by Robin White
Levin
Levin wasn’t coming. What was left when the fire died, when the last hope burned to ash? Cynicism? Bitterness? Resignation? The very qualities that made playing The Fool, the card game with no winners, only losers, Russia’s favorite. A million carats of gem diamonds would be leaving Mirny tomorrow. So would Hock. They’d go where all the other millions had gone: to the cartel. With Levin in a hospital, what would stop them?
The only accident is that I am still alive.
Nowek sensed that same high-voltage hum of an electrified web plucked, of another victim hopelessly snared. Here in Mirny. In Moscow. Who could say how far it reached? Nowek had gone to the horizon. He’d seen its crystal gardens. Who ruled it?
There were levels to this game. At the very top was the oldest, wealthiest cartel on earth. A diamond empire happy to buy the enemies it could, and destroy the ones it could not. The empire had Hock. It had Kirillin. It had men in Moscow who would act on their behalf, in the corridors of power and in the alleys and streets. Against all of that, what did Nowek have?
He clicked on the Reply button.
To: [email protected]
CC:
From:
I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, ever see it. But I am writing it all out anyway. Think of a man shipwrecked on an island. I’m keeping a diary. I’m putting it in this strange, electronic bottle, and throwing it into an invisible sea in the hope that someone will pick it up one day and read it. It’s everything I believe. Everything I know.
Sherbakov is dead. He was murdered by Kristall, a man named Kirillin arranged it, but he was doing it for a South African named Eban Hock. Hock was in Moscow when Volsky was murdered. He bragged he was at Ekipazh that night. He is here now. By this time tomorrow he will be out of your reach. But first, the diamonds. A Kristall airplane will leave Mirny tomorrow morning with one million carats of gem rough on board. . . .
When he was done, when it was all said, not with beautiful words, not with grace, not even with much skill, he pressed the send button. The message vanished, followed by a sound, an odd click. A message box in dull, aching gray materialized.
CONNECTION TERMINATED. RECONNECT?
As Nowek wondered whether any of his words had escaped Mirny’s gravity, there was another sound. It was the click of a key being inserted in Larisa’s front door. The lock opened, so did the door, but only a crack. A chain was in place. Then a voice. “Larisa?”
Nowek switched off the computer. The screen went dark.
“Larisa?”
It was Eban Hock.
mahmet said, “Behind us.”
Yuri turned and saw two yellow headlights where there had been none a moment ago. They were out of the city, halfway to the airport.
A third light flared bright white.
Chuchin said, “He turned on a spotlight.”
“Then we’ll do the same.” Yuri switched the light mounted on his side and swept the sides of the road. Tall reeds poked their heads up from new snow. In the distance, a tall building set out in the middle of nowhere. It was a strange place to build an office tower, but he recognized the red beacons on top. He’d almost flown into it on the approach to the airport.
The light from behind wavered, then an instant later, it swept back in their direction. The jeep was flooded with light.
Mahmet instinctively floored it. The engine coughed, caught, and the bobyk flew down the road, its front tires riding up over the snow like the bow of a speedboat.
“This is not good,” said Yuri.
Their pursuer kept an ominously even distance, not closing, not falling behind.
Chuchin measured the situation with a very practiced eye. “He’s sending word. They’re going to trap us.”
Yuri wished he’d brought the GPS navigator. It was a joke. He could fly to Mirny from a thousand kilometers away, land with pinpoint accuracy and some luck, but now that he was here, on the ground, he wasn’t sure where the airport even was. The road made a wide, sweeping curve. Yuri wished he’d paid closer attention. “We could leave the road and go straight to the jet.”
“If you can make this jeep fly,” said Chuchin. “The airport is on the other side of the open pit.” He looked off into the darkness. “It’s two kilometers across. Five hundred meters to the bottom. This road goes around the perimeter.”
Mahmet saw lights out ahead. “There’s his friend.”
“All right,” said Chuchin. “Turn left.”
“You said the pit was—”
“Turn left now.”
Mahmet spun the wheel. The bobyk jumped off the road and into untracked snow, riding over rolling mounds of frozen marsh.
“Larisa? Open the door.”
Nowek felt his heart sag. Hock. What did it mean that he would come here now? What did it mean that he had a key to her apartment? What else could it mean?
Nowek had just shared a woman with the man who murdered his best friend. In A Soldier’s Story, a violin, a soul, buys a book of knowledge. What had Nowek bought?
In the bedroom, the light still spread the same glory over her, but now it looked like gray ash falling. He woke her.
“Gregori? What—”
“You have a visitor.” His words were cased in crumbling rock and frozen soil. Eternal ice a kilometer deep and growing deeper.
“What do you mean? Who is it?”
He tossed her the heavy green robe. “Eban Hock.”
She stared at him, then, with the same look of calculation, of appraisal, he’d seen when she let him in to her building, she threw the robe over her head. “Stay here. I’ll talk to him.”
The red light on his radio blinked. Kirillin picked up the microphone. “Well?”
“There’s a report of a vehicle out on the ring road. It’s beyond the gate to the karir, heading for the airport.”
“What have you done?”
“The road is blocked ahead. There’s a patrol in pursuit.”
“And the airport?”
“Two more patrols are leaving now.”
“Box them in. I’m on the way. Kirillin out.”
The bobyk scrambled up a frozen mound of ore tailings, then slid down the other side, and onto another, more narrow, road.
“Left,” Chuchin ordered. “Turn left.”
The Chechen swung the wheel hard left and urged the jeep onto the mine perimeter road. He gunned the engine. A fence appeared in the headlights. A fence, and a gate. No. 5.
“You want me to break through?” asked Mahmet.
“No,” said Yuri, fishing out Tereshenko’s ID. “Stop.”
They pulled up to the gate. Yuri handed the plastic card to Mahmet, who slid the night manager’s credentials through. Headlights appeared behind them. The gate remained closed. The lights stopped, found the tracks they’d left, then turned.
“Again. Slower.”
Mahmet did as he was ordered, though it was obviously a foolish thing to trust a piece of plastic to do what . . .
The gate began to slide.
“Drive!” yelled Chuchin, “But not too far and not too fast!”
Mahmet rolled through the gates with one eye on the—
“Stop!” Chuchin yelled.
Mahmet jammed on the brakes. The jeep skidded sideways and bumped to a stop.
“You two. Out,” Chuchin told Mahmet. “I’m driving now.”
“They’re heading for gate 5,” the militiaman reported to Kirillin as his partner jammed his boot down on the accelerator.
“Did they break through?” Kirillin demanded.
“I can’t tell yet.”
“It doesn’t matter. Stop them.”
“Understood.” He reached back for the Kalashnikov. It wasn’t the new model. It was scarred, the wooden stock was taped together where cold had split it, but it was an old and trusted tool. He checked the clip. Full. The casings gleamed a muted gold.
They turned left onto the inner ring road. Now, at the limit of t
heir headlights, the bobyk appeared parked at the gate. The militiaman said, “The gate’s open. How did they—?”
“Don’t worry about it. Just move us in a little closer.” The sergeant rolled down his window and leaned out. He brought the Kalashnikov up and centered its iron sights on the parked bobyk.
Chuchin waited as long as he dared. The lights were coming on fast. He waited, counted one second, two, then slammed the gear selector into first and tore off down the road to the open pit.
The first burst was high. Chuchin ducked as the big slugs tore through the bobyk’s rear window, punching into the seats like sledgehammers, shattering the windshield. He looked down for an instant to see if he was still alive, then decided, who cared?
The road began a slight rise. He knew what it meant, what lay beyond the rim. There was nothing he could do about it except go faster. He swung the wheel, weaving back and forth to make himself harder to hit. The second burst smashed into the tailgate. A rear tire exploded. Then the next. The bobyk sagged, running on steel rims. Not that it had much farther to go. The jeep roared up the final rise. The headlights tilted up. At their end, the beams faded into open space.
Chuchin reached for the door as the third burst struck.
The two vehicles were connected by ropes of yellow tracers. Mahmet didn’t think there was any chance the old man could be driving. He didn’t think there was any chance he’d be alive.
The militia jeep tore past him. Mahmet tracked it, whispered, “Allahu akhbar,” and squeezed the trigger.
The rocket grenade whooshed out into the night, trailing orange sparks, red sparks, white and gray streamers of smoke.
The militia jeep seemed to move slowly, the rocket swift. The warhead struck the passenger window, met a momentary resistance, then a greater one sufficient to crush the impact fuse.
The jeep’s roof flew into the air, the wheels, still spinning, broke free from their axles and rose in incendiary arcs. A ghostly carriage bound for heaven. The four wheels stayed together, ruled by the laws of momentum, stabilized by their spinning, until gravity reasserted its authority. They tipped down and followed Chuchin’s bobyk over the edge to the bottom, half a kilometer straight down.
Chapter 29
The Firestorm
Larisa said, “What are you doing here, Eban?”
Nowek listened with his forehead against the door. His fists were balled up. The pressure electrified the three pellet wounds on his left arm, and the burning, the pain, felt good.
“Why?” asked Hock. “Are you busy?”
“I was asleep. You woke me.”
“It’s awfully early for sleeping. Is something wrong?”
“Eban, no. Just tell me what you’ve come for.”
“I’m leaving again in the morning.”
“So where will you go? Angola? Sierra Leone?”
“To London,” said Hock. “With a rather large shipment. Our friends think there could be some rough weather coming and they’d rather not leave a lot of loose stones around. Too tempting.”
“So? Why tell me?”
“If you like, you can come with me. You and Liza both.”
Nowek closed his eyes.
“I don’t have documents. No visa. How could . . .”
“We won’t be going through the regular procedures.”
Not with a million carats in Siberian rough diamonds.
“What does that mean? You’ll smuggle us in?”
He could hear Hock say something too softly to make out.
Then, “Eban. Liza’s asleep behind that door.”
“Let’s talk privately. Better yet, let’s not talk at all.”
“Stop it. This is serious. I have to hear more.”
Hock sighed. “We’re leaving early. There was going to be a stop in Moscow. It’s not necessary now. We’ll arrive in London in time for breakfast.”
“Kirillin will permit it?”
“He’s got some problems to solve. You know about Boyko?”
“I heard he was found.”
“At the bottom of Mirny Deep. Your friend Nowek shot him.”
“Has Nowek been found?”
“He will be. About London. You don’t seem very pleased. I thought it was your dream to leave Mirny.”
“Dreams aren’t real. I’m trying to believe in this one.”
“I’m glad. Leaving would be a smart move. Kirillin wanted to talk to you. I told him I would see you first.”
“What about?”
“I imagine you’ll find out if you decide to stay. Naturally, it’s your choice.”
Nowek knew how she would answer.
“What choice?” asked Larisa.
Mahmet put the launcher tube down and picked up the AK-102. He unfolded the stock, clicked off the safety, and pointed it at the man walking toward them.
Yuri saw who it was, and motioned to Mahmet. “You weren’t supposed to leave the bobyk behind, old man.”
“What’s the matter, Thief? You don’t have legs?” said Chuchin. “The airport’s not far. If I can walk there so can you.”
How long had Hock and Larisa stood together, sealing their bargain? Long enough for Nowek to think about finding something heavy. Long enough to realize that there were other, more important things left to do than smashing Hock’s skull in.
He heard the apartment door click shut. The chain rattle across the catch. One second, two, and then she was standing there.
“Gregori,” she whispered. He was getting dressed. “Gregori.”
“You should be getting ready to leave.” He could smell Hock’s cologne on her.
“Look around.” She swept her hand at the walls. “You think I want to live like this forever? To see Liza live like this all her life? I won’t say no. How can I?”
He was having trouble with his boots. How do you tie boots on with one hand? “Hock told me that Mirny is Africa. I wonder. What does that make you?”
“Where are you going? You can’t even get dressed.”
“I’m leaving Mirny.”
“On foot? It’s a hundred kilometers to the next town.”
“Then I’d better get going. Like you, I have one chance. I can’t afford to turn it down.” He couldn’t tie his laces, but he didn’t have a long walk in mind.
“Please don’t do this.”
There was something in her intimate tone that infuriated him. “What would you have me do, Larisa? See you off in the morning? Kiss you good-bye? Shake his hand? You and Hock. The truth is, I don’t know who to feel more sorry for.”
“I’ll think of something. Just don’t leave.”
Nowek reached for his parka and draped it across his shoulders. It was stiff with dried blood. “There’s no reason to stay.” He walked by her to the front door. He unhooked the chain. Unlocked the lock.
“Where are you going?” It was half scream, half sob.
“Mommy?” It was a sweet, tiny voice.
Nowek turned and said, “Good-bye, Larisa.”
Tereshenko shivered. The metal garage was not quite freezing. He and the three useless men from the night maintenance crew were sitting on the cold cement floor, tied tightly together with a rope looped around their necks, strung between steel posts. They were guarded by a Chechen with a very big gun.
A crack, followed by a longer rumble, echoed through the empty space. It wasn’t blasting. You felt those through the ground, first. “You heard that?” Tereshenko said to the Chechen guard. “Maybe that was your boss. You should think about what will happen now if it was.”
Anzor, the youngest brother, knew the sound of an RPG round going off. What Chechen didn’t? It had to be Mahmet. He looked at the radio. It was blinking almost constantly now with traffic. “We both should think about what will happen.”
Nowek opened the door and stepped out into the cold. The snow was still falling, but with none of the drive, none of the interest, it had shown before. The clouds were old and tired. He nearly slipped on the first step, and
unconsciously made a grab for the railing with his left hand. He heard the soft ripping of bandage, then skin, felt the blood. Well, he wasn’t in this for his health.
At the bottom of the stairs and he was already breathing heavily. To the right, he could see the red beacon atop Mirny Deep. To the left, beyond the Bulvar Varvara, lights burned in the windows of Kristall’s headquarters.
The parka was stiff with dried blood. A shell. A carapace. Like some marine creature, he would very shortly shed it. There was a kind of freedom in what he was doing. And madness, too. But that was Russia, wasn’t it? And what was Siberia if not the most Russian place of all? He stopped directly under the streetlight that had turned Larisa’s hair to gold. He looked up. Her curtains were drawn. His head was light with possibility, with knowing that he’d left reason behind.
A militia patrol prowled down Varvara, slowed, then turned up Ulitsa Popugayeva. A searchlight blazed to life. It swung his way and caught him. From beyond the light, a voice. “Who are you? What are you doing out here?”
It was a good question. The diamonds were leaving tomorrow. Even if it meant riding with Hock and Larisa to Moscow and into the hands of the militia, even if it meant standing trial for the murder of his best friend, it was Nowek’s final hope. And like Larisa, how could he say no? He held up his right hand to shield his eyes, then said, “I’m the Siberian Delegate. My name is Nowek.”
With a pk machine gun, if you could see your target, you could kill it, and Bashir saw his target. Two men moving laboriously across snow at the bottom of a shallow slope. They’d have to run uphill, through snow, to get close to the terminal building, and they would never make it. He pulled the charging lever back, tugged at the cartridge belt to take out any slack that might turn into a kink at the wrong moment, and settled in behind the PK. He’d piled extra snow around him, snug in the white arctic suit they’d liberated from the garage. They really were very good.
The Chechen locksmith had expected them to come in trucks, maybe in tanks. Certainly not on foot. But you killed the target that presented itself, and right now these two men were well inside the PK’s three-kilometer lethal reach. He pulled a woolen muffler over his mouth to keep his white breath from betraying his position too soon, and placed the PK’s sights on the figure to the left, the one moving more nimbly. Kill that one, and the other would . . .
