the day on a public street."
Orleg shrugged. "Little can be done. The roof is tough to control."
"The roof" was the common way to refer to themafiya who populated Moscow and most of western Russia. He'd never learned how the term came into being. Maybe it was because that was how people paid--through the roof--or perhaps it was a metaphor for the odd pinnacle of Russian life. The nicest cars, largestdachas, and best clothes were owned by gang members. No effort was made to conceal their wealth. On the contrary, themafiya tended to flaunt their prosperity to both the government and the
people. It was a separate social class, one that had emerged with startling speed. His contacts within the business community considered protection payments just another facet of company overhead, as necessary to survival as a good workforce and steady inventory. More than one Russian acquaintance had told him that when the gentlemen in the Armani suits paid a visit and pronounced,Bog zaveshchaet delit'sia-- God instructs us to share--they were to be taken seriously.
"My interest," Orleg said, "is why those men chase you."
Lord motioned to Bely. "Why don't you cover him up?"
"He not mind."
"I do. I knew him."
"How?"
He found his wallet. The laminated security badge he'd been given weeks ago had survived the cement bath. He handed it to Orleg.
"You part of Tsar Commission?"
The implied question seemed to ask why an American would be involved with something so Russian. He was liking the inspector less and less. Mocking him seemed the best way to show how he felt.
"I part of Tsar Commission."
"Your duties?"
"That confidential."
"May be important to this."
His attempt at sarcasm was going unnoticed. "Take it up with the commission."
Orleg pointed to the body. "And this one?"
He told him that Artemy Bely was a lawyer in the Justice Ministry, assigned to the commission, who'd been helpful in arranging access to the Soviet archives. On a personal level, he knew little more than that Bely was unmarried, lived in a communal apartment north of Moscow, and would have loved to visit Atlanta one day.
He stepped close and gazed down at the body.
It had been a while since he last saw a mutilated corpse. But he'd seen worse during six months of reserve duty that turned into a year in Afghanistan. He was there as a lawyer, not a soldier, sent for his language skills--a political liaison attached to a State Department contingent--present to aid a governmental transition after the Taliban was driven out. His law firm thought it important to have someone involved. Good for the image. Good for his future. But he'd found himself wanting to do more than shuffle paper. So he helped bury the dead. The Afghans had suffered heavy losses. More than the press had ever noted. He could still feel the scorching sun and brutal wind, both of which had only sped decomposition and made the grim task more difficult. Death was simply not pleasant. No matter where.
"Explosive tips," Orleg said behind him. "Go in small, come out large. Take much with them along way." The inspector's voice carried no compassion.
Lord glanced back at the blank stare, the rheumy eyes. Orleg smelled faintly of alcohol and mint. He'd resented the flippant remark about covering the body. So he undraped the blanket from around him, bent down, and laid it across Bely.
"We cover our dead," he told Orleg.
"Too many here to bother."
He stared at the face of cynicism. This policeman had probably seen a lot. Watched how his government gradually lost control, himself working, like most Russians, on the mere promise of payment, or for barter, or for black-market U.S. dollars. Ninety-plus years of communism had left a mark.Bespridel, the Russians called it. Anarchy. Indelible as a tattoo. Scarring a nation to ruin.
"Justice Ministry is frequent target," Orleg said. "Involve themselves in things with little concern for safety. They have been warned." He motioned to body. "Not first or last lawyer to die."
Lord said nothing.
"Maybe our new tsar will solve all?" Orleg asked.
He stood and faced the inspector, their toes parallel, bodies close. "Anything is better than this."
Orleg appraised him with a glare, and he wasn't sure if the policeman agreed with him or not. "You never answer me. Why men chase you?"
He heard again what Droopy said as he slid out of the Volvo.The damn chornyesurvived.Should he tell Orleg anything? Something about the inspector didn't seem right. But his paranoia could simply be the aftereffect of what had happened. What he needed was to get