Stuart M Kaminsky - The Dog Who Bit a Policeman

midnight.”

Sasha nodded, adjusted his shirt and sleeves, and checked his hair with the palm of his right hand. “I’d better hurry,” he said.

“I still think I should go with you,” she said.

“The invitation was for me,” he said.

“I can follow, watch,” she said.

“Unnecessarily dangerous,” he said.

“You look pleased. You’ve looked pleased about this whole assignment.”

“Perhaps, a little,” he said.

“You’re not curious about why so much money is being spent to put on a front for us-hotel, clothes, shipping a dog to Kiev and back, bets you’ll have to make?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “That is the concern of Director Yaklovev.”

“Be careful,” she said.

“Of course,” he said, checking himself again in the mirror.

Elena wasn’t so sure.

“You have the address where they told me to come,” he said, adjusting his hair. “If I am not back by morning. .”

“Then I’ll know you are really enjoying yourself,” she said.

The naked, rather hairy body of a large man floated facedown in the Moscow River. His massive buttocks rose and bobbed like twin pale balloons. The body was corpse white and bore a tattoo on the left arm which, like the right, drifted outward from the dead man.

The tattoo, Rostnikov could see from the police boat, was of a knife with a snake twisted around the blade and handle.

“Shall we pull him out?” asked a uniformed officer.

“No, not yet,” said Rostnikov. “We’ll wait. You have coffee?”

The uniformed officer, a very young man with a cap that looked a bit large for his narrow face, said yes.

“Please,” said Rostnikov, sitting on the wooden seat at the rear of the boat. “What is your name?”

“Igor Druzhnin.”

“Bring a cup for yourself, too, Igor Druzhnin,” said Rostnikov.

“We can talk while we wait.”

The young officer left.

An excursion boat, filled no doubt with tourists, chugged past.

One or two people on board saw the body and began to take pictures. Others joined them.

In English, one of the tourists said, “Can’t we get a little closer?”

The boat cruised on down the river.

Once, the river had been relatively clean, a wide, dark, flowing, meandering path which Muscovites liked to watch from the banks while fishing, eating lunch, or simply thinking. But that was gradually changing. There had always been those who under cover of night dumped their garbage in the dark water. Now, though such dumping was illegal, it had grown less covert. And garbage was only part of the problem. Far north, factories poured liquid waste into the river. Much of it was filtered out by natural processes. Much of it was not.

“Others do it. So, I do it too,” was the often-spoken excuse of those who lived near enough to the river to defile it.

It had grown worse with the fall of the Soviet Union and the chaos that had overrun the city. The police, in the days before the new democracy, would from time to time arrest people who spread filth in the waters. Now no one seemed to care.

There were those who said the river had taken on a new and not pleasant smell.

“It has the stink of freedom,” Lydia Tkach had said.

Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov was the senior investigator in the Office of Special Investigation. This office had been started as a dumping ground for politically touchy cases and cases the MVD

and even State Security, the old KGB, wanted no part of because they promised nothing but failure and a threat to those who might pursue them.

Rostnikov and his staff had been brought to the Office of Special Investigation by the pompous Colonel Snitkonoy, the Gray Wolfhound, who was considered a fine figure of a fool on whom could be dumped disastrous cases without the possibility of furthering his ambition.

They had been wrong. When Rostnikov had been transferred from the Moscow Procurator’s Office after one confrontation too many with people in power-the KGB and the chief procurator himself-he had taken with him his small staff. The sensitive crimes that others had imposed upon the Wolfhound and his staff began to be brought to conclusions, and at one point the Office of Special Investigation had even stopped an attempted assassination of Mikhail Gorbachev, who was then president of the Soviet Union. There were those later who said that it would have been better had Rostnikov failed, but at the time it had brought grudg-ing respect for Snitkonoy and his men.

So successful was the office that the Gray Wolfhound was transferred and promoted to head the security service at the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg. He was a perfect choice in his neat, be-medaled uniform, a relic standing tall with flowing silver hair, an exhibit worthy of placement next to a Rublyov icon.

The Office of Special Investigation had recently been taken over by Igor Yaklovev. The Yak was about fifty, lean, with hair cut short and the bushiest eyebrows Porfiry Petrovich had ever seen, with the possible exception of Leonid Brezhnev. The Yak, a former KGB officer, was given to dark, uneventful suits and suspenders. His hair was receding and his glasses had thick lenses. He was ambitious, Rostnikov knew, and was using the office to further that ambition.

Information gathered in the course of investigations could and well might be used by the Yak to put pressure on those above him, or traded to them to aid his ascension of the ladder of political power.

But to give the man his due, Yaklovev had promoted Rostnikov, given him a free hand, and pledged his support if one or more of the varied criminal organizations and the confused state bureaucracy attempted to impede the performance of his duties. Up to now, the Yak had been as good as his word and had successfully bought the loyalty of Rostnikov and his staff.

The wake of the passing excursion boat, now about a half mile down the river, had lifted the corpse and set his right hand moving in what looked like a wave to a school of small fish below him.

The boat was on the northern bank of the meandering river, directly across from the Hotel Baltschug Kempinski Moskau. An elegant hotel built in 1898 and reopened in 1992 after a complete renovation by a German-Russian group, the hotel boasted 234 luxury rooms. Rostnikov knew that on the other side of the hotel was St. Basil’s Cathedral, Red Square, and the Kremlin.

Rostnikov shifted his weight as the young uniformed officer came back on deck and offered the detective a blue mug. Officer Druzhnin had a gray cup. Rostnikov took the cup, thanked the man who looked out at the corpse, and began to drink. The coffee was tepid and awful, but it was coffee.

As he drank, the two men watched the naked corpse.

“Are you married, Igor?”

“Yes.”

“Children?”

“Not yet.”

“You want children?”

“Yes, but we can’t afford even to feed ourselves. I haven’t been paid for two months. Fortunately, my wife works. She sells papers and sweets at the Kazan train station.”

Rostnikov could never quite get comfortable. He was a man of average size but built like the German tank that had crippled his left leg when he was a boy soldier. For almost half a century, Rostnikov had dragged the leg painfully, had listened to its complaints like those of an aged parent for whom one is responsible. Then, one day, the pain had gotten worse and a doctor he trusted, his wife Sarah’s cousin, Leon Moiseyevitch, had told him that the leg should go. Rostnikov had agreed with regret, and now he had a prosthesis that allowed him to walk almost normally. Rostnikov missed his withered leg and knew that Paulinin, the half-mad sci-entific technician whose laboratory --">