system that demanded billions of rubles each year for maintenance, but brought in only a few kopecks a ride.
Yeltsin and his successors had tried to raise the fare, but the public furor was so great they'd all backed down. That had been their problem, Hayes thought. Too much populism for a nation as fickle as Russia. Be right. Be wrong. But don't be indecisive. Hayes firmly believed Russians would have respected their leaders more if they'd raised the fares, then shot anybody who openly protested. That was a lesson many Russian tsars and communist premiers had failed to learn--Nicholas II and Mikhail Gorbachev particularly.
He stepped off the escalator and followed the crowd out narrow doors into a brisk afternoon. He was north of Moscow center, beyond the overloaded four-lane motorway that encircled the city and was curiously called the Garden Ring. This particular Metro station was a dilapidated tile-and-glass oval with a flat roof, not one of Stalin's finest. In fact, the entire part of town would not find its way into any travel brochures. The station entrance was lined with a procession of haggard men and women, their skin drawn, hair matted, clothes a stinking mess, hocking everything--from toiletries to bootleg cassettes to dried fish--trying to raise a few rubles or, even better, U.S. dollars. He often wondered if anyone actually bought the shriveled salty fish carcasses, which looked even worse than they smelled. The only source of fish nearby was the Moskva River and, based on what he knew of Soviet and Russian waste disposal, there would be no telling what extras came with the meal.
He buttoned his overcoat and pushed his way down a buckled sidewalk, trying to fit in. He'd changed out of his suit into a pair of olive corduroys, a dark twill shirt, and black sneakers. Any hints of Western fashion were nothing but requests for trouble.
He found the club to which he'd been directed. It sat in the middle of a run-down block among a bakery, a grocery, a record store, and an ice-cream parlor. No placard announced its presence, only a small sign that beckoned visitors with a promise written in Cyrillic of exciting entertainment.
The interior was a dimly lit rectangle. Some vain attempt at ambience radiated from cheap walnut paneling. A blue fog laced the warm air. The room's center was dominated by an enormous plywood maze. He'd seen this novelty before, downtown, in the swankier haunts of the new rich. Those were neon monstrosities, molded out of tile and marble. This was a poor man's version, fashioned of bare boards and illuminated by fluorescent fixtures that threw down harsh blue rays.
A crowd encircled the display. These were not the type of men who tended to congregate in the more elaborate places munching salmon, herring, and beetroot salad, while armed lieutenants guarded the front door and roulette and blackjack were played for thousands of dollars in an adjoining room. It could cost two hundred rubles just to walk through the door at those places. For the men here--surely blue-collar workers from nearby factories and foundries--two hundred dollars was six months' wages.
"About time," Feliks Orleg said in Russian.
Hayes had not noticed the police inspector's approach. His attention had been on the maze. He motioned to the crowd and asked in Russian, "What's the attraction?"
"You'll see."
He stepped close and noticed that what appeared as one unit was actually three separate mazes intertwined. From small doors at the far end, three rats sprang. The rodents seemed to understand what was expected of them and raced forward undaunted while men howled and screamed. One of the spectators reached out to bang the side and a burly man with prizefighter forearms appeared from
nowhere and restrained him.
"Moscow's version of the Kentucky Derby," Orleg said.
"This go on all day?"
The rats scooted around the twists and turns.
"All fucking day. They piss away what little they earn."
One of the rats found the finish line and a portion of the crowd erupted in cheers. He
wondered what it paid, but decided to get down to business. "I want to know what happened today."
"Thechornye was like a rat. Very fast through the streets."
"He should never have had the chance to run."
Orleg downed a swallow of the clear drink in his hand. "Apparently, the shooters missed."
The crowd was starting to quiet down, preparing for the next race. Hayes led Orleg to an empty table in a far corner. "I'm not in the mood for smart-ass, Orleg. The idea was to kill him.