“Dmitri Kolk,” said one of the men, a rugged-looking man in his forties with an accent Sasha recognized. “There is no reason for you to know our names or anything about us. There is, however, much reason for us to know you. And we know very little about you.”
“Perhaps,” said Sasha, “you should have a discussion with the police in Kiev.”
“We have done so,” said the rugged-looking man with the accent. “Our discussions have left much to be desired.”
Sasha looked at the other two men. One was a duplicate of the rugged man, but at least twenty years older. Father, uncle, older brother? The other man was a little younger than the older man. In spite of his age and white hair, his skin was smooth and clear. One of his parents had obviously been black.
“My partners,” said the rugged man, “do not speak your language, and, as you see, I do so only haltingly.”
“Your Russian is very good,” said Sasha. “I wish that I could speak a language other than ours.”
The rugged man closed his eyes and bowed his head slightly, smiling. “You flatter me,” he said. “I will be very frank with you, Kolk.”
Sasha very much doubted the statement.
“The dogs are but a small part of our international invest-ments,” the man went on. “But we expect the dog combat to get quite large, with our enterprise moving across Europe, the former Soviet States, even Asia and the United States. We need to bring individuals like you into our business. We are very pleased that you are interested in joining us.”
“I am interested in getting rich,” said Sasha.
“If we agree to let you join us,” the man said, “you will be rich, and not in rubles. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I must translate for my partners.”
The man began a conversation in French with the two older men. He spoke very quickly and in a dialect with which Sasha was unfamiliar but which did not stop him from understanding almost all that the three men said.
Sasha looked bored, being careful not to let the three men know that he understood the essence of their conversation. Had they been English, Italian, German, or anything else, Sasha would have understood not one word.
“I told him what we agreed,” the man said in French. “What do you think?”
“I don’t trust him,” the half-black man said.
“I don’t trust him,” said the oldest man. “Young, sleek, confident. He could be the police. He could be an infiltrator from one of our competitors. He could be simply a dangerously ambitious young man like the young crazy Russian over there. I don’t trust him either. He would eliminate us and take what he could when the opportunity came. We must see that the opportunity does not come.”
“Yes,” said the rugged younger man, still in French. “Nothing new in that. We have remained cautious for a long time. We will continue to do so. What do we do now?”
“Tell him he is in,” said the half-black man. “After tonight we eliminate the young Nimitsov and replace him with this Kolk till we can select someone whose loyalty we can be sure of. Nimitsov is insane.”
Nimitsov had recognized his name being spoken and looked up cautiously, still smiling.
“I say we eliminate both of them tonight,” said the oldest man.
“We can replace them with our own people. Why let this young Kolk have the chance to grow in power?”
“All right with me,” said the half-black man.
“Et moi,” said the young, rugged-looking man. “Tonight we eliminate them both. Then we let the word out around the world. Join us and make even more money than you are making, or be eliminated. I suggest we make it particularly unpleasant deaths.”
Both older men nodded in agreement.
“Pardon my rudeness,” said the rugged man in Russian with a smile of regret. “We have decided to accept you into our enterprise. Peter, will you please ask Honore to bring in the brandy to celebrate our growth?”
The man seemed quite aware of Peter Nimitsov’s displeasure at being ordered about. Sasha was certain that the man had done this intentionally.
After drinks, with silence from the two older men and a non-stop charming discussion dominated by the rugged man, Sasha said, “I would like to stop back at the hotel to change clothes.”
“Ah, I’m afraid that will not be possible,” said the rugged man, looking at his watch. “We have already removed your dog from the car, and if you wish to spend some time here preparing him. .”
“Yes,” said Sasha. “I’d like, however, for my dog trainer to be here.”
“Too late,” said the rugged man, shaking his head. “We expect a good fight from your animal. We want to see the quality of what your enterprise can produce.”
Sasha avoided looking at Nimitsov, who had told him that Tchaikovsky must, in fact, lose. Sasha had no idea how to accomplish such a thing, even if he were willing to do so. Peter Nimitsov seemed to be about to betray either the three men or Sasha.
“All right,” said Sasha, rising. “Then I should like to prepare my dog.”
“Certainly,” the rugged man said, rising. “Do not take too long.
They will be waiting for us at the arena.”
Peter Nimitsov rose slowly.
The two older men remained seated.
The situation did not seem particularly dangerous for the present. He would try, however, to find a phone, to call Maya, but he would have to do so carefully. Rostnikov and others would be at the arena tonight. It would be over now that Sasha could identify the three Frenchmen, who would not have the opportunity to kill Sasha and Nimitsov.
What Sasha Tkach did not know was that Tchaikovsky would be fighting in a different arena tonight.
Viktor Shatalov would no longer have to worry about being called Irving by the Tatars. Viktor Shatalov would no longer be eating pizza and telling jokes. Viktor Shatalov lay dead in Fish Lane almost in front of the Old Shopping Arcade and across from the New Shopping Arcade, which was one hundred fifty years old and had replaced the original fish market.
Two of Shatalov’s men lay dead nearby. All three bodies were violated by many gunshot wounds.
A police ambulance was just arriving, its annoying horn signal-ing an urgency that did not exist.
“He liked to come here for blinis, ” said Emil Karpo, looking down at the bodies.
“If you knew that, others knew that,” said Rostnikov, looking at the remarkably small crowd of the frightened and curious, mostly shopkeepers who had come out of their stalls to witness death.
The curious wore everything from suits to white aprons and loose-fitting dresses. There were even a few children in the crowd.
“Others certainly knew it,” said Karpo.
“No one else hurt?” asked Rostnikov.
Two men came out of the ambulance. They were dressed in white and wore the businesslike look of those who touch death daily. They moved around Rostnikov and Karpo, knelt at each body to be sure that all signs of life had departed.
Shatalov’s face showed silent, final pain, and blood dripped from the hole directly over his right eye. Both eyes were open. One could mistakenly think the look of pain was a smile. One of the other corpses was curled in a fetal ball, trying to protect himself. The third dead man had been very young. He lay on his back with his arms spread as if taking in the sun on the beach at Yalta. This third dead man bore a striking resemblance to Shatalov.
“His son,” said Karpo, watching Porfiry Petrovich as he looked down at the young dead man being checked by one of the medics.
“Witnesses?” asked Porfiry Petrovich, smelling an aroma of bakery coming from inside the New Market. It smelled remarkably good and he considered going in to find out, after he was finished in the street.
“Raisa Munyakinova has succeeded,” said Rostnikov. “The war has begun. You are, however, not displeased, Emil Karpo.”
“Murder is a crime against the state,” said Karpo.
“And the victims,” added Porfiry Petrovich. “But you are not displeased at the prospect of the Mafias dwindling their numbers.”