“I thought you and me, we made an agreement together.” He took a drag on the cigarette. “In, what is it called — good faith? You promised me something. Isn’t that right? You said lots of words. Crossed your heart. Isn’t that right? Or do I have a problem with my memory?”
“Parvazik, I have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Someone came after me, big-time.”
“And who it was?” Parvaz sent a long stream of smoke pouring out of his small, thin lips.
Nikolaeva opened her robe.
“Here, take a look.”
The men looked at her bruise silently.
“You see, it’s really, I mean...I still haven’t come to...Give me a smoke.”
Parvaz handed her a pack of Dunhills and some matches.
She lit up. She put the cigarettes and the matches on the table.
“So yesterday I did my gig on the pole, and then I went around the club — to rustle up a trick. It wasn’t very crowded. There were two guys sitting there, one of them called me over. So I went, did the belly wave, shook my tits. He says, ‘Sit down, sit for a while.’ I sat. They ordered champagne. We drank and started bullshitting. They were regular johns, they sold some kind of humidifiers or something. One was from the Baltics, gorgeous guy, tall, with a complicated name...Reetus-fetus...I couldn’t remember it, and the other guy, Valera, was fat. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m cold, I’ll go get dressed.’ ‘Yeah, yeah, of course. And come back to us.’ So I put on a dress and went back to their table. ‘What do you want?’ I say, ‘Something to eat.’ They ordered me some grilled sturgeon. ‘You been dancing striptease for a long time?’ they asked. I say — not long. ‘Where are you from?’ ‘Krasnodar.’ Stuff like that. And then the Baltic guy says, ‘Let’s go to my place?’ I said, ‘Three hundred bucks a night.’ ‘No problem.’ So they pay the bill, and split. With me. They had a Volga, a white one, brand new. I got in with them. We drove away from the club, and then one of them — bam! — sticks this mask on me with some kinda shit. Right on...like this...right on my face. And that’s it. Then I came to: it was dark, I’m lying on my side, my hands are cuffed in back, it stinks of gas. I’m in the trunk. I’m lying down. There’s some shit near me. The car keeps on driving and driving till it stops. They open the trunk, drag me out. We’re in some woods. It’s already morning. They rip my clothes off and tie me up to a birch tree. They really did! They taped my mouth before that with some kind of bandage...So. And then — then the shit really hit the fan! They had this...this kind of case. And there was a sort of ax in it, like a stone ax. On a crooked stick. Only it wasn’t stone, it was ice. A sort of ice ax. So then, one of these bastards take this ax, swings it back, and wh-a-a-m — he whacks me right in the chest! Right here. And the other one says, ‘Tell us everything.’ But, I mean, my mouth was taped shut! I’m groaning, but I can’t talk, can I? And those shits just stand there waiting. Then they did it again: whacked me right on the chest! And they’re still saying, ‘Talk.’ I got all dizzy, it hurt like hell, jeez, damnit. Then they go and do it a third time. Wham-bam! And I fainted. Yeah. Then I came to in some kind of hospital. And some guy is screwing me. I tried to resist, but he pulls a knife and holds it to my throat. Right. So he gets his rocks off and starts drinking. I’m lying there — didn’t have the strength to move a finger. And he says, ‘Now you’re gonna live here.’ I say, ‘What the fuck for?’ He says, ‘We’re gonna fuck you.’ I say, ‘You’re gonna have problems, I’m with Parvaz Sloeny.’ And he says, ‘I don’t give a shit about your Parvaz.’ So then he gets drunk fast...and I say, ‘I need to go to the pot.’ He calls some sort of attendant, a strong guy. He took me there. I’m walking down the hall naked, and I see his dick is stiff. I go in the john, and he follows me. ‘Turn around and bend over!’ So I bent over, what else could I do? He screwed me, and split for the hallway. But in the john there was this window, kinda like a double-glazed one. And no bars, that’s the main thing! So I opened the window and crawled out into some woods. I took off for the woods! I ran and ran. Then I realized — it’s Sparrow Hills. I went out on the road and flagged a car, and then — well, Natashka saw me come in. I could find that place again easy, that hospital.”
Parvaz and Pasha looked at each other.
“And you, brother, you always being surprised — how come we come up with losses...” Parvaz stubbed out his cigarette. He laughed. “Ice’s ax — holy shit! Maybe it’s twenty-four-carats gold ax? Huh? Or diamonds? Huh? You made mistake, it wasn’t water ice — it was real ice. Diamond. Diamond’s ax — right on the chest, on the chest. Huh? It’s good. For your healthy. Good for you.”
“Parvazik, I swear, it’s...” Nikolaeva raised her hand.
“An ice’s ax...fuckin’ A!” He laughed. Rocked back and forth.
“Shit, Pash. Ice’s ax! I tell you, brother, we gotta get in a different business. Basta. Let’s go to the markets and sell oranges!”
“Parvazik, Parvazik!” Nikolaeva cried out, crossing herself.
Pasha hooked his powerful hands and twiddled his two short thumbs rapidly. He muttered in a female falsetto, “You shitsucker, how come you’re getting so disrespectful? You don’t wanna work like normal people? You tired of normal life? You want things to go bad? Wanna get tough? Get slapped around?”
“I swear, Parvazik, by everything on earth, I swear!” Nikolaeva crossed herself. She kneeled down. “By my mother I swear! I swear on the memory of my dead father! Parvazik! I’m religious! I swear by the Virgin Mary!”
“You’re religious? Where’s your cruss?” Pasha asked.
“Those bastards tore my cross off too!”
“Your cruss, too? Such bad guys they were?” Parvaz shook his head sadly.
“They almost wasted me! I’m still shaking all over! If you don’t believe me — let’s go to Sparrow Hills, I’ll find the place, the place, my cross will be there!”
“What cruss? What fuckin’ cruss? You as bad as they come, that’s what you are. Cruss!”
“If you don’t believe me — call Natashka! She saw! She saw me limp in naked with the fucking bejeezus beat out of me!”
“Natash!” Pasha shouted.
Natasha appeared immediately.
“When did she get here?”
“About an hour ago.”
“Naked?”
“Naked.”
“Alone?”
“With some dick.”
“Pash, that was the driver, he brought me back when I...”
“Shut up, cunt. And what kind of dick was he?”
“With an earring, a beard...She owed him money. And she blew him in the bathroom.”
“But that was for driving me home! For the fare! I ran off without a stitch on me!”
“Shut up you moldy wad of prick cum. What did they talk about?”
“Nothing special. She blew him real fast and said, ‘Come by again if you want.’”
“You little piece of shit!” Nikolaeva stared angrily at Natasha.
“Parvazik, she said she wouldn’t give me any more sheets and stuff.” Natasha ignored Nikolaeva.
Parvaz and Pasha looked at each other.
“Parvazik...” Nikolaeva shook her head. “Parvazik...she’s lying, the bitch, I...she keeps wearing all my dresses! I did everything for her!!”
“Who’s at home?” Parvaz asked Natasha.
“Lenka and Sula. They’re sleeping.”
“Get them in here.”
Natasha left.
“Parvazik...”
Nikolaeva was kneeling. Her face was distorted. Tears welled up and splattered.
“Parvazik...I...I...told you the whole truth...I didn’t lie the teensiest bit, I swear...I swear...I swear...”
She shook her head. The towel came unwound. The edge covered her face.
Parvaz stood up. He walked over to the sink. He leaned toward the trash can.
“I believe you that time. I forgive you that time. I was helping you that time.
”
“Parvazik...Parvazik...”
“I gave you back your passport that time.”
“I swear, I swear...”
“I thought to myself that time, I thought, ‘Parvaz, Alya, she is a woman.’ But now I understood: Alya is not a woman.”
“Parvazik...”
“Alya — is a garbage rat.”
He pulled an empty champagne bottle out of the trash can. He held it squeamishly with two fingers.
“Semisweet.” He pushed the table to one side with a sudden jerk. He placed the bottle on the floor in the middle of the kitchen.
Sula entered the kitchen: 23 years old, small, chestnut hair, olive skin, an unattractive face, large breasts, a slim figure, colorful robe.
Lena followed right behind: 16, tall, a good figure, a pretty face, long blond hair, pink pajamas.
They both stopped at the door. Natasha could be seen in the rear.
“Girls, I got some bad news,” said Parvaz. “Very bad news.”
He thrust his hand in his slim pockets. Stood up on his toes. Rocked back and forth.
“Last night Alya did something very lowlife, very bad. She behaved herself like a garbage rat. She cut off a piece in a very bad way, very lowlife. She spit on everyone. She shitted on everyone.”
He was silent. Nikolaeva kneeled. She sobbed.
“Clothes off,” ordered Parvaz.
Nikolaeva untied the belt of her robe. She shrugged her shoulders. The robe slipped off of her naked body. Parvaz yanked the towel off her head.
“Sit on it.”
She got up. Stopped crying. She went over to the bottle. Aimed and started to sit down on the bottle with her vagina.
“Not your cunt! Sit on it with your ass! You’re gonna work for me with that cunt!”
Everyone watched silently.
Nikolaeva placed her anus over the bottle and sat. She balanced carefully.
“Sit!” Parvaz shouted at her.
She sat down more freely. Cried out. She propped her hands on the floor. “No hands, cunt! No hands!” Parvaz kicked her hand and pushed down sharply on her shoulders.
“Sit!”
Nikolaeva screamed.
Mokho
19:22, 6 Tverskaya Street
A dark blue Peugeot 607 drove into the courtyard. It stopped.
Borenboim sat in the backseat, reading a newspaper: 44 years old, medium height, thinning blond hair, an intelligent face, blue eyes, thin glasses in gold frames, a dark green three-piece suit. He finished reading, threw the paper on the front seat, and picked up a slender black briefcase.
“Tomorrow at 9:30.”
“Okay,” nodded the chauffeur: 52, a longish head, ash-gray hair, a big nose, fat lips, a brown jacket, a light blue turtleneck.
Borenboim got out. He headed for entrance 2. His cell phone rang in his pocket. He took it out and stopped. He put the phone to his ear.
“Yes. Well? That’s what we already agreed on. Nine o’clock. There. No, let’s go upstairs, the food’s better and it’s quieter. What? Why didn’t he call me at the office? Huh? Lyosh, what is all this?...It’s like a game of telephone or something! How can I consult in absentia? He should just come over like normal. Bonds are in good shape now all around, they’ve been going up for two months, there’s nothing to talk about on that score. What? All right. That’s it...Oh, yeah, Lyosh, have you heard about Volodka? They brought an excavator up at night and dug out two bathhouses. That’s right! Savva told me. Ask him, he knows the details. That’s the scoop. Okay, that’s it.”
Borenboim stepped into the entryway.
The door attendant: 66 years old, thin, a wig, glasses, a grayish-pink sweater, brown skirt, and felt boots.
Borenboim gave her a nod.
He entered the elevator, took it to the third floor, and got out. He retrieved his keys and began unlocking the door.
Suddenly he felt something sticking into his back. He started to turn around, but someone grabbed him hard by the left shoulder.
“Don’t look around. Straight ahead.”
Borenboim looked at his door. It was made of steel. Painted gray.
“Open it,” ordered a low, male voice.
Borenboim turned the key twice.
“Go in. Make a move, I beat the shit out of you.”
Borenboim didn’t move. The butt of a silencer was pressed against his cheek. It smelled of gun oil.
“You didn’t get it? I’ll count to one.”
Borenboim pushed the door with his hand. He entered the dark foyer.
A hand in a brown glove extracted the key from the door. The man followed Borenboim in, immediately closing the door behind them.
“Turn on the light,” he ordered.
Borenboim groped for the wide button of the switch. He pressed it. The lights in the whole five-room apartment lit up at once. Music could be heard: Leonard Cohen’s “Suzanne.”
“On your knees,” said the man, poking the gun between Borenboim’s shoulder blades.
Borenboim lowered himself onto the beige area-rug.
“Hands behind you.”
He let go of the briefcase and stretched his hands behind him. Handcuffs clicked shut over his wrists. The man began searching Borenboim’s pockets.
“There’s money in the desk in the study. About two thousand. That’s it,” Borenboim muttered.
The man went on searching him. Took his wallet out of his pocket, his cell phone, a gold Gucci lighter.
He put everything on the floor.
He opened the briefcase: business papers, two pipes in a leather case, a tin of tobacco, a collection of stories by Borges.
“Get up.” The man took Borenboim by the elbow.
Borenboim stood up. He glanced at the man.
The man: 36 years old, short, strongly built, blond, blue eyes, short hair, a heavy face, a thin light-colored mustache, a steel-colored raincoat, a light gray scarf, a black leather backpack on his back.
“Forward,” the man said, poking Borenboim with the gun.
Borenboim moved forward. They passed the first living room with the round aquarium and soft furniture. They entered the second. This one had low Japanese furniture. Three scrolls and a flat-screen television hung on the walls. The stereo system stood in a corner — a dark black-and-blue pyramid.
The man walked over to the pyramid. He looked at it.
“How do you turn it off?”
“There’s the remote.” Borenboim nodded toward a low square table. A black-and-blue remote control lay on the edge.
The man picked it up. He hit the “power” button and the music stopped.
“Sit.” He pushed on Borenboim’s shoulder. Sat him down on a narrow chair with a red pillow.
He put the pistol back in his pocket and removed his backpack. He opened it up. Took out a hammer and two steel mountain-climbing spikes.
“What are the walls in the building?”
“What do you mean?” Borenboim, grown pale, blinked tensely.
“Brick, concrete?”
“Brick.”
The man yanked two of the scrolls off the wall. He took aim and, level with his shoulders, hammered the spike into the wall with three blows. He moved over a couple of meters, hammered in the second spike. On the same level. Then he took out a cell phone. He punched in a number.
“Everything’s okay. All right. It’s open.”
Dibich soon entered the apartment: 32 years old, a tall, thin, broad-shouldered blond, blue-gray eyes, a cruel bony face, grayish-blue coat, dark blue beret, dark blue gloves, a dark blue-and-yellow scarf, an oblong sports bag.
She looked around. Barely glanced at Borenboim.
“Good.”
The man took a rope out of his pack. He cut it in half with a knife.
They lifted Borenboim. They removed his handcuffs and began to strip off his jacket.
“Can you tell me what you want — like human beings?” asked Borenboim.
“Not yet.” Dibich took his right
hand and tied the rope around it.
“I don’t keep money at home.”
“We don’t want money. We’re not robbers.”
“Then who are you? Insurance agents?” Borenboim grinned nervously. He licked his dry lips.
“We’re not insurance agents,” Dibich answered seriously. “But we need you.”
“For what?”
“Relax. And don’t be afraid of anything.”
She tied his hand to the spikes in the wall.
“Are you sadists?” Borenboim stood with his hands out to his sides.
“No.” Dibich took off her coat. Under it she wore a dark blue suit with delicate stripes.
“What do you want? What the fuck do you want?” Borenboim’s voice cracked.
The man taped his mouth shut. Dibich unfastened the bag. An oblong, mini refrigerator lay in it. She opened it. Took out an ice hammer.
The man unbuttoned Borenboim’s vest and shirt, ripped open his undershirt. Suddenly Borenboim kicked him in the groin. The man bent over. Hissed. Fell to his knees.
“Asshole...”
Dibich waited. She leaned on the handle of the hammer.
“Goddamn...” The man frowned.
Dibich waited a bit. She looked at the scroll hanging on the wall.
“The ice is melting, Obu.”
The man stood up. They approached Borenboim; he tried to kick Dibich.
“Hold his legs,” she said.
The man grabbed Borenboim’s knees. Held them tight. Froze.
“Speak with the heart!” Dibich swung back gracefully. The hammer made a half circle through the air and whistled. It slammed into Borenboim’s chest.
Borenboim growled. Dibich placed her ear to his chest.
“Speak, speak, speak...”
Borenboim groaned. He jerked.
Dibich stepped back. Swung back. Hit him — with all her might.
The hammer cracked. Pieces of ice flew all around.
Borenboim moaned. He hung limp on the rope. His head slumped down on his chest.
Dibich pressed close.
“Speak, speak, speak...”
A sound arose in his chest.
Dibich listened carefully.
The man listened, too.
“Mo...kho...” Dibich said.
She straightened up with a satisfied look.
Ice Trilogy Page 32
