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Spartak Zima wasn’t in the gym, but Dinara recognized his trainer, Makar Koslov, from the photos on Yana’s computer. The former middleweight champion was leaning over the ropes, shouting instructions to the duo sparring in the ring. Koslov was a long way from his fighting prime. A large gut strained the seams of his Grom Boxing T-shirt, and his black sweatpants clung to a couple of tree-trunk legs. Narrow eyes, a broken nose and permanent fat lip did little to enhance the looks of a man whose broken face had taken far too many beatings. He wiped a hand over his bald head and, when one of his fighters gestured toward Leonid and Dinara, he glanced over.

Koslov stepped down from the ring. “Yes?” he said.

“We’re investigating a murder,” Leonid replied. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”

Koslov sneered, but Dinara’s eyes shifted beyond him. The young boxer who’d pointed them out hurried into the far corner of the room where another trainer sat with a gray-haired man who wore a black jacket and a matching black T-shirt that had the number “100” outlined against the dark background. It was subtle, but those who understood its significance would know the man was a member of the Black Hundreds, an old ultra-nationalist group that had recently been revived by a group of self-proclaimed patriots. Dinara had received briefings on the Black Hundreds while at the FSB. They had a lot of former priests, politicians and soldiers in their ranks, and commonly used boxing gyms and football and martial arts clubs as recruiting grounds.

“Who are you? Either you’re a cop who’s here without authority,” Koslov remarked, closing on Leonid, “or you’re someone who shouldn’t be here at all.”

“I’m interested in joining. I think I’ve got what it takes to become a champion,” Leonid replied, toeing the line with the former middleweight champion of Russia. “So far I’m not impressed with how you welcome prospective members.”

Koslov glowered, and Dinara stepped between the two men.

“Makar, I’ll attend to this. Get back to your training.”

Dinara glanced over the large man’s shoulder and saw the silver-haired member of the Black Hundreds approach. He had the upright posture of a military man, and the cold eyes of someone who couldn’t care less about the feelings of those around him.

Koslov backed away, eying Leonid until he reached the ring.

“Keep working,” he yelled at the two sparring fighters, who’d paused to watch.

The men resumed trading blows.

“This is a members’ only gym,” the silver-haired man said.

“And we’re not accepting new applications.”

“And you are?” Dinara asked.

“If you don’t already know, it means you’re not meant to,” the man replied.

“Is that some kind of parable?” Dinara countered.

“It’s a truth,” he replied. “We welcome friends here.” He looked them up and down. “And I don’t think you’re friends.”

“We’re investigating a murder,” Dinara said.

“A terrible sin,” the man replied. “I was a priest before I found a better way to reach my flock. I know all about sin.”

“I’m sure you do,” Leonid said.

“But I know nothing about murder,” the man remarked without missing a beat. It was as though Leonid hadn’t spoken. “So if there’s nothing else, I must insist you leave.”

“You haven’t even asked us who was killed,” Dinara observed.

“Because I don’t know about any murder,” the man said.

He stepped closer to Dinara and tried to jostle her back. She could feel Leonid bristle, and sensed a shift in the atmosphere. She glanced past the silver-haired man to see every fighter in the place watching them.

“Come on,” Dinara told Leonid. “Let’s go.”

She tried to move her partner, but he held firm and glared at the Black Hundreds member. Finally, Leonid gave ground and allowed himself to be ushered to the door. Dinara felt the boxers’ hostile eyes on her as they left the room.

“You should have let me—” Leonid began.

“No need,” Dinara cut him off. She flashed the wallet she’d lifted from the man’s pocket. “Erik Utkin,” she said, reading from the identity card she found inside. “Let’s do our research before we do our fighting.”

She used her phone to take pictures of the man’s ID, bank card and old Army personnel pass, before tossing everything in the snow.

“At least now we know who we’re dealing with,” Dinara said.

Leonid smiled. “We might make an investigator of you yet,” he said, and Dinara punched him playfully as they headed for his car.

Chapter 37

Dinara could see flecks of congealed white fat in every mouthful. She didn’t understand how Leonid could face cold solyanka soup, but he often finished their lunchtime leftovers whenever they worked late. He was leaning back in his chair and had his feet on his desk as he dug into the remnants of Elena’s bowl. The office administrator was long gone, but she knew better than to throw away her leftovers if Leonid was working a case.

Dinara’s phone rang and she answered the call from Anatoli Titov, an old FSB contact.

“Anatoli,” she said, forcing herself to sound pleased to hear from him. “What have you got?”

Anatoli had had a thing for her when they’d both worked counterterrorism, and he’d since married and had a child, but the way he’d responded to her flirtatious request for a favor suggested the flame of desire hadn’t quite been extinguished.

“I have got something,” he replied. “Erik Utkin is a former army captain who was pensioned out with an injury he picked up in Chechnya. He retrained as a priest, but quit the church three years ago to join the Black Hundreds as a recruiter. We think he’s connected to some small-time criminals.”

“Anything else?”

“Always greedy. How about we get together for a drink?”

“Now who’s greedy?” Dinara asked. “Aren’t you married?”

“So?” Anatoli said. “You wouldn’t ask a man to eat dinner at the same restaurant for the rest of his life.”

“You’re lucky you’re not starving,” Dinara replied.

Anatoli scoffed and was about to speak, but she cut him off.

“Thank you, Anatoli. I owe you a professional favor.”

She ignored his grumbling and hung up.

“Well?” Leonid asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Former army captain, former priest, maybe a minor criminal,” Dinara replied.

“Minor, as far as they know,” Leonid observed.

Dinara nodded. The FSB was thorough, but it wasn’t omniscient. There was a thin line between minor and major crime, and the murder of a blogger would definitely buy someone passage across it.

“What now?” Leonid said.

“Asking for guidance? It’s almost as if you finally recognize me as your superior.”

“I was talking to the soup,” he replied, gesturing with his spoon.

“We run surveillance on Erik Utkin and see what he’s really hiding,” she replied, but before she could go any further, her phone rang, and the words “Private New York” flashed on screen.

“Hello,” she said in English.

“Dinara? It’s Jessie Fleming of the New York office.”

Dinara hadn’t had much contact with the head of the New York branch but she recognized the name.

“Sorry to call on a Sunday, but it’s an emergency.”

“No problem. I’m in the office too,” Dinara replied. Her FSB training had made her fluent in four languages, and, next to Russian, English was her favorite. “What’s going on?”

“Check your email,” Jessie said. “Call me if there are any problems.”