Kapowski glares at us as we walk by.
I don’t like him at all. He’s one of the worst offenders for trying to look down the front of my shirt whenever I come to the station. He doesn’t even try to hide it, if Pavel’s not standing right next to me.
Pavel tells me about these men, about the day-to-day events in St. Petersburg. I know he doesn’t mean to tell me, but sometimes it spills out of him when we’re eating dinner. I listen because I’m desperate for any kind of conversation. And he lets it slip because he has nobody else to talk to. In a way, he’s as lonely as I am.
We weave through the mostly empty desks, back to where Zaitsev sits against the far windows. Pavel asks me if I need any food or a drink before he leaves.
“I’m fine,” I say, shaking my head. I know all too well how disgusting the coffee and pastries are here.
If only I could be sipping champagne and eating Kobe beef on a skewer like Pavel will be doing all night! He won’t even appreciate it. He hates rubbing shoulders and sucking up. He’d much rather be at home with a drink and a book.
He steels his shoulders like he’s marching off to war instead of a party and bids me farewell formally.
“Goodnight, Lara. I’ll pick you up on my way home.”
“Goodnight, Papa,” I reply quietly.
Zaitsev is finishing up his paperwork for the day, folders spread out across his desk, reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He’s a short, balding man, with stubby little fingers that hardly look dexterous enough to grip a pencil. Yet his penmanship looks like something out of a Jane Austen novel.
“I thought the commissioner would take you to the gala with him,” he says without looking up from his papers.
“You know he never takes me anywhere,” I reply.
“Well . . . who wants to eat caviar on toast with a bunch of stuff-shirts and boot-lickers.”
“Is that why you didn’t go?”
“Yes,” Zaitsev grunts. “Also, I don’t fit in my dress uniform anymore.”
Pulling up a chair next to his desk, I fish a book out of my purse so I can read while he finishes up his paperwork. The book is one of Pavel’s—an old Agatha Christie novel. I’m liking it well enough. I’ve got to get to the library one of these days, however. I can’t entertain myself with poisonings and suspicious butlers indefinitely.
I’ve just come to the part in the story where the hero has found a list of murdered people’s names in the shoe of a priest when I see two officers enter the station, leading a handcuffed prisoner between them.
They’re all the way across the room and the brim of their hats are pulled low so I can’t see their faces, but both of the officers are tall and powerfully built. The man between them is skinny and blond, with a bandana knotted around his neck and tattoos running down both arms.
“We’re not taking in any arrests tonight,” Kapowski says lazily from the front desk. “Take him over to the Kirovsky station.”
“They told us to come here,” the first officer says.
“Well they told you wrong,” Kapowski says rudely.
“Come on now,” the second one coaxes. “We can take him back to the cells ourselves. You don’t have to get up.”
Zaitsev glances up from his paperwork, a line of consternation appearing between his eyebrows. His stubby fingers have stopped moving the pencil across the page.
Kapowski keeps the officers waiting for a minute, savoring his moment of power, before finally saying dismissively, “Go ahead then.”
The officers head toward booking, hustling their prisoner along between them with their heads down.
Zaitsev half-rises from his seat as they pass. He looks stiff and alert, like an old hunting dog that’s caught a scent.
I’m watching the officers, too. One of them has a dark smudge on the back of his hand, like a bruise. But the shape of it is a little too symmetrical. It’s more like a pattern or mark—one that’s been covered over. Like a tattoo with a little concealer smeared on top.
I notice both officers are carrying a black duffle bag in their free hands.
“Stay here,” Zaitsev says to me sharply.
He follows after the officers and their prisoner.
With his hand on the butt of his gun he says, “Stop right there.”
The three men pause. There’s a fumbling motion. When they turn around, I see that all three have pulled up black bandanas over the bottom half of their faces, so only their eyes are looking out over top. The prisoner is no longer cuffed—or at least, the cuff dangles from one wrist like a bracelet. Now he’s holding a gun, which is pointed directly at Zaitsev.
The prisoner shoots him right in the chest.
It’s a forty-caliber bullet, shot at such close range that it knocks Zaitsev flat on his back. Zaitsev’s gun flies out of his hand, skidding across the tile floor toward me. As he falls back, I fully expect to see a hole the size of a tangerine blasted in the middle of his chest.
Instead, thank god, beneath the singed dress shirt I see the dark material of a Kevlar vest, with the silver bullet blown out like the petals of a flower.
The two “officers” have dropped their bags, splitting up with military precision and speed. They’ve taken tactical positions opposite one another so they can cover the room. Their guns are drawn, pointing at the three actual police officers who have barely had time to stand up from their desks, staring dumbly at the scene unfolding before their eyes.
“Pull your guns out slowly and drop them!” the first masked man shouts.
Gingerly, the remaining officers pull their service weapons from their holsters and drop them on the floor.
“Now lay down on the floor, face down, and put your hands behind your back!”
As the officers comply, the second masked man circles the room, picking up their guns and zip-tying their wrists.
I’m crouched beside Zaitsev’s desk. My eyes dart toward his gun, a dozen feet away from me.
When I look up again, the “prisoner” is staring right at me, his pale blue eyes narrowed above his mask.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says to me.
His gun is pointed right at my face. The barrel looks black and about ten times as big as usual.
He keeps it pointed at me as he walks forward, stooping to pick up Zaitsev’s gun. He tucks the gun in the waistband of his jeans, his eyes continually fixed on me.
“Who are you?” he demands. His voice is muffled by the bandana.
“I . . . I’m nobody,” I squeak.
“What’s your name? Why are you here?”
My mouth is so dry I can barely form words. I hate having a gun pointed at me. One twitch of his hand and this guy could blow my head off accidentally.
“Lara,” I say at last. “I was visiting a friend.”
The “prisoner” sees my purse still sitting on top of Zaitsev’s desk. He jerks his gun toward the purse.
“Pick that up. Bring it to me.”
I grab the purse and hand it over to him, thinking he’s planning to rob me. All he’ll find is maybe two thousand rubles in small bills, along with some ChapStick and mints.
Instead, the man grabs my wallet and digs out my brand-new St. Petersburg identification card.
He looks between the picture and my face, then reads the name.