religious man? Maybe you are not one of those new Christians who jump to religion and away from Marxist-Leninism like dirty fleas."
The massive hand was squeezing Rostnikov's shoulder now, pushing the policeman down. Rostnikov reached up, put his hands on the wrist behind the hand, and watched the man's face break into a smile that made it quite clear he was amused by the pathetic effort by the aging little barrel of a man with a lame leg.
The smile lasted for less than the blinking of the eye of a night owl in a birch tree. Rostnikov put his good leg back to support him and wrenched the oifending arm from his shoulder. The huge man stepped back one pace, letting the sun hit Rostnikov's face. He looked at his hand and at Rostnikov. Rostnikov could see the little man, now that Pato had backed away.
"Just kill him, then, and take the book," the little man said, looking back over his shoulder. "Someone might come and we'd have to kill them, too."
Pato moved forward, one hand grabbing Rostnikov's hair, the other going to Rostnikov's throat. Rostnikov drove forward off his right leg and threw his shoulder into Pato's stomach. Rostnikov was off balance for the instant he had to put his weight on his bad leg, but he was accustomed to that instant, had experienced it many times when working with his beloved weights. His right leg found the ground beneath him, and he lifted the massive Pato off the ground. The man's hand released Rostnikov's neck. The creature called Pato growled like an animal and clawed at the back of the washtub of a man for the instant before Porfiry Petrovich threw him to the ground. Pato tumbled awkwardly on his shoulder and landed on his back with a great woosh of air.
There was a crack like the breaking of a dry tree branch, and something sizzled past Rostnikov, who moved to the fallen man, who was trying to rise. He knew.
The Pieper had not exploded. The little man with one eye was firing. But he only fired once before a voice from somewhere close by very calmly called,
"Stop."
The little man turned toward the woods, aiming his pistol but seeing nothing.
"Stop," came the voice again. "Put the gun down or see what it is like to try to plug a very large bullet hole in your chest with one of your scrawny little fingers."
Pato was on one knee now, trying to catch his breath. Rostnikov took hold of his arm and helped him rise. The man swung awkwardly with his free arm and hit Rostnikov solidly in the shoulder. Rostnikov released Pato's arm but immediately drove forward and locked his arms around the man's midsection in a bear hug.
Pato struggled to free himself, grunting, churning, cursing, but Rostnikov held tight, lifted him once again from the ground, and squeezed. When he had stopped struggling, Rostnikov let loose, and the huge man fell backward to the ground, his head striking the ground with a thud.
"I would not have thought you could do that," Misha Ivanov said, stepping out of the trees, a pistol aimed at the little man, who had dropped his gun. The deep red light of the sun through the trees glinted on Ivanov's bald head. "I mean, I know you lift weights. You won the Sokolniki Recreation Championship last year.''
' 'The year before,'' Rostnikov corrected, once more helping the fallen Pato to his feet. The fight was definitely out of the huge man.
"So," said Misha Ivanov with a shrug, "once again the records of the KGB are less than perfect. But in Odessa, in all of the Ukraine for that matter, we do not have priority and our computer network-"
"Pato, I have disdain for you," said the one-eyed man, but Pato was too dazed to register the criticism.
"Do you know who these two are?" asked Misha Ivanov.
"They are the ones who killed Georgi Vasilievich," said Rostnikov, guiding Pato to the little man's side.
"Did you?" Misha Ivanov asked, casually glancing at the little man.
"No," said the little man. "We don't even know who you are talking about. We were just out for a walk when this man attacked us and-"
The bullet from Ivanov's gun made a loud noise, a deep, echoing belch that woke the huge man from his daze and sent the little wild-eyed man spinning.
"You shot me," cried the little man, reaching up to his bleeding shoulder. "You might have killed me." ' 'I tried to kill you,'' said Misha, shaking his head.' 'I haven't had much practice. Our ration of bullets is pitiful. You'd think the KGB had an endless supply. Maybe in Moscow, but in Odessa, Tbilisi? No. I'm sorry. I won't miss this time."
He raised his weapon. The little man looked at Pato for help, but there was none coming from him or from Rostnikov, who knew better than to interfere.
"You want to answer questions, either of you?" asked Ivanov.
"No," said Pato.
Ivanov's gun was now aimed squarely at the little man's chest.
"Yes," cried the little man.
"Be quiet, Yuri," Pato said.
"I'm going to shoot you now," said Ivanov. "I am a very impatient man."
"We killed him," the little man said. "We were told to kill him. We were hired.
Actually it was Pato who-"
"Yuri," Pato warned.
"Shut up, bear," Misha said. "Let the man speak and live. Who hired you?"
"My arm is bleeding," bleated Yuri, removing his hand from his arm to show the flow of blood.
"Thank you for informing me," said Misha, stepping forward. "Talk or die."
"This is not fair," cried the little man. "Why aren't you threatening Pato? Why does everyone think I'm the weak one? Is this fair? I lost an eye. I lost a finger. Look. See. Here. They sewed it back on. I can't bend it. Why shoot me?"
"Who hired you?" asked Ivanov.
"The man at the hotel," said Yuri. "At the Lermontov."
Before either Rostnikov or Ivanov could react, the huge man had grabbed the neck of the wild-eyed little man and twisted it with a terrible crack. Ivanov fired three times. The first bullet hit Pato in the neck. The second tore into the right side of his forehead as he spun around, and the third hit him low in the stomach. He dropped the little man, pitched forward on his face silently, and died.
Ivanov and Rostnikov moved forward to the fallen little man, who looked very much like a scrawny dying bird as he lay on his back.
Ivanov kicked the dead Pato once and lifted his head to be sure he was dead.
Rostnikov knelt at the side of the little man.
"Don't move," said Rostnikov.
"Can't move," the man whispered, a trail of blood coming out of the corner of his mouth. "Can't feel."
"Who hired you, Yuri?" said Rostnikov gently.
Ivanov, who had joined Rostnikov, hovered over the dying man, his weapon leveled at Yuri's head.
"Answer the man," he said.
"Shoot me," whispered Yuri, his voice fluttering.
"Pato has killed you, Yuri," said Rostnikov. "He has betrayed you."
"Pato was always my friend till he killed me," Yuri breathed, his eyes closing.
"Was it the waiter?" asked Ivanov. "Anton, the waiter?"
"No," said Rostnikov. "It was McQuinton."
"The American. Yes," said Yuri, opening his eyes. The good one found Rostnikov.
The glass one looked into forever, and Yuri died.
TEN
There had been no time to confess to Maya.
When they reached the apartment, she had put Pulcharia in her crib for a nap and then helped Sasha cleanse the wound on his head.
"You should go to the clinic," she said. "I think it needs stitches."
But she made it a suggestion, not a demand. There was something more important going on than concern over a physical scar.
"Zelach is in the hospital,'' he said as she cut away a small patch of his hair so she could close and tape the wound. "He may lose an eye."
"I'm sorry," Maya said with more concern for her husband's anguish than for what had happened to his partner. Maya had met Zelach only twice, and both times very briefly. What little her husband had said about the man had not been particularly complimentary, but the effect of what had happened was clear in the vacant pain in her husband's face. For the first time since she had met him, he looked every day of his age and perhaps even more.