“Of course,” he said. “We can’t go home any more than he can. Not until we know what we’re up against.”
“What is this place?” I asked as Leonid pulled into a parking space.
“We call it the Residence. It’s where my brothers and sisters live,” he replied cryptically. “It’s like a retirement home for cops. A hospital too. If you don’t have family or money, this is where you come.”
“Like a veterans’ home?” I asked, getting out of the SUV.
“Maybe,” Leonid said. “It was a school, but the government doesn’t have so much money for schools, so they rented it to the people who run this place.”
I quickly realized this place was nothing like a veterans’ home as
we approached the smokers. A dozen men and women: they must all have been under the age of fifty, and had the hard, incisive eyes of competent police officers. Inside, there were a couple of young men in wheelchairs, reading in the lobby, and I could see two recreation rooms off the large space, where former police officers between the ages of thirty-five and sixty played games, watched TV, drank, talked or sat with their heads in books or magazines. This was part convalescence home, part hospital, part social housing, part private members’ club, and I’d never seen anything like it.
“Boykov!” a booming voice yelled.
I turned toward a huge bear of a man with bushy brown hair and a matching beard. He hurried over to us, wearing jeans, open-toed sandals over thick black socks and a bright blue painter’s smock that was covered in splotches of color.
“Feodor Arapov!” Leonid replied, and the pair embraced.
‘Feo, this is Jack Morgan and Dinara Orlova, my colleagues.’
I offered Feo my hand, but he brushed it aside and gave me a hug that hinted at his strength.
‘Welcome, American,’ he said. ‘Boykov says you’re OK.’ He released me, and shook Dinara’s hand. ‘Never cuddle a lady without invitation,’ he said.
‘Very wise,’ Dinara observed.
‘I have arranged rooms for each of you in the west building,’ Feo said. ‘Come. Come.’
He headed into the large building, and Leonid, Dinara and I followed him into our new, unconventional home.
CHAPTER 49
“WHO PAYS FOR this?” I asked, gesturing at the huge dining hall.
Leonid, Dinara and I had settled into our rooms. I’d found my holdall on my bed. Leonid had retrieved it from the office where I’d left it when we’d stopped off en route to the US embassy from the airport.
My little room reminded me of a priest’s cell. There was a single bed, a battered old closet, a window that overlooked the snow-covered grounds, an ancient radiator that was scalding hot, and a small sink. The bathroom was shared with eight other residents. I’d taken the opportunity to shower and change immediately, and had emerged feeling much more myself. Dressing in a black sweater and jeans, I’d joined Leonid and Dinara for lunch in the vast dining hall.
“Each according to his means,” Leonid replied. “Everyone gives what they can, and we get money from charity and families, and the government gives a little and the police pension some more. Piece by piece a community is built. Some of the men and women here have jobs, and they pay more.”
He looked at his former colleagues. There must have been over one hundred of them tucking into a rich beef stew with dumplings and potatoes.
“Everyone wants this place to stay open, so we all pay what we can,” Leonid remarked.
“We?” Dinara asked.
“A small contribution buys a lot of goodwill,” he replied.
“I never thought you were sentimental,” Dinara said.
“Not sentimental. Just good old-fashioned self-interest,” he objected, but I could tell he was lying.
His admiration and love for the place was palpable, and with good reason. There was a sense of camaraderie and community that was one of the things most often missed by former cops or service personnel. As I looked at the people seated at the long tables that were spread across the hall, I noticed that no one was being left out. Every single resident was talking to someone and there was no one who didn’t seem to belong.
“Otkrov’s story has found some admirers,” Dinara said, showing me her phone.
She swiped through a number of Russian news sources and a couple of small American ones that had run variations of Otkrov’s sensational allegations that Private was engaged in assassination. “Murder Detectives on the Rampage,” said Citizen’s Bulletin, an alternative news site, and I felt my anger rise as I scrolled through the tawdry article. I’d spent years building Private into the world’s number one detective agency, and all my efforts were being jeopardized by a single, unfounded allegation. If the mainstream media picked up the story, Private could be in real trouble.