by Robin White
Flares. He scooped one of them up and slid down the oily ramp to the bottom step. The concrete below was falling away fast. As the wings took hold, he twisted the cap and tossed it out.
It struck the concrete once, bounced, tumbled, then vanished behind.
The flare erupted with a hard, brilliant light. General Stepanov saw it through the oily windshield as a glowing cloud that flashed bright, then brighter.
The air reeked of raw fuel. Kirillin was slick with a kerosene glaze. He watched the flare bounce up, then tip. “Turn left!”
General Stepanov swung the wheel. The front wheels moved, but nothing happened. They were skidding down the runway on an oil slick.
The flare was no longer a point of light, but a red-hot sphere.
“Left! Turn left now!”
Stepanov jammed his boot on the brake pedal. The Volga swerved sideways until Kirillin’s open window faced dead ahead.
The alchemy of fire is surprisingly picky. Too much air and nothing happens, too much fuel and nothing happens. But in the invisible world where molecules meet, there is a favored place, a precise point, where very big things happen.
The flare burst through Kirillin’s open window and struck him in the chest. It blossomed into something he could no longer explain. Something like pure light.
Mahmet disarmed the militia sergeant and found the keys to Nowek’s cuffs. Freed, Nowek kicked off the paper slippers and yanked open the curtain to the main cabin.
Hock sat in the gray leather chair. He’d swiveled it around to face backward, and had his hands in plain view. He beckoned Nowek to come, as though he were intruding on a busy schedule.
Nowek looked for Larisa. He saw her on the deck at Hock’s feet, covering Liza with her body. She raised her head and looked at him, but nothing, not surprise, not even recognition, registered. Her eyes were like those of the birds in Kristall’s book. They might have been made of glass.
Yuri and Mahmet continued up to the cockpit. Nowek and Chuchin stopped in front of Hock. Chuchin had the big Nagant pointed at the South African’s chest.
“You know,” said Hock. “None of this was necessary. We could have reached an understanding. Maybe we still can.”
“You’re too late. Volsky only wanted money for the miners,” said Nowek, feeling something inside him give way and break like a dam releasing a raging, unstoppable flood. It ran beyond reason, beyond anything. “I want more.”
“What, justice?” said Hock with infuriating calm. “In Russia? You’re too intelligent for fairy tales. You know everything is for sale here. Everything is up for negotiation. Even now.”
“Mister Mayor,” said Chuchin. “Let’s throw this fat bastard out of the plane and let him negotiate that.”
“It wouldn’t change a thing,” said Hock.
“It would change you,” said Chuchin.
“You’re wrong, Hock,” Nowek said. “Something big has changed. The diamonds were going to London. Now they’re not.”
“Perhaps not right away,” Hock allowed. “But unless you plan to eat them, they’re going to be sold. When they are, they’ll go to the highest bidder. We are always the highest bidder.”
“Petrov didn’t think so.”
“Petrov was a fool. He thought he could play around us by sending stones to Golden Autumn.” Hock smiled. “Well, what did he accomplish? Golden Autumn sold the stones to us and kept the money for themselves. Not one ruble came back to Russia or to Petrov. That’s what he accomplished. Then your President pledged those diamonds to the IMF, and Petrov knew they weren’t there. Neither was the money. He was about to run for some nice, warm island when your friend Volsky showed up. Really, who could turn his back on a gift like that?”
“What is he talking about?” Chuchin said with an impatient wave of the Nagant.
“Petrov had Volsky murdered?”
“Who else?” said Hock. “It wasn’t difficult. Petrov has a lot of friends. More than you. But let’s talk about you. The diamond world’s a circle. The only meaningful question is, are you in or out? Like Volsky, you’re in way over your head. Like him, you’re in trouble. You can still do something about it.”
“Fuck him.” Chuchin held the Nagant out to Nowek. “Give him nine grams of trouble. It’s already more than he’s worth.”
Nowek’s blood answered yes, yes, yes! What could be more satisfying than to see Hock’s smile fade at the click of the Nagant’s trigger? It took all his will, all his resolve, to push the revolver away. “There’s one thing you’ve overlooked,” he said to Hock. “Volsky had demands. I have the diamonds.”
“But not nearly enough of them,” said Hock. “That might be important in a few weeks. How will you fix that, Delegate Nowek? Frankly speaking, I’m your only hope. You may want to keep that in mind.”
“I know where to find more. Enough for the IMF. Enough to break your cartel.”
“I wouldn’t count on things that are out of your control.”
“We’ll see what happens when Mirny Deep goes into full production. When diamonds become cheaper than eggs. We’ll see what the cartel finds more valuable. You, or the richest diamond mine on earth.” Nowek turned. “Chuchin? Take him back. Use the cuffs and make sure he doesn’t fall out of the plane unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
Chuchin prodded Hock to his feet with the barrel. “There’s a Russian card game,” he said as he herded Hock back to the tail of the plane. “It’s called Durak. The Fool. I think you’ll like it.”
Nowek looked down at Larisa.
“Gregori,” she said, “I know about the—”
“No,” he said to her. “Don’t talk. Listen.”
When he was finished, she said, “Are you sure? You could come with us. We could—”
“No,” said Nowek. “Hope is your diamond, Larisa. Not mine.”
Yuri opened the cockpit door with Mahmet beside him. He took in the instruments, the fact that they were making wide circles over Mirny airport, that down below a fire was sending greasy smoke into the air from the middle of the runway.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said to the two pilots.
The captain said, “Are you the leader of this gang? Before you make demands you should know there’s not much fuel.”
Yuri glanced at the gauges. One of the slipper tanks had leaked dry. How big a hole could drain that thing so fast?
“Let’s be serious,” said the captain. “We’re going to land.”
Yuri peered down through the window. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so? We’re the pilots.”
“Pilots,” Yuri said with a snort. He reached up to the overhead panel. “What’s this?” There were three red levers. The fire handles that would shut down the fuel to each of the engines. He picked the middle one.
“Get your hands away from that!”
Red flashing lights erupted as the center engine, the one mounted in the tail, starved for fuel and sputtered out.
“Are you trying to commit suicide?”
“We’re all breathing. We’re still flying.” And they weren’t using so much fuel. Yuri turned. “Mahmet? Take them back.”
“Stand up,” Mahmet ordered. “Both of you. Move.”
The captain stiffened. “You won’t fly a jet with a rifle!”
“Are you afraid to die?” asked Mahmet.
“Absolutely!” the captain said with a vigorous nod.
“Then you better start walking.”
The pilots exchanged looks of perfect terror. They unbuckled their seat belts and slowly got up.
Yuri saw the captain casually let his finger brush against the autopilot switch, triggering the wing leveler. The Yak immediately stopped its gentle turn. “What’s the big deal? It’s just like a car, except that it flies.” Yuri settled into the left seat and clicked the wing leveler off. He grabbed the yoke. “You steer with this, right?”
“Don’t! That’s the—”
Yuri threw it hard over. The wi
ngs dipped, the horizon tilted crazily across the windshield.
Yuri smiled. “See? Just like a car. It’s only a matter of—”
“Boss!” Mahmet’s eyes were wide. He was looking straight down the wing at the ground below.
An enormous yellow cloud had erupted from the top of the headworks tower over Mirny Deep. As Yuri watched, it grew, turned black. A sharp rumble shook the air. The ten-story tower began to shed its skin in giant panels. They fluttered away like petals, leaving only the tower’s steel skeleton behind, engulfed in bright flame and dirty smoke.
“Tell Nowek to come up here,” said Yuri.
Mahmet let Nowek through the cockpit door. The view from the cockpit was panoramic. The destruction below, complete.
The entire tower was a naked chimney. A blast furnace.
Nowek thought of the fissures of the Ninth Horizon. The looted Closet that could be refilled with its treasure. Not now. Now the IMF would turn its back on Russia. Never mind the miners of Mirny. The banks would fail and the nation would shatter like an egg. Petrov might have murdered his friend, but the cartel had just put a torch to Russia. The cartel, and Hock. “Let’s get out of here,” he said to Yuri.
Yuri leveled the wings and pointed the Yak south for Irkutsk. He pointed to the copilot’s chair. “Have a seat, Delegate Nowek.”
Delegate? Fugitive Nowek was more like it. Nowek settled himself into the copilot’s chair. The open, empty land scrolled beneath them, quilted in patches of white and green. It reminded Nowek of the flag of Siberia. The snow. The taiga forest, an ocean of trees, rolling unbroken as far as Nowek could see. “So White Bird flies to Mirny now?”
“We make exceptions when a friend needs help,” said Yuri.
“How did you know I needed help?”
“A businessman develops a sixth sense about these things. You don’t seem so pleased.”
“Who was flying the jet they shot down?”
“The autopilot. I hooked it up to the satellite navigator, pressed execute, ran up the engines with the brakes on, and jumped. When the brakes couldn’t hold, it took off by itself.”
“So coming up here had nothing to do with diamonds?”
“How can you put diamonds and friendship on an equal basis?” Then “Naturally, there were costs.” A pause, then Yuri said, “How many diamonds are back there anyway?”
“It’s difficult to say,” said Nowek carefully. He didn’t want Yuri to have a heart attack at the controls. “They’re all going to Moscow, you know.”
Yuri blinked. “All of them?” Nowek might have suggested feeding caviar to chickens.
“Every carat.” And it still won’t be enough. One million carats wasn’t four million. “I need to call Moscow. Will your radio reach?”
“Not even to Irkutsk. But there’s a satellite phone you can try.” He reached back to a surprisingly ordinary-looking handset mounted to the cabin wall, lifted it off its hook. “You have to know the number, though.”
“I know the number.” Nowek’s birthday, Galena’s age, the year his wife, Nina, had died. He punched in the proper sequence, pressed send, waited while the whistles, squawks, and sizzles resolved into a ring, another, and, finally, a sleepy voice.
“Kremlin Duty Desk.”
Nowek took a deep breath, then said, “This is Gregori Nowek. The Siberian Delegate.” Another breath, then “Buran.”
MOSCOW
Chapter 31
The Dacha
“I don’t understand.” General Goloshev checked his watch. It was half past eight. “Yesterday it was rush rush rush. Today he’s thirty minutes late,” he told the doctor.
An early-morning departure roared overhead from nearby Shermetyevo airport, making the glasses in the bathroom jingle.
The doctor cracked open his briefcase and let it rest on the bed next to Levin’s thigh. “I can administer the first injection right now if you’re willing to approve it.”
The Toad watched Levin’s chest rise, fall, as he slept. The hotel room reeked with the sour smell of sweat-drenched sheets and urine. “I suppose that would be best.”
The first syringe came out. The doctor threaded a long needle onto it, then uncapped a vial of scopolamine. He plunged the needle through the rubber seal and began to draw the straw-colored fluid into the cylinder. He pulled enough for one, two, three times the usual dose. Colonel Chernukhin of the Presidential Security Service wished to crack Levin’s head open like a chestnut. He would get his wish. “I hope you understand what’s going to happen.”
“How soon will he be ready?”
“Give him ten minutes.” The doctor squirted a bit of the sedative out to eliminate any air, though why he should bother was a good question. “He’ll be able to answer questions for an hour, maybe two. No more.”
“And then?”
“Drowsiness, dizziness. His breathing will become irregular. People panic when something so normal as taking a breath is no longer so normal. He’ll become agitated, fearful, which only makes things worse. In the end, seizures, then full-body convulsions.”
“You can stop them?”
“Here?”
Goloshev pursed his heavy lips. “Levin is my subordinate, and also my friend and comrade. But we must set aside personal views. We must proceed. The highest authorities have requested it. No. Not requested. Demanded it.”
“As you say.” The doctor rubbed Levin’s arm to find a vein. He found the telltale bulge, saw its soft, regular beat. He was about to kill this man, he knew. And whether the highest authorities had requested it or demanded it or whispered it into Goloshev’s ear, would shortly make no difference at all.
Goloshev heard a car door slamming outside, then a shout. He walked over to the window and pulled the shades. Three floors down on the street, a man was sprawled on the sidewalk facedown. A thug was standing over him with a gun.
Both victim and robber wore military fatigues, so which was which? Was the hotel security team stopping a crime, or committing one? Was the mafiya that ran Shermetyevo enforcing its law, or breaking someone else’s? These days, the line between legal and illegal was impossibly blurred.
All of that would soon come to an end. Poor, befuddled Yeltsin would be out, the new president in. Naturally, he’d face a difficult time. But the last Russian collapse had been a crisis managed by democrats, who were, frankly speaking, amateurs. This time would be different. Starve in chaos or eat in the shadow of the iron fist? Russians were familiar with that kind of a choice. Goloshev was confident Russians would slip martial law back on like a pair of comfortable old slippers.
The doctor slipped the needle through Levin’s pale skin as another jet thundered low overhead. Its roar faded. As the doctor pressed the plunger down, a loud knocking came from the door.
Goloshev unhooked the security chain, threw the dead bolt, and opened the door.
The Cleaner’s eyes were even more baggy, even more red, this morning than yesterday. He hadn’t come alone.
He was flanked by two men in fatigues and black balaclavas. The insignia on their arms said ALFA. The elite unit of the Presidential Security Service. They carried assault rifles, and both rifles were pointed at Goloshev.
“Good morning, General,” said the Cleaner. “I’m sorry to be late. There have been developments that required our attention.”
“What do you mean coming here with—”
“Your colleague Petrov found out about them even before we did. He was on his way to Switzerland, but we stopped him.”
Goloshev’s cheeks puffed as though he couldn’t get enough air. His face was splotched red. “Colleague? Petrov?”
The Cleaner pushed by the sputtering Toad and walked to Levin’s side.
The doctor had frozen at the sight of the ALFA soldiers, the syringe still in Levin’s arm, the cylinder still three-quarters full.
Chernukhin pushed him aside, then pulled out the needle. He threw it to the floor, then said to the doctor, “You brought some more, I hope?”
>
“Yes, but—”
“Good,” said the Cleaner. He smiled at the Toad. “General Goloshev and I have a lot to talk about.”
It was Thursday night, the seventh of October, and a black Volvo glided over the smoothly paved streets of Moscow’s Krylatskoye district, winding through hilly terrain. They were barely beyond the Ring Road, fifteen kilometers from the Kremlin, but you’d think you were out in the middle of the glubinka, the deep countryside where the Devil threw pancake parties. Big houses glowed brightly through the forest like illuminated cruise ships.
Nowek sat in back with Chuchin. Their driver was an Interior Ministry officer. The Volvo was a big step up from the Chaika he’d last ridden through Moscow. But then, so was their destination.
“Some neighborhood,” said Chuchin. “I always wondered where my taxes went.”
“What taxes?” asked Nowek.
“These thieves don’t need my kopecks. They’ve stolen enough on their own. Just look at these houses.”
“They’re not houses,” said their driver. “They’re all dachas.”
“Each one with its sotka,” said Chuchin acidly. Sotka meant “strip,” a garden plot used to raise potatoes, cabbages, turnips. Survival vegetables. At least, that’s what it meant in Siberia.
The road passed through long stretches of dark forest broken by rustic stone walls, high gates, and lanes overarched with trees. A place where the clean, white birches of the honest north met guarded compounds more typical of Medellin than Moscow.
At an unmarked drive, they turned right.
The lane curved in a series of winding, graceful esses for no obvious reason other than it could. The Volvo slowed and came to a white steel barrier guarded by officers of the Naval Infantry. They wore gleaming white belts over long, dark blue winter coats. Two of them had Kalashnikov rifles, and both muzzles came down as the Volvo drew near.
The third guard rapped on Nowek’s window. The driver pushed a button, letting in icy air and a glove holding a flashlight. The beam stopped at Nowek’s arm. Nowek allowed his arm to be scanned for weapons.
