“Arrr,” Irei snarled, dropping his phone and grabbing the steering wheel tightly.
“Don’t stop!” Dor said, glancing out the rear window.
“Who are they?”
“Meat, meat,” Dor comforted him, looking at the stopped cars. “A regular accident.”
The Lincoln sped on. Its damaged fender stuck out at an angle. At the traffic light it stopped next to the Mercedes. Dor opened the door and handed the suitcase to Merog, who placed it next to him on the backseat. The Mercedes raced off through the red light. Merog opened the suitcase and looked at the sleeping boy. He closed his dark blue eyes. His face seemed to turn to stone immediately.
The car swung onto the outer-loop highway, the MKAD.
Suddenly the Mercedes swayed and they could hear the weak knocking of a flat tire.
Obu pulled onto the shoulder. The Mercedes listed to the right.
They all looked back and forth tensely. Merog closed the suitcase and pulled out a pistol with a silencer from a sports bag. Tryv reached under the seat, picked up a short-barreled automatic, and released the safety.
Obu looked out the window.
“Both tires on the right. That’s no coincidence.”
“Are there two spares?” Merog asked.
“There are, thank the Light,” Obu answered, taking the automatic from Tryv. “Change the tires.”
He immediately got in touch with Dor.
“We’ve stopped. Two flats. It’s no accident. We need brothers.”
“I’m coming,” Dor answered.
“No! It’s dangerous. Your rear fender is bashed in.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“You’ll attract the meat.”
“I believe the heart, Obu. I’m coming to you.”
“Dor, we need brothers! The meat machines are coagulating. I know this.”
“I’ll call Chit.”
“It’s dangerous! The meat senses them. We need regular brothers!”
“I’ll call them.”
Tryv got out and set about changing the first tire. A Lincoln Navigator with a bent fender passed by and stopped about ten meters ahead. Obu lowered the dark window. A white highway police Toyota with a blinking light and a siren drove up to the Mercedes. An overweight lieutenant with a puffy, disgruntled face and an unlit cigarette in his plump hand saluted them.
“How’s the good life?”
Continuing to turn the jack, Tryv lifted his head.
“Hey.”
“Two at the same time? Wow! As they say, shit happens, even to a Mercedes. Need some help?”
“If you’re not in a hurry, he could use some,” said Merog instead of Tryv, lowering the dark glass and holding a gun ready below the window. “I burned my hand badly yesterday, and the senior lieutenant here, Varennikov” — he nodded in Obu’s direction — “has a herniated left ball from sexual strain!”
Obu, Merog, and Tryv laughed.
“In our demanding work even things like that can happen.” The lieutenant grinned and yawned nervously, patting his pockets. “Just a sec, guys, we’ll lend a hand. Helping our own is a sacred duty...Damn, where did I put my...like always, it’s in the car...”
He turned around. “Alyosha, toss me the lighter!”
The door of the Toyota opened and a sergeant of the HP jumped out holding a Kalashnikov. Something clicked in the lieutenant’s hand and a jackknife shot open.
“Here you go!” All red with excitement, the lieutenant took aim at Tryv’s neck, but instead the blade plunged into his shoulder as he turned; at the same moment, Merog fired from the window of the Mercedes, and the well-aimed bullet lodged in the fat lieutenant’s head. The sergeant opened fire. The bullets hit Tryv and ricocheted off the armored Mercedes. Dor threw open the Lincoln’s rear door and fired a long series of rounds at the Toyota. The windshield shattered; riddled with bullets, the lieutenant collapsed. The barrel of a Kalashnikov emerged from a zigzagging silver Jeep and fired at the blue off-road. An explosion rocked the car, sending Dor flying to the ground as he ran off. Lowering the Mercedes’s back-door window, Obu fired repeatedly at the Jeep. The Jeep crashed into a GAZelle, and someone began shooting from its shattered windows. Several cars in the left lane of the highway collided; one of them burst into flames. From the windows of the Mercedes, Obu and Merog continued to shoot at the Jeep, as did Dor from the road. A milk tanker driving at high speed began to brake, trying to bypass the burning car, but a stray bullet hit the driver in the throat. The tanker swerved to the right and slammed into the black Mercedes; the yellow tank with the blue sign MILK rolled over and cracked. Milk gushed into the cabin of the Mercedes through the open windows. Choking on the milk, Obu and Merog tried to pull the suitcase with the boy out of the car. Obu was wounded in the neck and losing strength rapidly. Milk filled the car; Merog felt for the handle of the back door, opened it, and fell out onto the road with the suitcase. Obu stayed in the car. Milk flooded onto the pavement through the open back door of the Mercedes. Merog grabbed the suitcase and sat on the ground, looking back. Traffic on the MKAD had come to a halt. Two cars and the demolished Lincoln off-road were burning. There was no sign of life in the silver Jeep. Staggering, Dor walked toward Merog from the burning Lincoln. The explosion had seriously wounded Dor, and he was taking his last steps on Earth, clutching an automatic in his right hand and with his left holding up his guts, which threatened to fall out of his torn stomach. His bloody, burned face was unrecognizable.
“Gather a Circle of Strength,” he wheezed, and collapsed.
His blood mixed with the milk.
Merog’s whole body shuddered; he ground his teeth, grabbed the automatic that fell from Dor’s bloody hands, picked up the suitcase, jumped over the metal guardrail, and, spattering drops of milk, rolled into the roadside ditch and from there across the grass and into the bushes — toward the looming high-rises of Tyoply Stan.
People caught in the traffic jam leaned out the windows of their cars and boldly shouted, “There, he’s over there!”
“Guys, catch him!”
“Where the fuck’r you going? Stop!”
“Oh my God!”
“Nikita, call the police!”
“But he’s a cop himself — a goddamn Jekyll and Hyde.”
“Catch that snake.”
“Hey, there’s a highway police station right up there!”
“They heard the shooting, they’re probably on the way already!”
Lots of people made calls on their cell phones.
Merog ran through the bushes, bypassing the garages, and came out on General Tiulenev Street. On this Sunday the street was almost empty, there were only a few cars. There weren’t many passersby, either. For the most part, people weren’t walking but were standing, listening to what was happening on the outer-loop highway. Hiding behind a corrugated-tin car garage, Merog set the suitcase on the ground, wiped his face, which was wet with milk, and took a look around. Three women near the entrance to one building were talking excitedly, trying to see what was happening on the loop through the trees and bushes. A group of teenagers dashed out of another building and ran toward the road. A muffled explosion was heard from that direction — probably the gas tank of the burning car. A passing green Daewoo Nexia stopped. The driver, a stooped, gloomy, thin man with a cigarette in his mouth, got out and stood on tiptoe, looking toward the highway.
“What kind of shit is going on over there?” he loudly asked no one in particular.
“Terrorists,” Merog answered, peeking out from behind the garage and aiming the automatic at the man. “Freeze,” he said.
The man looked sullenly at Merog and the milk dripping from his police epaulettes.
Merog picked up the suitcase with his left hand and approached the car.
“Open the back door.”
As he walked the milk squelched loudly in his boots.
The man looked anxiously at Merog.
“I’ll count to one.” The short muzzle poke
d the thin man in the stomach.
The man seemed to wake up. He opened the back door.
“Sit down in the driver’s seat. But slowly.”
The gun muzzle pushed against the skinny back. The man began to sit down in the driver’s seat. From the direction of the MKAD the sirens of police cars could be heard. Merog placed the suitcase on the backseat, waiting for the man to sit down, then Merog sat next to the suitcase.
“Drive.” Merog stuck the barrel of the automatic between the front seats.
The man grasped the gearshift. A drop of milk rolled out of the gun barrel and fell on the driver’s bony hand. The hand put the car in first. The car began to move.
“Faster,” Merog ordered.
The driver sped up.
Merog took the smoking cigarette from his mouth and threw it out the window. The car reached a fork in the road.
“Right,” Merog commanded.
The Nexia turned onto Tyoply Stan Street. Merov opened the suitcase a crack: the boy was still sleeping in the blanket as before. Merog closed the suitcase and stuck his hand in the wet left pocket of his pants. The pocket was empty — his cell phone was still in the Mercedes.
“Hand me your cell,” he ordered the driver.
The man took his cell phone out of the front pocket of his sweater vest and, without turning, handed it back. Merog took it and began to dial a number.
“I...I don’t have any money on it,” said the driver.
Merog flung the phone on the floor of the car. They came to a new fork.
“To the right,” Merog ordered.
They drove along Academic Vinogradov Street. The whir of a helicopter could be heard overhead. Merog opened his window and looked up: the helicopter was hovering fairly close by. Poplar tufts caught on the lashes of Merog’s dark bluish-brown eyes. He wiped off the fluff and looked around. The street was coming to a dead end. To the left were high-rises, to the right the green of a forest park.
“Turn left. Toward the building,” Merog ordered.
The man turned.
“Park.”
The Nexia drove up to the building and parked next to the other cars.
“Turn off the engine.”
The driver turned off the engine. Merog closed his window.
“Close your window.”
The man did it.
“Now take your clothes off.”
“What?”
“Shirt, jeans. But make it slow, got it?”
The man took his shirt off. Underneath it there was a thin, pale body with an anchor tattooed on the shoulder. Merog took the shirt. Squirming on the seat, the man pulled off his shorts. Merog took them. The man looked back. Sweat broke out on his temples and his nose.
“Look straight ahead.”
The stooped man looked ahead at the courtyard filled with cars and tin garages. Merog slugged him powerfully in the back of the neck with his fist. The head and its thin, badly cut hair jerked backward; the man’s teeth clacked. His head fell against the seat next to him. Merog pulled off his wet shirt and pants, and put on the driver’s shirt. It was small and very tight on Merog’s muscular torso. The shorts were also tight. Merog found the button that opened the trunk, and opened it. He got out of the car, looked around in the trunk, and took out a large plastic bag. Back in the car, he put the automatic inside the plastic bag. He took the suitcase in one hand, the bag with the automatic in the other, and walked toward the buildings at a leisurely pace. Suddenly a passing pigeon struck him hard in the back of the neck. Merog sat down. The pigeon fell to the pavement, its wings flapping and sending clumps of poplar fluff flying. Looking back at the bird, Merog got up and quickened his pace. Rounding two high-rises, he headed for the entrance to the third, and pressed the first button he saw.
“Who’s there?” a voice asked.
“Let me in to hand out flyers.”
The door began to beep; he entered and headed up the staircase. Passing three floors, he stopped. He set the suitcase down. He looked through a slightly open window on the landing: everything was calm down in the courtyard. From far off the howl of sirens and the whir of helicopters could be heard. Merog closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the recently washed glass. His lips opened. He froze in concentration and stopped breathing. His heart began to speak.
Upstairs shuffling steps could be heard.
Merog opened his eyes. The door of the garbage chute banged shut. A female voice muttered angrily. Bottles clinked.
Merog inhaled. He grabbed the suitcase and ran quickly up the stairs. Between the fourth and fifth floors a heavy woman in a pink robe was trying to do something with the broken garbage-chute door.
“The pigs,” she muttered, closing and opening the door.
The barrel of the automatic pushed against her side.
“Ay!” she shrieked, turning around angrily.
“Stay still.”
The woman opened her mouth but, on seeing the automatic, fell silent and turned utterly pale. Her full, unpainted lips blanched.
“What’s...” She moved back.
“Who’s home?”
“Mama...and...uh...my daughter.”
“Walk back.”
“We don’t have any money...only 1,500 — ”
“I don’t need money,” he said, pushing her.
“Uh, what...what do you need?”
“To hide for an hour. If you behave yourself, I won’t touch anyone. Start yelling — I’ll shoot all of you.”
The woman walked over to the half-open door. She entered the one-bedroom apartment. Loud voices sounded from the television. Chicken was being fried in the kitchen. Merog set down the suitcase in the foyer and slammed the door. The woman went into the living room. She turned off the television. She whispered something. Merog glanced into the room: the woman stood with a ten-year-old girl, pressing her close.
“Everyone in the bathroom. Sit there until I leave.”
The woman and the girl walked backward out of the room. The girl looked at Merog with curiosity.
“I’ll tell Mama...she doesn’t hear well,” mumbled the woman.
“Tell her, but make it fast.”
The woman and the girl went into the kitchen. Merog followed them. In the kitchen a short, fat old lady was frying chicken breasts in a pan. The woman went over and turned off the electric stove.
“What are you doing?” the old lady shouted in surprise.
“Mama, there’s a man with a gun here!” the woman shouted in her ear.
The old lady turned around. Merog stood in the door with the automatic. The old lady stared at him.
“We’ll sit in the bathroom until he leaves!” the woman shouted into the old woman’s ear.
Holding a fork and a dirty kitchen towel in her hand, the old lady looked at Merog. He opened the bathroom door wide and turned on the light.
“Quick.”
“Mama, go, quick!” the woman shouted, nudging the old lady.
A drop of chicken fat fell from the fork.
Without taking her eyes off the stranger or letting go of the fork and towel, the old lady entered the bathroom. The mother and daughter followed her.
“Are you from Chechnya?” asked the daughter.
“No,” Merog answered. “Where are the tools?”
“What tools?” asked the woman.
“Carpenter’s.”
“We don’t...have any...here, but in the wall cabinet there must be something left.”
Merog closed the door on them, fished around in the cabinet, found a hammer and a couple of nails. Setting the automatic on the dirty, scratched parquet floor, he quickly nailed the door to the bathroom shut.
The girl began to cry. The mother comforted her. Then started crying herself.
“What does he want? What does he need? What are they going to do — blow something up?” The old woman asked in a loud voice.
Merog lifted the suitcase and carried it into the living room. He swept a vase with a bouqu
et of daisies off the table, along with a pile of women’s magazines and a machine for measuring blood pressure. He put the suitcase on the table. He opened it. The boy slept facedown in the blanket. Merog carefully turned him on his back. Paying no attention to the sleeping boy’s face, he carefully examined his chest. He ran his fingertips along the shoulder blades and touched his cheekbones. Merog’s fingers froze. And trembled. His whole body shuddered, and he stepped back from the boy. He fell on his knees. He vomited on the floor.
He quickly wiped his mouth, inhaled and exhaled deeply. He got up. He found the phone, picked up the receiver, and dialed the number.
“I’m alone.”
“Is he with you?” a voice asked.
“Yes. Academic Vinogradov Street. At the very end.”
“Wait.”
Merog replaced the receiver. He exhaled in relief, went over to the window, and looked about. In the courtyard and on the street everything was quiet and calm. The sun was warming things up, the poplar fluff floated in the air, a few people strolled by at a leisurely pace. A Volkswagen and two bicyclists passed by.
Merog yawned nervously, wiped his wet hair with the curtains. He returned to the suitcase. Once again he approached the boy but, clenching his teeth, moaned, stepped away, and punched the back of a chair. The chair cracked and flew into pieces. Rubbing his hand, Merog went into the kitchen. In the bathroom the women sobbed and whined quietly. Glancing at the pan of fried chicken with disgust, Merog took a basket of tomatoes and an apple from the table. Looking out the window he bit off pieces of each. Along Academic Vinogradov Street came a wide six-wheeler pulling a trailer that carried an orange Caterpillar excavator with a huge bucket. The vehicle moved with caution, barely avoiding scraping the parked cars. In the woodland park you could hear the growing roar of diesel engines. Two powerful bulldozers, breaking young trees and mutilating the older ones, crawled across from the wooded area to the street and headed toward the trailer. After them, skidding and crushing the bushes, came a crane with a boom. Merog stopped eating. He threw down the unfinished tomato and apple. Across the courtyard, moving backward toward the entrance, were two cement mixers. The mixers were on and turning. Another cement mixer rounded the corner of the neighboring building and began to turn onto the street, stopping in front of the slowly crawling bulldozers. One of the bulldozer drivers stuck out his head and shouted something at the driver of the third cement truck. That driver turned off his motor, got down, lit a cigarette, and smiled at the halted bulldozers. The bulldozer driver who had shouted also got out and approached the other man.
Ice Trilogy Page 54
