by Tom Wood
Victor watched them out of the corner of his eye while he ate his potato chips. They walked over to the bar and exchanged a few whispered words with the bartender. He didn’t give them any drinks but gestured Victor’s way. The two men approached slowly, no trepidation, just an arrogance gained from both size and status. Clearly they had no idea who they were dealing with.
Their shadows fell over Victor as he turned in his seat, head tilting back to look at them.
“Who are you?” one asked.
There was a deep resonance to his voice and he spoke with a thick Siberian accent. In Victor’s experience Siberians were an especially tough breed even among the already-tough Russians.
“I’m a friend of Aleksandr Norimov.”
The Siberian paused a second before responding. “Who?”
“The owner of this bar.”
“He’s not the owner anymore.”
“So you do know who I’m talking about?”
The big muscles in the Siberian’s jaw flexed. “Norimov died last year.”
Victor let out a long breath. “Then I appreciate your coming all the way over here just to let me know that. You’re really too kind.”
The Siberian paused, mouth slightly open, unsure whether Victor was being serious or sarcastic.
“What do you want with Norimov?”
“What does it matter if he’s dead?”
The Siberian shook his head in disbelief, but there was menace in his eyes. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“I’m a friend of Aleksandr Norimov.”
“Are you deaf? I told you he’s dead. So you’re wasting your time here.”
“I’m finishing my drink.” Victor gestured to the empty glass of vodka.
“You’ve finished,” the Siberian said.
“I’m afraid we disagree on that.”
He moved surprisingly fast for a big guy, knocking the glass hard with the back of his hand. It shattered against the wall behind the bar. All other conversations immediately halted.
The Siberian wore a smug grin. “Now you’ve finished.”
“Are you going to take me to see Norimov or not?”
The Siberian laughed.
Victor sighed. “Shall I take that as a no?”
“If you like.”
“I suppose I’ll be leaving then.”
He stood. The Siberian was in front of him, the other man behind. The Siberian gave Victor a hard stare, from which Victor was quick to lower his eyes, causing the Siberian to exhale loudly, half-grinning, buying the sign of submission. He stepped aside to allow Victor past. The Siberian looked at his associate and raised his eyebrows. The other man nodded in agreement.
At that moment neither was watching Victor.
As he stepped past the Siberian, he brought his left arm up and threw it backward, slamming his elbow into the Siberian’s face. He felt the nose give way. The Siberian grunted, blood splashing from his nostrils. His eyes filled with water. He slumped backward against the bar, sensibilities knocked from him.
Continuing his motion, Victor spun around to see the second guy pull a heavy Baikal handgun from the pocket of his overcoat. The big Russian would have been more effective grabbing Victor from behind, but he hadn’t, electing to go for his gun instead. His mistake.
Victor stepped forward inside the man’s reach, negating the gun’s threat, knocked the weapon to one side, and punched the Russian with the heel of his right palm, in the side of the chest where there was little muscle for protection. Ribs cracked. The Russian fell, gasping. The Baikal clattered on the hard floor. Victor turned his attention back to the Siberian, who was struggling back to his feet. Even with his nose smashed he was quick, pulling a switchblade from a coat pocket.
The blade appeared and he lunged at Victor, who grabbed the Siberian’s wrist and elbow, locking the arm and twisting it. The Siberian screamed, knife falling from his fingers. Victor let go of the arm and punched him in the gut. He barely flinched.
Hands grabbed Victor by the jacket, lifted him from his feet and hurled him. He landed hard but rolled to absorb the impact. He sprang to his feet to see the Siberian already coming at him. Victor slipped the punch, and another, dodging sideways, clear of one of the big guy’s fists, letting the Siberian’s momentum put him off balance. Victor kicked him in the back of the knee, and he stumbled forward. Victor grabbed the Baikal from the floor just as the Siberian recovered and turned.
The two pounds of hard steel in Victor’s grip connected under the guy’s jaw and dropped him to his knees. A second blow to the temple made sure he stayed there.
Victor reached inside the Siberian’s overcoat and pulled the gun from an underarm holster. It was a Baikal as well. He dropped it on the other side of the bar and looked around. The rest of the bar’s patrons were dumbstruck, all silent, completely passive. He didn’t need to tell them not to cause any trouble.
Victor pushed the barrel of the Baikal into the Siberian’s face. “Get up.”
The Siberian spat out teeth and managed to pull himself to his feet, one hand under his nose draining blood, one palm against his temple.
“Turn around,” Victor ordered. “Put your face on the bar.”
The Siberian hesitated. He raised his hands. Victor grabbed him by the hair, forced his face down against the bar, making sure his broken nose took the brunt of it. He cried out. Victor pressed the gun against the base of the man’s skull.
“Where’s Norimov?”
No answer.
He smashed the Siberian’s face into the bar again, making him cry out a second time. “Where is he?”
Again no answer.
Victor ordered, “You behind the bar, get me a bottle of your strongest vodka.”
The bartender looked no older than twenty, probably had never seen a gun before. This was clearly all too much for him. He was too terrified to move.
Victor pointed the Baikal at him. “Do it, or I paint the wall with your brains and get it myself.”
He needed no further encouragement.
Victor pushed the Baikal harder against the Siberian’s skull. “Your gun holds ten bullets, if you move I will empty every one into your face. Do you understand?”
Victor took the silence as a yes. He stepped back, glanced back at the big Russian on the floor, saw him writhing, hands clutched to his chest, each breath an exercise in agony. He wasn’t in a position to try anything. Victor knelt down, never taking his eyes off the Siberian, and picked up the switchblade with his left hand. He stood back up, spun the knife around in his palm so the blade was pointing downward, and drove the point through the Siberian’s ear, pinning him to the bar.
Ignoring his cries, Victor took the bottle of vodka from the barman, checked that it was strong enough, and walked to the other end of the bar. He pulled the top off the bottle with his with his teeth and walked back toward the Siberian, dribbling vodka along the bar’s surface. When he reached him, Victor emptied the rest of the bottle over his head. The Siberian gasped but didn’t move; even the slightest struggle tore more of his ear on the knife’s blade.
Victor looked at the bartender. “Get a lighter.”
The Siberian found his voice. “No.”
Victor grabbed the knife and twisted it, making the Siberian yell. “Shut up.”
The bartender offered Victor a disposable lighter.
“No,” Victor said. “Take it to the other end of the bar.”
The bartender reluctantly moved to the far end.
“NO,” the Siberian cried again. “Please.”
“You had your chance to do this the easy way.” Victor kept the Baikal against the man’s skull and wrapped the fingers of his left hand in the Siberian’s hair, pushing him harder into the bar. “Now we do it my way.”
The big Siberian grunted and struggled, his huge hands braced on the edge of the bar. Blood mixed with vodka on the bar’s surface.
“You’re going to tell me exactly where I can find Norimov and you’d
better hope I believe you.” He looked at the bartender. “Light it,” then back at to the Siberian. “You’ve got about ten seconds until you go up like a Roman candle.”
From the corner of his eye the Siberian watched the bartender strike the lighter and lower the small flame to the bar. The vodka ignited, burning with a blue flame. It raced along the bar toward the Siberian’s wide eye.
“Nine seconds.” Victor stated flatly.
“OKAY, OKAY,” the Siberian screamed. “I’ll tell you.”
“Tell me now. Seven seconds.”
“The Kalari train yard.”
“Will you take me there? Four seconds.”
“YES.”
Victor let go of the Siberian’s hair and pulled the knife from his ear. The Siberian lurched backward, his face leaving the bar a second before the flame reached him. The big man stumbled, lost his footing, and fell into a table, breaking it under his considerable weight.
He lay stunned for a moment, breathing heavily among the wreckage. When he looked up he saw Victor standing over him.
“Well,” Victor said. “What are we waiting for?”
THIRTY-SIX
Zürich, Switzerland
Saturday
13:11 CET
Rebecca found the chill invigorating as she boarded the electric streetcar. She sat at the back so she could watch who else got on, taking the precautions that her new partner or associate or whatever the hell he was had stressed. The streetcar took her into Zürich’s financial district, and she kept her anxiety locked up deep inside as she passed through the clean streets of the city. Rebecca liked Zürich, liked the quiet efficient way the Swiss went about their business. It was a city bathed in history, but it hadn’t yet been ruined by tourists. People came to Switzerland to work or to ski, not to sightsee.
She could have rode the quiet streetcar the whole way, but paranoia made her get off and circle back on herself, stopping to window-shop intermittently so she could watch the reflections of people passing by. Again, as he had told her to do. She didn’t see anyone she’d seen before, but she was painfully aware she wasn’t trained for this kind of thing. Someone could have followed her all the way from Paris with a funny hat on and she probably wouldn’t have noticed. When she had taken control of her fear she caught another streetcar and took the last available seat.
She gave it up for an elderly man with a sad face who boarded on Bahnhofstrasse and she was off three stops later in downtown Zürich. Here every person seemed to be dressed like her, and she relaxed in the crowd. She walked a little more easily.
Rebecca walked past boutiques and cafés that catered for the horde of bankers who called Zürich home. There were banks everywhere, and where there were no banks there were financial institutions of other sorts, some openly advertising their services, others hidden from passersby.
The chill air tightened the skin on her face as she thought about him, the killer whose name she didn’t even know. She looked at her watch. It had been several hours since they’d gone their separate ways. Already she was having doubts about what she was doing. And even if she was doing the right thing, she couldn’t trust him. How could she? He killed people for money. He was about as dishonorable as a person could get.
But she hoped his own desire to survive was as strong as hers. He was clearly smart too, and a smart man in his position would know that he was going to have to work with her. Neither of them could do it on their own. That was of course unless he managed to decrypt the drive for himself. Maybe then he would try something else, without her. Then she’d be on her own, defenseless.
She took a deep breath, tried to think rationally. She’d seen his face, seen the unflinching self-belief in his eyes and the absolute displeasure at needing someone else’s help. He wouldn’t have come to her in the first place if he’d had even the slightest confidence he could do it alone. She hoped.
Rebecca bought some chocolate shortcake from a shop on the Paradeplatz. It had a great placebo effect and helped settle her stomach before she headed off the main plaza and into a less-busy side street. She took the steps casually and smiled politely to the doorman as she pushed through the revolving entrance.
It didn’t look like a typical bank and that was the point. The lobby would have seemed more at home in a grand hotel. She made for the information desk and gave her details to the meticulously groomed man behind it. He picked up the phone with a smooth, practiced action and whispered into the receiver.
“Someone will be with you momentarily, madam.”
“Thank you.”
She waited in one of the fine but uncomfortable chairs, her chin resting in her palm. She made sure to appear hurried but not restless. She kept her coat on even though it was warm inside the bank.
After a few minutes, Rebecca was aware of a slim man in a stone-brown suit walking toward her and stood up to greet him. They took a wood-paneled elevator to the second floor, and she followed him into another room, where Rebecca entered her ten-digit account number into a small hand-held device.
The man checked the screen for verification and said, “This way please.”
They passed two security guards, and, at the door to the office of a senior banker, she declined coffee and was taken inside and left to wait again. The office was classically furnished and designed to ooze wealth and power. To Rebecca it was old-fashioned and uninspiring. She was a contemporary woman through and through. Making her wait was also becoming tiresome, especially considering she had told them she was coming.
It was five minutes before a short, overweight man in glasses entered. He was finely dressed in a pin-striped suit that desperately tried, but failed, to camouflage his waistline.
“Miss Bernstein,” he said to Rebecca. “How nice to see you again.”
Rebecca had seen him once before, just over three months ago when the account was set up for operational funds. It seemed a lifetime ago, but the overweight guy seemed to recognize her. Or at least pretended to recognize her. She shook his hand; it was soft, warm, and slightly moist.
“Nice to see you again too.”
Joel Malliat sat down in the huge red leather chair. He looked ridiculous—dwarfed by its size. Rebecca pretended not to notice just as she had during their first meeting, and she wondered how many other clients did the same.
Rebecca unbuttoned her coat and took it off, placing it over the chair slowly so that Malliat had time to study her from the front and side. She wore a tan sweater that was one size too small and clung to her like a second skin. Underneath she was wearing a padded push-up bra that made her breasts seem several cups bigger. The effect of the tight sweater sprayed to her breasts had shocked her when she’d first seen it. She hoped Malliat was similarly affected.
It may still have been a man’s world, but Rebecca knew women still had a big advantage over the opposite sex. Get some blood moving south and there was less inside their brains to think with.
They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, Malliat ticking all the boxes on the charming-but-trustworthy banker checklist. Rebecca didn’t try to interrupt the charade and allowed Malliat to come to the purpose of the visit in his own time.
“I’m sure you’re a busy woman Miss Bernstein,” Malliat said. “So how is it that I can assist you today?”
“I have a small problem with some transactions, which I’m hoping you can help me with.”
Malliat looked alarmed. “A transaction problem?”
“Nothing that the bank has done. You see, embarrassingly, I seem to have lost one of my client’s details. One of my former employees was, well, incompetent, and I believe she accidentally deleted some files from our system that we’ve been unable to recover.”
“Most unfortunate.”
“Therefore,” she continued, “I’ve been put in a very difficult position. I can no longer contact my client—a very important client. All I have is their account number from the funds put into my own account.”
“I see,” Malliat sa
id, understanding.
“So, Mr. Malliat. Joel. I would be eternally grateful if you could give me the contact details of that account number.”
“Miss Bernstein, I’m very sorry, but that information is confidential, and I would go against my banking ethics to tell you.”
“I understand your position, but I’m not asking you for information that I didn’t already have. Up until a few days ago that information was on my system. You would just be telling me what I already knew.”
Malliat smiled sympathetically. “That’s beside the point. I’m simply not allowed to tell you. I suggest you hire some computer specialist to retrieve the deleted files.”
“I have already, but they were unsuccessful.”
“I’m sure your client will contact you eventually.”
“I expect like many of your banks customers, I do not run the kind of business where there is much communication between company and client.”
She added enough emphasis to the key words that the subtext was obvious.
“I don’t know what to say to that,” Malliat said.
“Say you’ll help me. It is imperative that I get hold of my client immediately.”
“I’m very sorry, but I just can’t do what you’re asking.”
The subtle approach had failed. Time for plan B. She stood up angrily and walked to the window, giving Malliat a good view of her ass, legs, and three-inch heels that were killing her feet. She turned around after he’d had a chance to stare. She noticed his eyes had to move up to meet hers.
“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 interest on for something as minor as a name and address.
