Wolves Eat Dogs by Martin Cruz Smith

Sometimes they went a little further. The skinhead holding the front of the Zaporozhets had ripped off his shirt to show a broad chest tattooed with a wolf’s head, and arms ringed with swastikas. His friend with the pole beat in the last of the windshield and dragged the woman out by her hair, shouting, “Get your black ass out of that Russian car!” She emerged with her cheek cut and her hair and sari sparkling with safety glass. Arkady recognized Mrs. Rajapakse. The other two skinheads beat in Mr. Rajapakse’s window with steel rods.
    Arkady was not aware of getting out of the Zhiguli. He found himself holding a gun to the head of the skinhead clutching the bumper. “Let go of the car.”
    “You love niggers?” The strongman spat on Arkady’s raincoat.
    Arkady kicked the man’s knee from the side. He didn’t know whether it broke, but it gave way with a satisfying snap. As the man hit the ground and howled, Arkady moved to the Spartak supporter who was pinning Mrs. Rajapakse to the hood. Since skinheads filled the street and the clip of Arkady’s pistol held only thirteen rounds, he chose a middle course. “If you—” the man had begun when Arkady clubbed him with the gun.
    As Arkady moved around the car, the skinheads with the rods gave themselves some swinging room. They were tall lads with construction boots and bloody knuckles. One said, “You may get one of us, but you won’t get both.”
    Arkady noticed something. There was no clip in his gun at all. He’d removed it for the drive with Zhenya. And he never kept a round in the breech.
    “Then which one will it be?” he asked and aimed first at one man and then the other. “Which one doesn’t have a mother?” Sometimes mothers were monsters, but usually they cared whether their sons died on the street. And sons knew this fact. After a long pause, the two boys’ grip on the bars went slack. They were disgusted with Arkady for such a low tactic, but they backed off and dragged away their wounded comrades.
    Meanwhile, the general melee spread. Militia piled out of vans, and skinheads smashed bus-stop displays as they ran. The Rajapakses brushed glass from their seats. Arkady offered to drive them to a hospital, but they nearly ran over him in their haste to make a U-turn and leave the scene.
    Rajapakse shouted out his broken window, “Thank you, now go away, please. You are a crazy man, as crazy as they are.”
    Holding his ID high, Arkady walked up to the burning car. Victims of the skinheads sprawled on the road and sidewalk, sobbing amid broken side mirrors, torn shirts, shoes. He went as far as a line of militia barricades being rapidly, belatedly erected at the stadium grounds. Hoffman was nowhere in sight, but everywhere was shining glass, in coarse grains and small.
     
    The elevator operator was the former Kremlin guard Arkady had interviewed before. As the floors passed, he looked Arkady up and down. “You need a code.”
    “I have you. You know the code.” Arkady pulled on latex gloves.
    The operator shifted, exhibiting the training of an old watchdog. At the tenth floor, he was still uncertain enough to take a mobile phone from his pocket. “I have to call Colonel Ozhogin first.”
    “When you call, tell the colonel about the breakdown in building security the day Ivanov died, how you shut down the elevator at eleven in the morning and checked each apartment floor by floor. Explain why you didn’t report the breakdown then.”
    The elevator whined softly and came to a stop at the tenth floor. The operator swayed unhappily. Finally he said, “In Soviet days we had guards on every floor. Now we have cameras. It’s not the same.”
    “Did you check the Ivanov apartment?”
    “I didn’t have the code then.”
    “And you didn’t want to call NoviRus Security and tell them why you needed it.”
    “We checked the rest of the building. I don’t know why the receptionist was worried. He thought maybe he’d seen a shadow, something.