It was this that sent the helicopter allocated to the Kriskov murder down the embankment of the river where the pilot saw a man sitting on the narrow line of rocks along the water. The pilot dropped lower and reported over his radio that there was a child on one side of the man and a large cloth bag that looked like a backpack on the other. It was then that the man raised his arm and fired a shot at the helicopter.
The pilot heard the bullet hit not far from his window. He took the helicopter up two hundred feet quickly and noisily and reported in again, trying to keep his voice calm as he told of the shot fired. The pilot was a veteran of the Afghan war. He had been shot at before, but it had been a long time ago, and now that it had happened again the knowledge of how close he had come to dying in that distant rocky wasteland rushed into his consciousness. He was afraid, but he would not show it.
“Man and boy on the embankment of the Moscow River almost directly across from the Kremlin,” he said. “Man fits the description of Valery Grachev. There is a bag at his side. When I approached, he fired one shot from a handgun, hitting but, I believe, not causing serious injury to the craft. I could not determine if he might be wounded or the extent of any wounds.”
“Very good,” came the voice of the pilot’s supervisor. “Remain in place until you see police vehicles at the scene and then return to base for a damage assessment.”
The supervisor ended the transmission and the pilot allowed himself to take some serious deep breaths.
Grachev was still sitting in the same position that the pilot had reported, when Sasha Tkach and Elena Timofeyeva arrived at the embankment in the police car they had been in for the past hour and a half. By this time, other marked cars with flashing lights had converged and a pair of uniformed policemen were directing traffic away from the site, creating a lengthy traffic jam and drawing camera-armed tourists.
Sasha had said little during the ride. Elena had only repeated that she was certain that Vera Kriskov was involved in her husband’s death. Sasha’s mind was elsewhere. Once again he had almost died. He had imagined Maya and the children crying at his grave site. He imagined his mother shouting at Porfiry Petrovich, telling him how many times she had pleaded with him to give her only son a safe job behind a desk. The helicopter pilot and Sasha had a great deal in common this morning: both had almost been shot by the same man.
When Elena and Sasha stepped out of the car, a uniformed policeman pointed to the concrete balustrade that ran along the river, keeping drunken motorists from plunging into the water. Elena reached the concrete barrier first and carefully looked over. Sasha moved to her side and looked down at Valery Grachev to their left. Grachev was holding a gun in his lap. The weapon was pointed at a boy of about eleven, no more than a foot or two from Grachev.
“A special-division marksman is here,” the policeman said. “He says he can safely put a bullet into the man’s head. It is an easy shot, the marksman says.”
“If one puts a bullet into a man’s head, the word safe cannot appropriately be applied,” said Elena.
“I’m just reporting what my duty officer told me to report,” the policeman said.
“And if Grachev, in the throes of death, pulls the trigger and puts a bullet into the head of that boy?” asked Elena.
“I’m just reporting what my duty officer told me to report,” the policeman said.
“Tell the marksman to be ready but to do nothing unless I hold up my right arm,” Elena said. “Then he is to safely put a bullet into Grachev’s brain.”
The policeman nodded and moved down the balustrade toward a young man, also in uniform, cradling a rifle in his arms.
“Now?” asked Elena.
“Now,” said Sasha, leaning over the rough concrete to get a better look at Grachev.
Valery Grachev was talking to the boy, apparently ignoring the noise above and behind him.
“Grachev,” Sasha shouted.
The gun came out of the man’s lap and pressed into the stomach of the boy. Sasha looked at the boy, who seemed remarkably unafraid, perhaps even curious and excited. He was, obviously not feeling the same sense of mortality as Sasha Tkach and the helicopter pilot.
“Stay away,” shouted Grachev. “It will all be over soon. Stay away. I want you to watch what I am about to do, but I want you to stay away. This is the end. Kon will not simply surrender. Kon will go with defiance like Boribyonovich in the regionals. I do not wish to harm this boy, but what does it really matter if he dies today, in twenty years, in fifty years. It’s all the same. All we have is the game.”
“I’m coming down,” said Sasha, starting to climb over to the rocks below. “I have no weapon. I won’t get close.”
Elena grabbed his sleeve. “What are you doing?”
“Climbing down to talk to him,” he said calmly.
“That is insane,” Elena said as he continued to climb. “I’m going to signal the marksman.”
“No,” said Sasha, one leg now over the side. “I remind you that I am the senior inspector here.”
“You are the single insane inspector here,” she said.
“A good match,” said Sasha, now about to drop to the rocks. “A mad suspect and a mad inspector. We should have much to talk about.”
With that, Sasha dropped, fell to his knees, and almost tumbled into the dark water.
“Go back. Go back. Go back,” shouted Grachev.
“Very difficult,” said Sasha, still on his knees, hands holding a jutting edge of rock. “I just want to talk.”
“I have work to do,” said Grachev. The young man was bleeding. The front of his shirt was soaked through.
“Perhaps I can help,” Sasha said, moving up the rocks and sitting about a dozen feet from the other man.
“Help? You don’t know what I have to do.”
“I think I do,” said Sasha.
“I …” Grachev began. “It’s you. You shot me.”
Sasha nodded.
“And you tried to shoot me,” said Sasha. “And I think you would have had no trouble succeeding in killing me, had you a little practice with your weapon.”
The boy, who had his dusty-brown hair cut short, was remarkably skinny. His face was clean and he was wearing a pair of jeans and what seemed to be a new black pullover T-shirt.
“I can kill you now,” said Grachev.
Sasha shook his head. “Possibly, we are much closer now. But consider this, if you shoot me, a man with a rifle whom you cannot see will put a bullet through your brain. You stand a far better chance of missing me than he of missing you. Then you would be dead and unable to do whatever it is you plan to do.”
Grachev, his face pale, seemed to smile. “And you are not afraid?”
“Oh, very much afraid,” said Sasha. “Very much, but I said to myself up there that if I did not do this I would be afraid for whatever remains of my life.”
“Yes,” said Grachev. “Yes.”
“May I ask a question?” asked Sasha.
“Yes, then I have one. I think we should be quick.”
“Who is Boribyonovich?”
Grachev looked at the detective. “Don’t you play chess?”
“A little, badly,” Sasha said, looking across the water at the wall of the Kremlin. “My wife is the chess player.”
“She is a true Russian.”
“She’s Ukrainian,” said Sasha. “Her name is Maya. I have two children.”
“You are trying to make me feel sympathy,” said Grachev.
“Am I? I don’t know. Maybe. I was … I don’t know,” said Sasha.
Sasha continued to look across the river at the wall, at the flowing traffic, which paused as drivers looked across and saw the crowd of police vehicles and the two men and a boy on the rocks.
“I’ve always wanted to climb that tower,” Sasha said, pointing across the river.
“The Moskvoretsky Tower,” said Grachev.
“Yes. An interesting sight from this perspective. Have you ever been down on the rocks before?”
“No. I have a question. Do you love your wife?” asked Grachev.
“Is that the question you want to ask?”