He was quick, but I dodged his first swing and pushed him past me, so he stumbled into some of his buddies. I took off my coat as he turned to face me.
A shaved head, narrow, hostile eyes, muscles that glistened with sweat, the guy wore shorts and an old Lokomotiv Moscow T-shirt. His hands were protected by light training mitts.
“Jack,” Dinara said anxiously.
I looked at her and Leonid and signaled them to stay out of this.
“OK,” I said, adopting the thinking man’s pose. “Let’s do this.” My opponent sneered and said something in Russian that made the other fighters laugh. Erik Utkin and an older, larger man, who I guessed was Makar Koslov, didn’t find any humor in the remark and remained stony-faced. Maybe they were sufficiently experienced to know that my unconventional stance might look strange to a trained boxer, but that it was very effective in a street brawl.
My opponent assumed a southpaw stance and came forward. He threw a probing jab, and I taught him a swift lesson about the difference between boxing and street fighting. I deflected the punch by raising my left hand to meet his forearm with my elbow. My right hand, which had been balled in a fist beneath my chin, whipped out and went crashing into the man’s nose.
He staggered back, dazed, and I felt the other fighters close in on us. Those to his rear pushed him forward and as he came toward me, I lashed out with a heel kick to his shin that made him yelp. Natural pain response sent his hands darting toward the injury, and I had my opening. I hit him with a jab that disorientated him, and followed up with a hammer blow to his clavicle. The fragile collarbone only requires about nine pounds of pressure to break, and my fist must have delivered over thirty.
The man went down, groaning and clutching his shoulder, and his companions, who’d been so full of laughs and jeers only moments ago, were silent. Brimming with anger and humiliation, they clustered around me and a couple grabbed my arms.
“You come in my place,” Utkin said. “And you do this?”
He gestured at the injured fighter, who was being led away by Koslov and another boxer.
“I’ll do it again and again, until we get through all the men involved in what happened,” I said. “So take a number.”
Utkin snarled and barked a command in Russian. There was a flurry of movement, and the other fighters swarmed toward Leonid and Dinara.
They stopped the moment Leonid produced his pistol, and a second later, Dinara was brandishing hers.
They both yelled in Russian and the fighters backed up. The three men who had hold of me released their grip. All ten of the hard-faced, lean fighters moved away and formed up around Utkin, who glared at us.
“You and your friends made a big mistake coming here, American,” Utkin said. “The best thing a man can do when he meets a bear is run. Only a fool goes to its cave and bothers it with a stick.”
“I don’t see any bears here,” I replied, backing away. “Just little cubs.”
“Come on,” Dinara said, tugging at my arm.
I held Erik Utkin’s gaze until the last possible moment, and once we were through the double doors, we turned and ran for the car.
Chapter 52
Adrenalin was still surging through my system when we joined the highway and headed toward the city center.
“That was unexpected,” Leonid said.
“It was your idea to go there,” Dinara responded.
“To ask questions. Maybe encourage one of them to talk,” Leonid said. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. “V tihom omute cherti vodyatsa.”
I looked at Dinara, who smiled.
“In quiet lagoons, devils dwell,” she translated. “He thinks you’re dangerous. Unpredictable.”
“They strike you as the kind of people who talk?” I asked Leonid.
He shrugged. “I guess not. So what now? The soft approach is dead.”
“This is about much more than fixing fights,” I replied. “Erik Utkin looked like I’d hit him with a cattle prod when I said they were covering up something big. I want you to stay on the gym,” I said to Leonid. “Follow Utkin. See if you can find out where he goes, what he does.”
“Alone?” Leonid asked.
“Dinara and I will take the other strands, Ernie Fisher’s death and Maxim Yenen.”
I could see Leonid consider the suggestion as he slowed to join a line of rush-hour traffic.
“Maybe we have some budget for support?” he suggested.
I looked at Dinara.
“Yenen’s given us a blank check,” she said.
“Good. Then I can buy some help,” Leonid responded.
“Who?” I asked.
“Our new housemates,” he said. “My old police friends.”
We had a pool of experienced police officers at our disposal, many of whom were time rich and cash poor. It made sense, as long as they could be trusted.
“OK,” I said, “but choose your people carefully.”
“Of course,” Leonid agreed.
Dinara’s phone rang and she answered. She listened for a moment and hung up without saying a word.
“Maxim Yenen will meet us tonight,” she said. “Eleven p.m., Bolshoy Moskvoretskiy Bridge.”
“Is he crazy?” Leonid asked. “That’s by Red Square. Not exactly a private spot.”
“He said it’s there or nowhere,” Dinara replied.
Leonid shook his head disapprovingly.
“We’ll be careful,” I assured him. I turned to Dinara. “That gives us time.”
“For what?” she asked.
“I want to take a look at Ernie Fisher’s apartment. See what we can learn about the man.”
Chapter 53
Night was falling by the time Leonid dropped us off in Rochdelskaya Street, two blocks from Ernie Fisher’s riverfront apartment building. Warning us to be careful, Leonid drove off in the spluttering Lada to muster a surveillance team made up of ex-cops from the Residence.
Dinara and I walked the icy streets toward the river. The buildings on the other bank were lit up and the freezing mist that rose above the water made their lights shimmer like stars.
It didn’t take Dinara long to pick the front door again, and we were soon inside.
“Where did you learn how to do that?” I asked.
“FSB training module,” she replied. “Everywhere we go, we meet closed doors. I thought it would be useful to know how to get through them.”
She flashed me a smile, and I replied in kind. She was strong, capable and beautiful and in different circumstances, perhaps...
I killed the idea before it took flight. Had Karl’s death hit me so hard I’d become desperate for human connection? Or was I just lonely? I lived a difficult, solitary life. Was I secretly longing for someone to share it with?
I followed Dinara through the grand old building. It was located in the heart of the government district, next to one of the centers of Russian power, Federation House, and, according to Leonid and Dinara, it was inhabited by mid-level civil servants, politicians and diplomats. The richly patterned, worn carpet, grimy old chandeliers and cracked marble trim pointed to people who liked the trappings of power, but lacked the funds to maintain them.
I followed Dinara into an elevator and we went to the ninth floor. The corridor was deserted and when we got to Fisher’s apartment, we discovered it had been sealed by a temporary metal security door that was covered in warning signs and pad-locked to the wall.
“‘Moscow Police. Keep Out,’” Dinara read, reaching for her lock picks.
She pulled a couple of tiny tools from a neat leather case and opened the padlock in less than a minute.
“If they were serious about keeping people out, they’d buy better locks,” she said, pulling the door wide.
I hadn’t noticed it the day before, but the smell of stale alcohol hit me the moment we stepped inside the cold apartment. I closed the security door behind me and we moved further into Fisher’s home.