The Ice Curtain by Robin White Page B

snow, but of flame. Nowek’s face. White against the black sky. Volsky tried to speak. To whisper. Nowek leaned close. His face was wet.
    Volsky summoned up something from inside him, some force, some pressure, and a word, a name, rose up.
“Grisha . . .”
    â€œDon’t talk. They’re coming. Don’t say anything.”
    There was a lot to say and no air left in his ruined lungs. He swallowed, tasted blood.
“Idi . . . k’gorizontu . . . Idi . . .”
    â€œArkasha!”
    Had he said it? Spoken the right words? It was all receding now. Fading behind a gentle curtain of falling snow, buried under the soft whisper of a million, million stars burning bright in a sky so infinitely deep he could no longer hear the siren’s wail. So vast, it swallowed the voice still calling out his name.

Chapter 5
    The Punishment
    The militia sergeant said, “Name.”
    Nowek looked up. “I’ve already told you my name.”
    â€œYou’ve got something better to do? Tell me again.”
    Nowek’s hands were cuffed together behind his back. He squatted at the sergeant’s feet, his thighs numb, the snow collecting on his hair, melting down his cheeks. “Nowek. Gregori Tadeovich Nowek.”
    â€œCity of registered residence?”
    â€œIrkutsk.”
    â€œA little snow shouldn’t bother a Siberian.”
    It didn’t. Nowek was numb. His clothes were turning stiff with Volsky’s blood. Gavril’s cap was beside him. So was the shotgun. The Dvo(breve)rák was a mess of sodden cardboard trampled beneath the shuffling boots of the militia. The headlights from their patrol cars slanted across new snow.
    A photographer bleached the scene with a flash, arresting the heavy flakes in mid-fall, then released them to the dark.
    â€œLet’s begin again. You were driving the Chaika. . . .”
    â€œGavril was driving,” he said. “I’m Volsky’s assistant.”
    â€œYou admit you knew the victim.” The militiaman had a clipboard in one hand, a pencil in the other. The urgent blue flash of a strobe illuminated his face. The ambulance with Volsky inside was already gone.
    â€œOf course I knew him. I was supposed to meet him here.”
    â€œNow tell me why you shot him. Was it
razborka
?” A criminal settling of accounts. “Who paid you?”
    Nowek looked up. “Nobody’s paid me in months.”
    â€œSo you decided to get even your own way. . . .”
    â€œNo.” Nowek looked at the shotgun, a Baikal 27. Volsky owned one very much like it, maybe the same model. What did he feel? Anger? Fear? Numbness. “This was a professional murder.”
    â€œYou’re an expert? Well, not such a good one. Volsky was shot twice. The
kontrolniy vuistrel
was unnecessary.” The control shot, the coup de grace. “Volsky was already dead. It’s the sign of an amateur. If it wasn’t money, then why did you do it?”
    â€œFor the last time, it was Gavril. They were leaving the club. They passed me at the gate. I thought they’d stop, but they didn’t. They swerved and I was knocked to the ground. Halfway down the alley, Volsky jumped out. Gavril stopped the car and came around with the gun. He backed Arkasha against that wall and . . .” Nowek stopped talking. His breath wouldn’t come. His heart tried to hammer its way through his ribs. He looked at the dark spray of blood, the pitted brick, remembering the flame, the thunder. “I started to run. Gavril pointed the gun at me and . . .”
    â€œYou ran at a man with a loaded shotgun?”
    â€œI wasn’t thinking. Then I saw Volsky grab the barrel and . . .”
    â€œVolsky was dead.”
    â€œHe was alive. That’s why he shot him again. Gavril dropped the gun and ran. There was a GAI patrol,” he said, meaning a car belonging to Moscow’s traffic police. “I thought they were coming to help, but he