Scorpion Winter by Andrew Kaplan Page A

watching them. Kozhanovskiy stared at him, stunned. Iryna had to stifle a gasp. Either they were both great actors or he had caught them by surprise.
    â€œWhat do you mean ‘probably’?” Iryna said, taking a deep breath.
    â€œThere’s no body. I entered her apartment. There were traces of blood in the bed and in the shower. I found a hacksaw from Pyatov’s work hidden under the sink, its blade missing. The hacksaw frame had traces of blood. Her neighbor told me sometime around noon there were screams and sounds of a quarrel and the televidenie got very loud. Later, she saw Pyatov leave alone with a big suitcase on wheels.”
    â€œGospadi,” Iryna said softly, almost to herself. My God.
    â€œWhat about Pyatov?” Kozhanovskiy asked. “Does anyone know where he is now?”
    â€œI checked at his work,” Scorpion said. “They haven’t seen him in three weeks.”
    â€œYou’ve been busy,” Iryna said, looking at him with those intense blue eyes with a tinge, he could swear, of real interest, as if seeing him for the first time.
    â€œIf Pyatov killed Alyona, it means . . .” Kozhanovskiy began.
    â€œ Tak , yes—it means he couldn’t trust her,” she said. “The assassination plot could be real.”
    â€œPyatov worked for us!” Kozhanovskiy said. “The media will crucify us! It’s a disaster.”
    â€œIt’s worse than that,” Iryna replied, her fist clenched on the table. “If the Russians think we killed Cherkesov, they’ll invade. It’s the end of Ukraine!”
    â€œNATO will have to do some—” he started to say.
    â€œNichivo!” she snapped. Nothing! “NATO will make noise and the UN will tsk-tsk; the Europeans will cluck and the Americans will shake their fingers and say, ‘Shame on Russia,’ and they—will—do—nothing,” she concluded, enunciating each word.
    Kozhanovskiy looked at her. “We should call the politsiy .”
    â€œBefore we find out who else might be implicated?” she said. “And what if they arrest us? On the eve of the election! Half the politsiy are crooks and the other half are working for Cherkesov!”
    â€œWhat can we do?” he asked.
    â€œWe have to stop Pyatov,” she said.
    â€œHow do we even know he’s the assassin?” Kozhanovskiy growled. “All we know is what this journalist ,” indicating Scorpion and using the word like a curse, “is telling us. We have no idea who he is.”
    â€œAlyona’s friends, the actors at the Black Cat,” Scorpion said, “told me that three weeks ago Pyatov came into money. They said he had a big deal going. The same time he stopped showing up for work.”
    â€œThe same time he stopped working for us,” Iryna murmured.
    â€œThey said he was Syndikat,” Scorpion added. “They were afraid of him.”
    â€œ Sooka suna , it fits,” Kozhanovskiy cursed. He looked at Iryna. “Now what?”
    She took a sip of tea, eyeing Scorpion.
    â€œMr. Kilbane, you mean to track Pyatov down, don’t you? We couldn’t stop you if we wanted to, could we?”
    â€œWherever the story takes me,” he said.
    â€œYes,” Kozhanovskiy put in. “Where exactly do you fit in all of this, Mr. Kilbane? This doesn’t seem to be normal journalism.”
    Scorpion shrugged. “My definition of ‘normal’ is pretty elastic. I promised Iryna I wouldn’t print the story till I had the facts.”
    â€œYour word!” Kozhanovskiy said, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Can we trust him?” he asked Iryna.
    â€œOf course not!” she snapped. “If he’s going after Pyatov, one of us has to go too. And it can’t be you, so it has to be me.”
    â€œI haven’t agreed to any of this,” Scorpion said.
    â€œJust tell me. Do you really think