As he stepped into the clearing, gun in two hands, knees slightly bent, the back door of the house suddenly opened. They saw each other at the same moment and hesitated. Sasha fired first. Valery Grachev fired next. Grachev’s weapon was far more powerful and had great range and accuracy, but Sasha was a policeman who had been shot at before and who had shot at others.
Sasha’s bullet went into Valery Grachev’s left shoulder. Grachev’s entered the ground in front of Sasha, who dropped to his stomach and rolled to his left. When he had rolled back to his right and leveled his weapon, he saw Grachev on the motor scooter, rifle in his hand. Sasha fired again. The bullet hit the front fender of the scooter just in front of Valery. The bullet made a strange ziiiinging sound as Valery started the bike with a kick of his foot and a twist of his hand.
Sasha got to his feet and ran toward the now-moving scooter. He stopped, aimed, and fired again as Grachev started to speed away. This shot hit nothing and Grachev was gone. Sasha was certain he had hit Grachev with his first shot. He ran to the door and examined the ground quickly. Blood, yes, blood.
Sasha put his weapon back in the holster, moved quickly around the house, and headed for Kriskov’s. As he crossed the small street and ran around another house, he saw two men in front of him, two men in uniforms, both with weapons, both aiming at the panting Sasha.
“Police,” Sasha tried to shout, holding his hands in the air.
“What do we do?” one of the men asked the other.
“Shoot him,” said the second.
“But if he is the police?”
“Shit,” said the second. “He shot at us first. He’s our man. He was rushing to finish the job. Shoot.”
The first security guard was leveling his Kalishnikov rifle at Sasha, who knew what he would have to do. He would leap to one side, try to pull out his gun, and attempt to fire at the two men as he hit the ground. He knew he would fail. They were only thirty feet ahead of him. They didn’t even have to be good shots.
“Stop. Now. Or you both die,” came a calm voice.
Sasha looked beyond the two men at Elena, who held her weapon level, pointed at the backs of the two security guards.
The two guards stood, still aiming at Sasha.
“Drop your weapons or die,” said Elena. “I am the police. He is the police. Drop them.”
The two men didn’t move. They exchanged glances that told Sasha they didn’t intend to drop their weapons. The question was which one would kill Sasha and which would turn and fire blindly in the direction of Elena’s voice.
Before they could make their move, Elena fired. Her bullet struck the wooden wall of the nearby house no more than a foot from one of the two guards.
Both men dropped their weapons.
“A man we were guarding has been shot,” said one of the men. “We thought you were the shooter.”
Sasha advanced on the two men, weapon now in his hand. Elena moved forward from behind.
“He got away,” said Sasha. “That is all you need to know.”
“Kriskov’s dead,” Elena said as Sasha picked up the automatic weapons and awkwardly cradled them in his arms while still holding his own pistol.
One of the security guards shook his head.
When they were in front of the Kriskov house, Sasha dropped the guns. The two security guards turned around to pick them up. Another security guard came running out of the house, weapon ready. He recognized Elena, who had been there only minutes before, and lowered his gun.
“I hit him, Elena,” Sasha said. “He is hurt, bleeding. He’s on a motor scooter, carrying a rifle. I’ll call it in. He should be very easy to spot.”
“Are you all right, Sasha Tkach?” Elena asked as they moved through the front door.
Sasha had to think about it for a moment. He had almost been killed, twice or more in the last few minutes, and yet he felt calm. He looked at his hands. They were shaking.
“No, I am not all right.”
Sasha went to the phone, and Elena spoke briefly to one of the security guards. Then she moved to Vera Kriskov, who was seated on the white sofa, hugging herself and rocking forward and back. She was covered with blood, her face, hands, dress, hair. The white sofa was dabbed with red. Her head was down and she was sobbing.
“He’s dead,” she said, looking up at Elena.
Elena could not tell if the woman was acting or was sincere. She seemed sincere. The tears and terror seemed real.
“Where is he?” Elena asked gently.
“Where? Upstairs. In the bedroom,” Vera said.
“No, not your husband. The man who shot him, Valery Grachev.”
Vera Kriskov stopped rocking and looked up at Elena. “Where is he?”
Vera Kriskov’s eyes showed panic. She was thinking, thinking quickly. No matter what she said, Elena was now certain of the woman’s guilt.
“I don’t know any Valery Grostov,” she said. “What are you talking about?”
She was good, but Elena was now certain that she was watching a combination of shock, grief, and performance.
“Grachev. My partner shot him,” Elena said. “He will be caught soon. But he might hurt more people. He might destroy the negatives.”
“I don’t care about negatives,” shouted Vera. “My husband is dead. Find the man who killed him. Shoot him down like a rabid rat in the street.”
The two security guards in the room and Sasha at the phone looked over at the shouting woman.
Vera looked at the head security guard, the one who had rushed into the bedroom. “You hear me,” Vera shouted, standing, her hair tumbling across her face. “I’ll pay ten thousand new rubles to the person who kills the man who murdered my husband. Twenty thousand.”
Elena folded her arms and waited as Vera looked at Sasha and the two security officers. Then the two women faced each other.
“If we find the negatives,” Elena said softly. “If Grachev kills no one else, I will ask my superior to do what he can for you. But first you must tell me where Grachev is.”
“I don’t know any Grachev,” Vera said.
Sasha was standing next to Elena now. He heard the widow’s words and paused till he was sure there was an impasse.
“The roads are being watched,” he said. “A helicopter is circling the Outer Ring and another is following the road from here back to the center of the city. A wounded man on a motor scooter carrying a rifle will be easy to spot.”
“My husband is dead,” Vera moaned, her eyes now meeting Sasha’s, searching for sympathy. “How do I tell the children? My two precious children.”
“My wife has left me,” he answered. “With my two children.”
Elena looked at him. It was definitely not the thing to say in the situation. Sasha’s eyes were moist. His hair had fallen over his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” said Vera, reaching out to touch Sasha’s arm. “There is so much I’m sorry for.”
“And,” said Elena, “if we don’t find Grachev soon, there may be much more for you to be sorry for.”
As soon as he had been sure that there was no one directly behind, following him, Valery had pulled off the Outer Ring onto Tverska, down Tverska a mile, and into a stand of trees to his right. He had hidden the motor scooter, buried the rifle with leaves and dirt, and headed toward the complex of tall gray apartment buildings a few hundred yards on the other side of the trees.
The wound was bleeding and his shoulder throbbing. He took off his thin jacket and pressed it against his left shoulder. Was the bullet still in there? Was he bleeding to death? Valery did not know. He moved on, searching for something, someone. The game should have been over. He had killed the king but he had then been shot by a pawn. The queen was back in that house. She was waiting for him to claim her. Valery was sweating, feverish. From the wound? From whatever illness had entered him the day before? From both? He had been feverish before he had broken into that house when the people who lived there had driven away just after dawn. He had been feverish looking out the window, waiting for Kriskov to step out or appear at the window.