by WOOD TOM
‘This is outrageous,’ she said, hands on hips. ‘I’m an account holder here, and I demand to know who has put hundreds of thousands of dollars into my account. If you don’t extend me this simple courtesy I will have no choice but to close my account and take my business to one of your competitors.’
She saw Malliat make a quick calculation in his head. Rebecca already knew the figure. Almost two million dollars had been paid into the account in less than three months. At that rate, over a year, it would be nearly eight million dollars. Too much money to lose for something as minor as a name and address.
Malliat sighed and nodded after a minute. ‘Okay,’ he began. ‘I’ll help you, but I won’t give you what you want to know.’
‘Then you’re not helping and I won’t be using your services any more. I’d like to withdraw all my funds immediately. In one hundred euro bills.’
‘Wait,’ Malliat said quickly. ‘What if I give you information on the accountant who made the payments on behalf of the account holder. Will that do?’
Rebecca resisted smiling. It was as much as she’d hoped for.
‘I guess it will have to.’
CHAPTER 37
St Petersburg, Russia
Saturday
16:58 MSK
They’d taken the Siberian’s car. Victor rode in the back, sat directly behind the passenger seat so he could watch the driver. The car was a black eighties BMW with all the trimmings. The interior stank of stale smoke, and the upholstery was dark and stained.
Victor had locked the Russian with the broken ribs in a back room at the bar, telling the bartender to let him go after an hour. If he released him before then Victor would come back to castrate him. Victor could tell by the wet patch on the guy’s jeans that he’d been believed.
They drove in silence, the Siberian’s eyes fixed on the road, taking Victor through parts of the city he didn’t recognize: Anonymous factories lined the streets, dead areas of wasteland stretched between, and in the distance steam rose from tall towers and mixed with clouds.
After thirty minutes the car slowed. Derelict warehouses, empty for years and left to rot lined both sides of the street. The road was uneven, potholed, kerbs full of litter and black water. Victor’s eyes met the Siberian’s in the rear-view.
‘We’re here.’
Up ahead a chain-link fence and gate bisected the road. A tall man in an astrakhan fur hat stood in front of the gate, smoking a cigarette. Behind him, through the fence, Victor could see long low buildings, dark with pollution.
The Siberian brought the car to a stop five yards in front of the gate and lowered the driver’s window. The tall man threw his cigarette away and walked over to the car. He leaned down and peered in, whistled when he saw the Siberian’s smashed face.
‘Holy shit, Sergei,’ he said. ‘Another jealous husband with a crowbar?’ He was about to laugh when he noticed Victor in the back. ‘Who the fuck is this?’
Victor spoke before the Siberian could answer. ‘Just tell Norimov that Vasily is here to see him.’
Beneath the astrakhan the tall man’s face creased in thought. He stepped back from the car and took out a cell phone that would have embarrassed any Western teenager. He turned his back on the car while he spoke. After a ten-second conversation he put the phone away. When he looked back at Victor there was fear in his eyes.
‘Go on.’
He pulled open the gate and the Siberian drove through onto a wide expanse of uneven blacktop with puddles of dirty water mixed with oil.
The car drove slowly towards two large factory buildings. The rusted shell of a train carriage lay on its side in the distance. The car turned into the gap between the two buildings and came to a stop. A roll-up door was open to Victor’s right, leading into one of the factories.
The Siberian gestured at the door. ‘Through there.’
Victor climbed out of the car, pretending not to have noticed the dark shape lurking on the sloping roof above or the one standing in the factory behind him. He kept his movements deliberately slow, doing nothing that might cause a nervous Russian to discharge his weapon unnecessarily.
He walked towards the opening, keeping his hands outside of his pockets despite the cold. Inside he could see the shells of old electric trains, half-built and rusted, dominating the space. Victor looked around, imagining that in the days of the Soviet Union the vehicles built here were exported thousands of miles to every friendly state and that, when the empire collapsed, the train yard had shut down, the work simply halted, never to start again.
Victor stopped, seeing two huge Russians emerge from the shadows and walk towards him. In their thick clothes and beards they looked more like apes than men. One appeared to be in his forties, his beard streaked with thin lines of grey. The other was younger, his face and neck scarred by fire.
He carried an assault rifle, an AK-74, a later variant of the infamous Kalashnikov. It wasn’t pointed at Victor, but the way the scarred man held it meant it could be snapped into a firing position in an instant. Former armed forces.
The older man carried no weapon in his hands, but it wasn’t his ribs causing the irregular shadow under his left arm. The Russian with the AK stood back while the other approached Victor.
He slowly unbuttoned his coat and held his arms out at right angles to his body. The Russian searched him roughly but with a weariness in his eyes. He frowned when he felt the Baikal in Victor’s pocket. He pulled it out.
‘Any others?’ he asked.
Victor shook his head. The man searched him anyway. If there had been any other weapons the man would have found them.
‘This way.’
The man turned around and led Victor through the factory with the AK guy following a dozen steps behind. The building was just as cold and damp as outside. There were gaping holes in the roof and Victor was careful to avoid the puddles formed beneath them. The two Russians were both wearing boots and didn’t care about walking through the near-freezing water. Their heavy footsteps echoed.
When they reached the far side of the factory they stopped. A set of metal stairs led up to offices that stood overlooking the factory floor. Victor noted one of Norimov’s men on the roof of one of the trains, another standing in the darkness beneath the offices. Each was armed with an assault rifle.
The man who had searched Victor told him to wait and walked up the metal steps and into the office above. He came out a minute later but didn’t come down. He took up a position on the stairs, now armed with an AK just like the others.
Five men with assault rifles now covered Victor, each positioned so that they could fire without risking hitting one of their own. As things stood, if they so wished, Victor had no chance.
He had to admit they were good at what they did.
The office door opened and Norimov came out. He hadn’t had much hair when Victor last saw him and he had even less now. What was left was cut short to just a few millimetres. He was a tall man, face square, wide at the shoulders, massive arms. He looked ungainly, but Victor knew Norimov’s size was deceptive. There was enough speed and agility hidden away to give most would-be aggressors an unpleasant surprise.
He wore a neutral expression, his eyes deep set, shadowed under thick eyebrows. The once-dark beard was mostly grey now, neatly trimmed. He was dressed in a black suit, looking more the respectable businessman than the ruthless entrepreneur and former government agent. A curious half smile appeared on Norimov’s face as his eyes met Victor’s, a mixture of disbelief and caution.
‘Vasily,’ Norimov called. ‘You’ve taken me somewhat by surprise.’
He had a smooth refined voice as befitted his privileged upbringing.
Victor returned the half smile. ‘You know I like to make an entrance.’
‘Yes, yes I do. But when I got a phone call five minutes ago saying you were here I didn’t actually believe it was the real you. I thought the next time I’d see you would be on the far side of the River Styx.’
> ‘Do I take it then that you aren’t glad to see me?’
‘Now,’ Norimov said, smile widening, ‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘Then what would you say?’
‘That your methods were perhaps somewhat excessive. You didn’t have to be so rough with Sergei and Dmitri.’
‘I had to use a language they could understand.’
‘Did you try Russian?’
‘I must be rusty.’
Norimov grunted. ‘They were just looking after me, making sure I wasn’t bothered unnecessarily. Like screening phone calls.’ He laughed. ‘These days I have to be more careful than ever. If it’s not my many rivals after my blood it’s stinking corrupt cops. I don’t know which is worse.’
‘The price of progress,’ Victor said.
Norimov nodded. ‘Things are more cut-throat now than they ever were. You look different.’
‘That’s the idea.’
‘Surgery?’
Victor nodded.
Norimov smiled. ‘You were prettier before.’
‘I know,’ Victor agreed. ‘That was the problem.’ He held the Russian’s gaze for a moment. ‘Are you going to come down from there?’
Norimov put both hands on the railing. ‘I’m quite happy up here.’
‘Do you think I’m here to kill you?’
The sudden change in Norimov’s face told Victor he had been thinking exactly that.
‘I am unarmed.’ Victor said, holding open his jacket.
‘I believe you,’ Norimov said. ‘But when has not having a weapon ever stopped you before?’
Victor nodded, accepting the point and backhanded compliment. ‘If I had wanted to kill you,’ he explained, ‘I wouldn’t be standing in front of you now. I want to talk.’
Norimov considered for a moment. Victor kept his eyes locked on the Russian, ready for any possibility, ready for the hand gesture that would signal the guards to fire. If it came he had no idea what he was going to do. Die would be the most likely course of action.
‘Okay,’ Norimov said at last. ‘Let’s talk.’
CHAPTER 38
17:37 MSK
They were in an office above the factory floor. It was fitted with filing cabinets and shelves like any legitimate place of business, not the nerve centre of an organized criminal network. Norimov sat behind a simple polished desk, on which rested a silver-coloured laptop and a stack of papers and envelopes. Victor sat opposite him. One bodyguard stood behind him, the other behind Norimov. There was another man stationed right outside the door. All were openly armed.
With so much protection Norimov seemed a virtual prisoner in his own office, and Victor wondered how long this had been the case. He also wondered if Norimov even realized he was an inmate of his own making.
‘I apologize for the less-than-cordial welcoming, but you can forgive my suspicion, I’m sure,’ Norimov began. ‘When a hitman calls on you unannounced, it is better to err on the side of caution than on the side of death.’
‘Don’t use that word.’
‘What word?’ Norimov asked, seemingly perplexed. ‘You mean hitman? I forgot you aren’t fond of it.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
A wry smile formed on Norimov’s face. ‘It’s been what, three years?’
‘Four.’
‘A long time. You’ve aged well.’
‘I take my vitamins.’ Victor’s eyes scanned over Norimov. ‘You seem to be getting enough to eat.’
‘Yes, quite. I’ve filled out at the waist and thinned on top,’ Norimov laughed, slapping his generous stomach. ‘It’s just protection from the cold, I swear.’
‘How’s your shoulder?’
Norimov blew air out through his nose. ‘Ha, it still gives me problems. I went to a specialist in Moscow only last year. He told me there was a fluid build-up behind the shoulder blade. I promise you, he put a needle this big into me to drain it.’ Norimov gestured, his palms a good twelve inches apart. ‘It’s no better. Some weeks I go through a whole bottle of painkillers.’
‘That’s too bad.’
‘Between the pain of living and the painlessness of death, I choose the pain gladly.’
‘Nicely put.’
‘Thank you.’ Norimov tilted his head. ‘And you, Vasily, still bulletproof?’
Victor thought about the huge bruise on his chest and the tiny scab in the centre. ‘I wouldn’t like to say.’
‘Don’t want to tempt fate?’
‘Something like that.’
Norimov pointed. ‘You used to say you make your own fate.’
‘I still do.’
‘No matter how good you are, how fast you are—’
‘You can’t outrun a bullet,’ Victor finished.
Norimov gestured to one of his bodyguards. ‘Get us both a drink.’
The bodyguard opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of Scotch and two tumblers. He poured Norimov and Victor a generous measure each. Norimov clutched the glass tightly, hungrily. There was a red tinge to his cheeks, damaged capillaries showing under the skin. He never used to drink so much.
Norimov raised his glass. ‘To old allies.’
‘To old friends,’ Victor corrected.
Norimov downed his drink and grunted in approval. Victor followed suit, but without the grunt.
‘This is nice,’ Norimov said. ‘It’s not often I get to share a drink with someone who isn’t afraid of me.’
‘I’m surprised anyone is afraid of you.’
Norimov laughed. ‘Yes, well, maybe not of me but what I can have done. All these worms that work for me now, none of them know who I was ten years ago, or even five years ago. They think I’m old, slow. I doubt anyone remembers I was ever any different.’
‘I remember.’
They held each other’s gaze for a long moment. Victor opened his packet of cigarettes and took one out with his teeth. Norimov’s eyes widened a small amount.
‘I thought you quit.’
Victor struck a match and brought it towards his mouth. ‘I did.’
‘Those things—’
‘I know,’ Victor said. ‘So don’t say it. I have been cutting down.’
‘Even Bond doesn’t smoke any more.’
Victor rubbed the match out between his thumb and forefinger and drew in smoke from the cigarette. He raised an eyebrow.
‘Who?’
Norimov grinned for a moment. His teeth were yellow. ‘What score are you up to now?’
‘I don’t keep count.’
‘You used to.’
Victor nodded. Once it had seemed important.
The Russian gave a caustic smile. ‘Still go to church to confess your sins?’
The leather of Victor’s chair creaked. He glanced at his glass. ‘How long are you going to make me wait for another?’
Norimov motioned for his bodyguard, who promptly refilled the glasses. They both took a sip. ‘So, how is the killing business?’
He thought for a moment. ‘I need some more reliable employers.’
‘I would like to be able to hire you myself. But I can keep four good men at my side for the best part of a year for what it costs me to employ you for one night’s work. When you have numbers skill is not so necessary.’
Victor didn’t see the need to challenge the point. ‘I charge a lot more these days, anyway.’
Norimov laughed hard. ‘And I’m sure you’re worth every penny. If you plan to stay a while, I’m sure I could still get you work.’
‘Even if I wanted to, I’ve been away too long.’
‘No matter. Your reputation still endures, and with it all doors open.’
‘I don’t operate like that any more. Such infamy is nothing more than a permanent crosshairs.’
‘You know where I am if you ever change your mind.’
Victor nodded and said, “What about you, Alek, how’s the aspiring empire?’
‘I’m the only honest criminal left in this town. See what it gets me?’<
br />
Victor took a taste of whisky. ‘How’s the delightful Eleanor?’
Norimov’s face was hard. ‘Dead,’ he said easily.
‘What happened?’
‘She was sick.’
‘Sick?’
‘The doctors didn’t think it was serious. By the time anyone realized, it was too late.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Thank you.’
‘She was a beautiful lady.’
Norimov looked away. ‘Not at the end she wasn’t.’
The silence hung heavily for a moment. Victor didn’t say anything. Though uncomfortable, it would have been vulgar to speak banalities just to sit a little easier.
But it was Norimov who broke the silence. ‘Do you still take all that shit?’
‘Not any more.’
The Russian cracked a smile then sighed, as if saddened to turn the conversation to the inevitable. ‘I’m assuming that this isn’t a social call.’
‘Someone’s trying to kill me.’
The Russian smiled. ‘Shouldn’t that be the other way around?’
‘Quite,’ Victor agreed. ‘I have acquired some enemies.’
‘I imagine that’s an ever-present hazard in your line of work.’
‘It’s somewhat more complicated than that. I need your help.’
There was something approaching amazement in Norimov’s expression. ‘You need my help?’ Victor nodded. ‘This must be serious.’
‘It is.’
‘So what can I do?’
‘I want you to make some inquiries for me.’
‘I stopped doing work for them before you did. I—’
‘But you are still connected to the organization, are you not?’
Norimov nodded absently, the action seemed almost subconsciously.
‘Good,’ Victor said.
‘What do you need?’
Victor reached into his coat. He did so slowly, so the two bodyguards couldn’t mistake the action for something else. Victor pulled the hand out from under his coat. In his fingers was the flash drive.
