, showing its teeth. The other dog regarded the Doberman, showing no reaction. The second dog, smaller than the Doberman, was, by his look, part terrier, part wolfhound, an odd-looking creature who seemed neither thirsting for blood nor afraid. He showed dignity.

  “‘I’ll take that one,’ I said, pointing at the part wolfhound as the Doberman strained at the short leash and began to bark.

  “‘How much?’ asked Boris, motioning for one of the men in a blue blazer, who came immediately.

  “‘Two hundred American dollars,’ I said. I got out my wallet and gave the man two hundred dollars.”

  “You bet two hundred dollars?” Elena said incredulously.

  “What choice did I have? I did bet more as the evening progressed. Sometimes odds were given. Sometimes there were no odds. Sometimes I won. Sometimes I lost. You needn’t worry. I wound up six hundred dollars ahead for the night.”

  “Go on,” Elena said with a sigh.

  “The Doberman was killed, quickly. After two more fights, the main event of the night was a pit bull and a rottweiler. I bet and lost. The noise in the room was worse than a soccer match. I drank. Boris asked me questions. I told him I had a fighting pit bull back in Kiev, that I had my own growing dogfighting business. He pumped me and I dropped the name of Alexander Chernov. He said he knew Chernov. I shrugged. I’m sure he has called Chernov by now to check on me.”

  Alexander Chernov had been a wheeler-dealer in the black market in Kiev during the days of the Soviet Union. When the Union ended and the underground black market became an overground but still illegal market for goods, food, and services, Chernov had made even more money. He had, however, made the mistake of bribing a Kiev police officer, only to discover—to his amazement—that the officer was completely honest and incorruptible. Chernov had not believed such a creature existed. The officer had taped their conversations, arrested Chernov with plenty of evidence, and brought him in to face a great deal of prison time. The officer’s superior, who was not quite as honest as the man who had trapped Chernov, had struck a deal with Chernov. Chernov could continue to operate in exchange for a regular payment to the official. In addition, Chernov might be called upon to perform certain acts, tell certain lies, betray certain friends. Chernov had readily agreed. This time his assignment had been simple. If called by anyone in Moscow about a certain Dmitri Kolk, he was to say that Kolk was well known in Kiev for his dogs, and that the young man had made a great deal of money in a variety of ventures, including illegal passports and drugs. Even if Sasha were found out, Chernov could claim to have been duped.

  “And?” Elena prompted.

  “Not much more to tell,” said Sasha, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and feeling quite dizzy from the effort. “I bet, watched, talked to Boris, was introduced to some of his associates. I told Boris and his friends that I had a dog I was interested in having fight in Moscow. I told him I had other dogs, all great fighters, in Kiev and that I could send for them. Perhaps we could arrange a cooperative venture. Boris said he would call me here. We drank. I watched animals maimed and killed. I pretended to be excited by it, to enjoy it.”

  “And did you?” asked Elena.

  “Did I?”

  “Enjoy it,” she said. “Were you excited by it?”

  “Is this relevant to your report?”

  “No,” she said. “I was just curious.”

  “Perhaps I did, a bit. I had more to drink than I ever had, but I was careful to keep alert and perhaps the drink made me … I don’t know.”

  Sasha tried to stand and with one hand on the bed managed to do so. He stood on unsteady feet, wearing nothing but his underpants. Even had he shaved and had no hangover, Elena knew she would not be moved sexually by the sight of her partner. Sasha was not her type, and she knew too much about him to be interested.

  She reached over and turned off the tape recorder, watching Sasha stagger toward the bathroom.

  “You have anything else to add about your adventure, either on or off the record?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, taking another slow step toward the bathroom.

  “I picked up your clothes and hung them in the closet,” she went on.

  “Thank you,” he said, one hand on the wall next to the bathroom to steady himself.

  “Your clothes reek of perfume and the smell of a woman,” she said. “Your jacket has red marks, lipstick.”

  “You sound like a wife,” he said, holding his head.

  “When you look in the mirror,” Elena said, “you’ll see more lipstick marks on your neck and chest.”

  Sasha turned to look at Elena, who sat looking up at him expressionlessly. It had been nearly two in the morning. He had downed several drinks. Boris had taken him to a private room upstairs, a living room, and introduced him to the woman. He couldn’t even remember her name at the moment, but he did remember that she was young, had very short dark hair and clear white skin, smelled wonderful, was slim but let her cleavage show, and that she had full, erect breasts. She had worn a red strapless dress and … it had happened. Boris disappeared. She had led him to a bedroom. His first thought when it was over was AIDS. Things like this had happened to him before, not often. Each time he had felt guilt and fear. He would have to be tested. The woman was either an expensive prostitute who could have any disease, or a tyolki, a gangster’s woman, who could also have a disease.

  Sasha looked at Elena.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “Your battle scars will not be in the report.

  “Thank you,” he said, moving into the bathroom and looking at himself in the mirror. It was a horrible sight.

  “Why is it so shoomeet, so noisy?” he asked, closing his eyes.

  “Did you expect the gre
at Mayor Yuri Luzkov to stop billions of dollars of construction because one man wakes up with a headache?”

  “It would be considerate,” said Sasha.

  Construction of a new Russia with money that had best not be questioned had begun two years earlier. The change was enormous. Supposedly, the construction had been for the celebration in September of Moscow’s eight hundred fiftieth anniversary, a number in some dispute. The celebration had come and gone and the construction went on and on.

  New ornate buildings with stucco facades; massive fake cathedrals; new wrought-iron lampposts that echoed those of a century ago; and two or three floors added to old buildings and the buildings themselves remodeled and sandblasted by workmen in orange overalls. The skyline had already changed and it was due to change even more.

  It was not the first time in this century that the face of Moscow had undergone a major change. Lenin, who moved the capital from St. Petersburg to Moscow, had disdained the czarist past and brought on a new era of modern architecture that was supposed to reflect the new Russia. Lenin’s Moscow was a hodgepodge of styles, and the construction was often subpar and crumbling almost before it was completed.

  Stalin in the 1930s had a new vision of elaborate and impressive metro stations underground, and imposing and threatening skyscrapers and great statues aboveground. The seven skyscrapers that still tower in the skyline were a Stalin contribution. Monuments to who-knew-what. But Mayor Luzkov was planning what he called the “eighth tower,” a pink monster on the grounds of Moscow State University.

  Then the Khrushchev 1950s brought the construction that resulted in blocks of huge gray apartment buildings.

  And now, not the leader of Russia or the Soviet Union, but the mayor of the city, who wanted to replace Yeltsin, had unveiled great plans, none of which would do much to change the housing problem. He planned a third ring circle; more underground parking—though only twenty percent of the people of Moscow have cars; a railroad running alongside the new ring road; at least two new subway stations; American-style shopping malls; a new business district called Moskva-Siti, at a cost of over eight billion in American dollars; and the worlds tallest building, the Tower of Russia, which would reach 1,950 feet into the sky.

  Little if any of this construction promised much to the vast majority of Muscovites, who still lived in crumbling, poorly constructed housing. But the people of Moscow loved their mayor, and ninety percent of those who voted, voted for him.

  Sasha, even through the hangover, had to admit that since the rise of the new mayor, his salary and that of city workers, and of those employees of the government who worked in the city, had come regularly. There had even been a small raise at the start of the year.

  But the noise. Just a moment of respite. A brief pause. A blessed silence.

  The phone rang.

  “So many places,” said the woman sitting on the spotless white sofa.

  She shook her head and looked down at her folded hands. At her side, a lean young man put his arm around her and said, “Mama, he is not worth it.”

  The woman was Olga Pleshkov. She was fifty-two years old, well groomed, with stylishly cut, short gray-black hair. A dozen years earlier she had been acknowledged to be one of Moscow’s great beauties and that beauty, it was generally agreed, had been more than slightly instrumental in her husband’s political rise, a rise that came in spite of the fact that he was less than sympathetic to the existing government and had only reluctantly joined the Party, an affiliation he had been one of the first to denounce when Yeltsin mounted the steps.

  Knowing the police were coming, Olga Pleshkov had worn a conservative blue summer dress instead of the jeans and cotton shirt she usually wore to work in her garden. The young man at her side was Ivan Pleshkov, thirty-one, who had taken no pains to dress for the visit. He wore a wrinkled pair of tan chinos and a loose-fitting, pullover Chicago Bulls sweatshirt with cut-off arms.

  They were at the Pleshkov family dacha in Manikhino, thirty miles west of Moscow. In the 1950s, small garden plots had been given to employees at the nearby MIG fighter-plane factory. With the coming of the new Russia, those with money earned through enterprise, corruption, and bribery had begun to buy these plots, tear down the small cottages, and build large homes, which brought on the envy and anger of their far less affluent neighbors.

  Olga Pleshkov’s statement, “so many places,” had been in answer to the question from the young policeman who sat across from her. A decade ago and with nothing on her mind, Olga Pleshkov would have attempted to “cultivate” a powerfully built and good-looking blond like this. She might still be able to accomplish it, but it would be more for the challenge than the pleasure. Now, now there was Yevgeny, his ambition—and hers—and his not-very-strange disappearance.

  The question had been, “Where does your husband go when he …?”

  The unfinished question from Iosef Rostnikov was, “Where does your husband go when he goes on an alcoholic bender?”

  At Iosef’s side, sitting awkwardly erect and not knowing what the proper behavior was in this situation, was Akardy Zelach, a hulking, stoop-shouldered, and not terribly bright member of the Office of Special Investigation. Zelach’s primary virtues were his loyalty to whomever he was assigned to work with and his willingness to do whatever was asked of him, regardless of how difficult or dangerous it might be. That willingness had, on more than one occasion, almost cost him his life. Zelach’s silent hope was that he would not be asked to do anything that required great initiative, creativity, or intelligence. Zelach knew his limits, and there was no question about who was in charge of this case, though Akardy Zelach had been a policeman for almost two decades and Iosef had been one for about a year. The simple truth was that Zelach did not wish to be in charge of anything and he dreaded even the very distant possibility that he might be promoted to a position of greater responsibility.

  The missing Yevgeny Pleshkov was an elected member of the Russian Congress. He was one of the most articulate and outspoken defenders of Boris Yeltsin and his policies and principles. Pleshkov was not afraid of confrontation, verbal or physical, and generally his old-guard political enemies backed away from the huge bass-voiced man with the wild gray hair. Pleshkov was a perfect spokesman and was in great demand for television interviews and public appearances and debates.

  From time to time, however, like now, Pleshkov disappeared for days or weeks, even if an important debate or vote was coming in the congress.

  When the other agencies of criminal investigation had made it clear that they had pursued Pleshkov in the past and emerged with neither thanks nor great success, the Yak had instantly volunteered the Office of Special Investigation to find and deliver Pleshkov before a crucial issue on the rights of foreign investment was to be voted upon. That vote was three days from now.

  Rostnikov had given the job to his son and Zelach. Though he knew of the periodic flights of the bombastic member of congress, finding him didn’t appear to be a particularly difficult assignment, though it could be a delicate one. In spite of the fact that Iosef had been a policeman for so short a time, aside from his father he was the member of the office capable of projecting the most empathy for a victim or even a criminal suspect. Part of this skill was inherited. Part of it came from Iosef’s several years as an actor after coming out of the army. None of the empathy he displayed came from the hard lessons he’d learned from being a soldier in Afghanistan, a soldier labeled a Jew and subject to the most dangerous patrols and vindictive abuse from his superiors, who knew they were losing a senseless war fought in a terrain of rocks and soil incapable of supporting even the most simple crops.

  “A list of places would be helpful,” Iosef prompted. He nodded at Zelach, who pulled out his notebook and pen, ready to take down a list.

  “Places,” Olga Pleshkov repeated. “I don’t know. He could be in a hotel room. He could be … I don’t know.”

  “If someone else is paying,” Ivan said, “my father would be
at any of the new bars or casinos. Jacko’s, Casino Royal, Casino Metropole, the Golden Palace, B.B. King’s, Rosie O’Grady’s, the Sports Bar, or the Up & Down Club. He gets there after midnight and stays till dawn. Because of who he is, someone usually takes him to a room to sleep it off during the day. My father,” Ivan went on with obvious disgust, “does not become boisterous when he drinks. If you didn’t know him, he would appear to be a quiet, dignified businessman, even a respected judge, holding court with tourists, prostitutes, and Mafia bosses who have something to gain from him. My father, in short, is a disgusting drunk.”

  “Ivan,” Olga Pleshkov commanded.

  “How often does this happen?” asked Iosef.

  “Once or twice a year,” said Olga Pleshkov.

  Her son shook his head, folded his arms, and said nothing. Iosef addressed him. “More often?”

  “Increasingly,” said Ivan, ignoring the warning looks of his mother. “Perhaps four times a year, and for longer periods. My father’s liver is a miracle of heredity and evolution. It should, by all reason, be the size of a soccer ball. And yet after each bender he manages to return to his old abusive self.”

  “Your father is not abusive,” Olga Pleshkov said. “He has never laid a hand on either of us.”

  “There are many ways to be abusive,” said Ivan.

  Iosef didn’t bother to ask for a photograph of Yevgeny Pleshkov; his picture was frequently in the newspapers and on television. In fact, Iosef had seen the large man on a news interview television show only a week ago, and had been impressed by his ability to express himself and the apparent sincerity of his words. Depending on how the political winds blew, Pleshkov might well have a bright future in Russian politics.

  “Valentin Itchak said this would be handled with suitable discretion,” Olga Pleshkov said.

  “And it will be,” said Iosef, having not the slightest idea of who Valentin Itchak might be. “We will locate your husband and return him to you.”