Red Chameleon by Stuart M. Kaminsky Read Free Book Online Page A

as the big man lifted him over the wooden counter. Sasha’s feet clanked against the electric tool and over bits of metal.
    â€œIdle parasites of the rich,” the man whispered. “The state is being strangled by nakhlebniki like you. Your fathers struggle to make a world built on the bodies of those who died in the Revolution, and you drag us down.”
    The man had pushed Tkach against the corrugated steel door, which rattled behind him.
    â€œNo,” Tkach managed to croak when the man put him down but didn’t release his grip on the policeman’s tie.
    â€œI’ll give you a lesson your father should have given you when you were a child,” the giant said.
    Tkach managed to reach under his jacket with his left hand and fumbled his pistol out with an awkward twist. The giant paid no attention. His eyes, brown and deep, were fixed on Tkach’s. He was about to push his open palm against the policeman’s nose when Tkach stuck the pistol in his face, aimed at the man’s right eye.
    Instead of dropping him, the huge man smiled. “I’ll eat that gun,” he said.
    â€œI’m a policeman,” Tkach said, gasping. In another second, he would either have to shoot this innocent lout or take a beating.
    The man clearly didn’t believe Tkach would shoot. He had heard too much of the cleverness of the idle rich. The man, whose name was Vadim, though Sasha Tkach would never learn it, knew he was not himself clever, but he had faith in his instincts.
    â€œI’ll show you my identification card,” Tkach said, still holding the pistol in front of the brown eye.
    Vadim hesitated, and Tkach, still holding the gun, reached in with his free hand to pull out his identification card. He held it in front of Vadim’s face and prayed that the man could read.
    â€œSo,” said Vadim, not letting go, “you are a corrupt policeman trying—”
    â€œTo catch automobile thieves,” Tkach finished. “I’m going to every repair shop, every dealer, every—”
    The man hesitated, shook his head, and put Tkach down.
    Sasha, his eyes still on the mechanic, slowly put his identification card and his gun away.
    â€œIf you have any idea of who might …” Sasha began talking through a rasping throat and adjusting his tie, but Vadim had already put his goggles on and had stepped away to reach for his tool. Sasha stopped talking and edged toward the counter as the man picked up the tool and turned it on. The whirring was deafening. It struck Sasha that the giant might decide to turn the swirling blade on his visitor. Before that could happen, Sasha took four steps across the floor, scrambled over the counter, and went through the door into the street where he took in three deep drafts of hot summer air and cursed the day he had ever decided to be a policeman.
    When the waiter in restaurant number four of the massive Hotel Rossiya reached for the odd package on the table, a hand clamped his wrist, squeezing feeling from his fingers.
    The waiter’s name was Vladimir Kuznetsov, and until this moment he had been having a good day. He had a pocketful of change in tips from the French, Canadian, Italian, and American businessmen and tourists he had served, and in a few hours he would be off for a one-week vacation. There was not much to Vladimir Kuznetsov. He was a thin sparrow of a creature whose needs were small and ambitions even smaller. At present, his sole goal in life was to free himself from the viselike fingers around his wrist.
    Kuznetsov had just deposited two plates of pickled fish in front of the two sullen foreigners who had been drinking for an hour like native Muscovites, but they were not Muscovites; Vladimir was sure of that.
    The younger of the two men, who had grabbed his now-senseless wrist, said some nonsense in English that sounded like “Kipyur hans hoff.”
    The very old man looked at Vladimir but showed no emotion. He