style="font-size:15px;"> «Do you know her name?»
«He never introduced us.»
«What does she look like?»
«She’s blonde. Dresses for effect. Likes bright lipstick and eyeliner.»
«Can you look at this photograph and tell me whether this is her?» Petelina pulled up the image on her phone.
The pensioner adjusted her reading glasses.
«Why, that’s the very one,» she exclaimed, «Maltsev’s lover. She’s always wearing skintight fripperies. One might think she is still in school when, really, she is well past thirty. Though, she is younger than Inna. Younger… Men are some dogs, eh?»
Elena remembered her ex-husband and offered no objection. The photo of the efficacious blonde – Oksana Drozdova, clerk at the Housing and Utilities Ministry for the Moscow Region – glowed on her screen. According to Maltseva, she had killed this woman the day before. According to the police, no such incident had occurred. And yet, Oksana Drozdova had not come in to work today.
I wonder what’s keeping Marat. It’s about time he reported back, Petelina began to worry, remembering the operatives she had sent to 24 Dorozhnaya Street.
16
Ivan Mayorov crept along the wall of the house and, reaching the corner, peeked around at the porch. There, at the foot of the wide-open door, lay Valeyev.
He’s alive! The operative was relieved to see a grimace of pain on the captain’s face. Marat raised himself onto one elbow and pressed his free hand against his chest. He’s wounded! There was no gunshot. He’s been stabbed! flashed through the operative’s head, and, covering the entryway with his service weapon, Vanya hopped up onto the front porch.
He was instantly deafened by a savage shriek. Its source was a woman in cotton pajamas. She stood in the entryway, guarding herself with shaking, splayed palms. She did not have a knife. It wasn’t her.
Mayorov shoved the woman aside and burst into the house. Gotta find the bastard! Who attacked Marat? throbbed between the operative’s temples. He began going through the house, checking room by room as Captain Valeyev had taught him.
«These rules are written with the blood of our friends,» Valeyev had pounded into the novice operative’s head. «The most likely cause of a police officer’s death in a building is a shooter hiding behind and open door. You walk into a room and he’s behind you. You may as well be in the palm of his hand. Only slightly less dangerous is when the shooter presses up along the latch-side wall. You’ll see him, of course, but he’s already got you in his sights. A door is a dangerous object in general – it can be used to deliver a blow or knock a person off his feet. For these reasons, your tactical approach should be as follows: Dash through a doorway quickly and, as you pass the threshold, check the latch-side wall and then whether anyone’s hiding behind the door itself. Keep your service weapon in your right hand and steady it with your left. Keep your hands at eyelevel and crooked slightly at the elbows. Keep your barrel pointed where your eyes are looking so that you don’t waste valuable time aiming. You may never get that extra second.»
Valeyev hadn’t mentioned the blood of friends just for dramatic effect. Vanya knew that at his previous post, the captain’s partner, Nikita Dobrokhotov, had perished during an attempt to arrest a terrorist. Word had it that it was Valeyev’s bullet that killed Dobrokhotov. There were even certain colleagues who would whisper in Mayorov’s ear: «Better be careful when you’re out there with him.» Vanya ignored such vile advice. He had learned a lot from the experienced captain.
Previously, whenever they would examine a building together, they would take turns moving. One would cover, while the second moved forward, hunching under the line of fire. When the second reached his firing position, the first would move, past him and onward, hunched in the same manner. If an antagonist appeared, the covering operative would fire, since the one moving might not even have seen him.
At the moment however, Vanya was acting on his own. Following Valeyev’s instructions to the word, he combed all the rooms of the house’s two floors. There was no one there. With his free hand, Vanya wiped the sweat from his forehead. Then who had stabbed the captain?
The sharp crack of a slap resounded from below, cutting off the woman’s shriek. Mayorov dashed down the creaky stairs. Valeyev stood facing the woman who had covered her cheek with one hand.
«Is there anyone else in the house?» the captain asked his partner.
«It’s empty.» Vanya was trying to get a look at the wound on Marat’s chest.
«Zapped me with a stun gun,» Valeyev explained and kicked a little box with sharp protrusions lying on the ground. He looked sternly at the terrified woman. «Documents!»
«Who are you?» the woman glanced nervously at the gun in Mayorov’s hand.
«Police. I’m Captain Valeyev. Vanya, put the piece away. Is this your house?»
«Yes it is.» The woman’s spirits lifted somewhat. «What are you doing stomping around my yard? Why’d you break into my house?»
«Documents, please.»
«Why? What’s the matter, captain? What right do you have to burst into my house?»
«She’s blonde,» Vanya nodded to Marat. «Bleached blonde.»
«What business is it of yours?» the woman asked offended.
«We’re just doing a check,» the captain assuaged her. «Will you show me your passport or would you like to accompany us to the precinct for identification?»
The woman snorted, disappeared into the house, returned and slapped the passport into the operative’s hand.
«Oksana Drozdova,» read Valeyev, confirming that the living, breathing blonde, whose corpse he had been ordered to find, was in fact standing right there before him. «Did you hear any gunshots last night?»
«What gunshots? Are there gangsters in the township?»
«Calm down, there aren’t any gangsters. Does the car in the yard belong to you?»
«Yes, it’s mine. Would you like to see the Volvo’s passport too?»
«Did you drive home last night in that car?»
«And how else am I supposed to get home?»
«Did you see anything out of the ordinary?»
«I didn’t see any gangsters, but that didn’t make my life any easier: My gates haven’t worked right in a week. The repairmen took the control unit and are taking forever to fix it. I’m sick and tired of opening and closing them by hand. Broke a heel last night. Just look at this – I just got these boots too. And of course, I fell as a result and scraped my knee. Anyway, does all that count as out of the ordinary?»
«Why didn’t you go in to work today?»
«Am I allowed to be sick? I even called the doctor to get documentation for my sick day. Left the gates open for him, but he never showed
