‘Khuilo! Eb tvoju mat.’ Rusak lashed out. Grabbing Teschmaker’s throat and holding him up against the wall, he drove his fist into his stomach. As Teschmaker gasped for breath Rusak released his neck and let him crash to the floor. ‘Ebaniy v rot!’ The kick was aimed at his groin but missed its mark and smashed into his arm.
‘Enough!’ Grice stepped in and pushed Rusak back. ‘There will be plenty of time for pleasure later on, Oleg. We are keeping the lady waiting.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Rusak raised his hands in capitulation, then leaned over and dragged Teschmaker to his feet. ‘Nobody calls me scum and insults my mother, understand?’ he whispered. ‘Pizdez. Later, okay?’
Rusak released his grip. Unable to breathe properly, Teschmaker slid slowly down the wall. He struggled to get air into his lungs and gingerly ran his fingers down his arm. It felt like it was broken.
‘Now, Mr Teschmaker, I am going to leave Oleg to keep you company. Please don’t do anything to upset him because we certainly don’t want any disturbances while we attend to Mrs Sinclair.’
Handing the pistol to Rusak, Grice turned and went over to the brazier, gesturing for the Commandant to lift the branding iron so he could see it. It was red hot.
‘Perfect. Well, Jane, it seems we are all set for your big moment.’
He took the handle of the brand and showed it to her. But although she kicked and pulled at her restraints a couple of times, it seemed to Teschmaker that all the fight had gone out of her. Horrified, he watched as Grice moved round to her side. For a second he stood there, then he nodded to the Commandant to join him. Grice positioned the brand above Jane’s back and slowly brought it down low enough for her to feel the heat. As she squirmed against the manacles and choked on the gag in her mouth, the Commandant flipped open the folded towel and reached his hand down into the bucket beside the bench. In a blur, Grice thrust the brand downwards while in the same instant the Commandant slapped a huge handful of shaved ice onto Jane’s back. The huge jolt and convulsions that ripped through the woman’s body made Teschmaker think of an execution in an electric chair. There was a hiss of steam and a frightful smell of charred flesh flooded the chamber.
He struggled to his feet. ‘Na khuya, you bastard?’ he yelled at Rusak. ‘Why?’
But the Russian grabbed his arm and held him firmly against the wall.
‘A work of art, I think.’ The man was smiling broadly. ‘You have no idea how much money the video of that will make.’
‘Bastards,’ was all Teschmaker could say. He was feeling nauseous, his body trembling uncontrollably.
‘Of course,’ Rusak continued quietly, ‘they will pay top dollar for a snuff movie. I am sure we could give you a starring role.’
Teschmaker ignored the remark, suddenly transfixed by what was occurring on the metal table. Jane, shaking all over, was being helped to sit up. The mask was pulled up on her head and she looked wildly around the room. Then she saw Grice examining his handiwork. The branding iron had done its job well — the word SLUT was seared into the strip of pork that lay steaming on the towel. Somehow her mind could not grasp where reality lay and she struggled to touch her back, but the only damage was a slight inflammation where the ice had been ground against her skin.
‘Sadly, Jane, that was your last warning. So let’s see if you can be a little more cooperative.’
Grice turned to Rusak. ‘You will take care of Mr Teschmaker. Please, no damaging him yet. He has something of mine that I would very much like returned.’
Rusak shrugged and tugged Teschmaker forward. ‘We will go for a little ride,’ he said and prodded the pistol into Teschmaker’s ribs.
As they crossed in front of the table, Teschmaker felt Jane’s eyes on him. He looked up and, seeing the look of non-comprehension on her face, slid his mask back. ‘I’m sorry . . .’ he started then stopped as he saw the bewilderment on her face. For an instant he thought he saw a flash of recognition in her eyes but then realised that she was deep in shock, incapable of rational thought. Again he felt the jab of the pistol in his ribs and he was forced out of the room. Behind him the singers had gone through their complete repertoire and started again where they had begun.
‘Virgo flagellatur, crucianda fame religatur, Carcere clausa manet, lux caelica fusa refulget . . .’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The weather had undergone as abrupt a change as Teschmaker’s fortunes. The balmy summer evening had been replaced by a sudden southerly storm. As they emerged from the Chambers it appeared that the rain had been set in for a while. Wild gusts were curtaining down Nikolayevsky Street, sweeping paper and plastic detritus before them. Already the gutters were overflowing, their contents heading for the stormwater drains that would take them under the city to where the Charlotte River would be cascading down to the lake. It was not a good night for a drive in the country but Teschmaker realised he wasn’t going to be given a choice in the matter.
‘We will speak English,’ Rusak instructed as he pushed Teschmaker into the back seat of the Mercedes waiting for them at the end of the alley. ‘Because my driver doesn’t.’
‘I wasn’t feeling like a chat.’
‘But we have so much to talk about.’ Rusak made a show of laying the pistol on his lap. ‘Now, please, your seatbelt. I would hate that you had an accident.’ It seemed that he didn’t consider the possibility of an accident very likely as he made no attempt to do up his own belt and contented himself with lowering the armrest between them.
The car moved off and for the first few minutes they drove in silence. As they circled the Botanical Gardens and headed out on the Airport Freeway, Rusak lit a cigarette and lowered his window slightly. It seemed that the smoke at least would be given an opportunity to escape.
‘So, I am curious, Teschmaker. You know my name.’
‘Yes.’
Teschmaker was feeling decidedly flat and the idea of engaging in chit-chat with a man who seemed not only intent on killing him but capable of doing so was not appealing. He stared ahead, but the windscreen wipers were working overtime and the visibility was zero. A view was out of the question. For a moment he pondered the problem of escape. He thought of movies where, at this point, the hero would wait for a slow corner then fling open the door and roll free. He always hurt himself slightly — usually a twisted ankle that added tension to the ensuing chase through the woods. The hero would limp and stumble, fighting his way through dense undergrowth, and the villains would be right on his heels, torches in one hand, guns in the other, cursing the visibility and getting closer every moment. Eventually the hero would trip and as he lay in the sodden leaf litter the villains would run right beside him. One always stopped, as though sensing him, and just at the moment when he was about to be discovered the other villain would hear something and call. The hero would be safe — for the moment. Much as Teschmaker liked the scenario, he knew that the electronically locked car doors and the absence of a handle on his side made it all a little difficult.
‘So, how do you know me?’
‘A friend in intelligence showed me a photograph of you in Moscow. Said you were a big cheese.’
‘A what?’
‘He said you had been in the Duma but now you were an important boss.’
It could have been true. Teschmaker knew it would appeal to the man’s vanity. Rusak would want it to be true. So it would be.
‘I told Mr Sinclair that you were with intelligence. He said you sold insurance.’ Rusak laughed. ‘I should have bet with him.’
‘You are a friend of Sinclair’s?’
Teschmaker wondered if they would be lucky enough to have a road accident. He slipped his hand onto the seatbelt clasp, just in case. His mind was flipping all over the place and in a sudden moment of clarity he realised this man was going to kill him. This friendly chat — it was not about information; this was because it didn’t matter what was said, because . . . well, it didn’t matter. Scared, Teschmaker thought, I am really scared.
/> ‘We are in biznes.’
‘I thought you were working with Grice?’
Rusak snorted. ‘Grice is a stinking little pervert. He is nothing.’ He lowered the window a little further, flicked the butt of the cigarette into the night and raised the window again, trapping the smoke inside. ‘Sinclair set him up. Paid for everything.’
Teschmaker inhaled deeply, wondering if passive smoking would steady his nerves. ‘But the building — I was told that Grice owned it.’
‘And who told you that?’ Rusak’s smile went from ear to ear. He was obviously enjoying the joke.
‘The records say it belongs to his company . . .’ But as he said it he realised how deeply he had been misled.
‘Exactly, and Sinclair owns his company.’
‘So you and Sinclair are in biznes.’ Teschmaker echoed the Russian slang. ‘He provides the product and you provide the market. Very cosy.’
‘Much more, Teschmaker. It is the new world order — East and West in partnership. Video is only a little hobby. We make money make money. We are serious players.’
Rusak sounded as though he believed it. And Teschmaker imagined that it was probably true.
‘So what do you do apart from pornography, Rusak? Arms? Drugs?’
Rusak looked genuinely hurt. ‘Teschmaker, I told you. I am a businessman. I deal in money. I facilitate its movement.’
Well, Teschmaker thought, that was probably true as well. There were so many ways to make money by moving currency around. He peered through the window. His guess that they were heading out to Grice’s country house looked like it had been right on target. They had passed the airport exit and were on the Daleborough road. It also appeared that they had come through the worst of the storm, the rain on the windscreen now little more than drizzle.
‘Does Jane Sinclair know about your biznes with Oliver?’
‘Jane?’ Rusak looked at Teschmaker as though he was crazy. ‘Oliver and Jane hate each other. If it wasn’t for his enormous fortune I am sure he would have been rid of her before now. You see, he was worried she would claim half his assets and I am afraid Oliver could never allow that. So they remain married and nobody is happy. This situation distressed me so much.’
‘Really?’ Teschmaker didn’t veil the sarcasm, but it appeared to sail right over Rusak’s head. ‘And Jane and Grice? What’s going on between them? Why the performance tonight?’
‘You really don’t know?’ Rusak shook his head in disbelief.
‘I have no idea.’
For a moment Rusak paused, fished another cigarette from his packet and lit it. ‘Actually, it was my idea. Jane was proving very difficult for Oliver and for me. I needed her to assist me with a small problem and she was most uncooperative. So I found a way of putting some pressure on her and Grice decided to exploit it to get her down to the Chambers. Sinclair saw what was happening and agreed that it was just what he needed.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’ Teschmaker felt that if this was the executive summary, then he wasn’t executive material. ‘What did you and Sinclair want from Jane?’
Rusak smiled. ‘Different things. Sinclair just wanted her to disappear, but I had another agenda. You have met Jane’s father, yes?’
‘You know I have.’
‘Well, he has information I need. Jane was helping me jog his memory.’
‘Why would she help you?’
‘Because I said I would kill her father if she didn’t. She was very understanding of her position. I also mentioned how much it would upset me to have to hurt her daughter.’
Teschmaker looked at the man with absolute revulsion, knowing that if he had the opportunity he would not hesitate in killing him. ‘You are a total bastard, Rusak.’
The smile didn’t move from the Russian’s lips. ‘But one who enjoys his work.’
‘What information were you after from Jane’s father?’ Teschmaker asked.
‘Not your affair.’ Rusak straightened up in his seat as though the conversation had suddenly veered down paths that were off limits. He renewed his grip on the pistol.
‘So why didn’t Jane institute divorce proceedings herself?’
‘Because Jane made one mistake.’ Rusak chuckled. ‘Ironic, really.’
‘Why? What mistake?’
‘After all those years of putting up with Oliver’s infidelities, she had an affair herself. Such a brief little romance, but unfortunately Oliver found out and collected all the evidence. Jane wrote some very graphic letters that, unfortunately for you, don’t mention any name, just “darling” and “beloved”.’
‘Why unfortunate for me? I have nothing to do with her. So Oliver was . . . what?’ Teschmaker failed to see how this had anything to do with the photographs, or the Chambers or Grice. ‘He was going to blackmail her?’
‘No!’ Rusak seemed to find the notion immensely amusing. ‘No, Teschmaker, don’t you see? Oliver had all the cards but he didn’t know how to play the hand. So I came up with a wonderful scenario. You were putting pressure on her. There are some pretty graphic photos of Jane with your fingerprints all over them.’
‘Me? Why the hell would I do that?’
‘Because you wanted her to leave Oliver.’
Teschmaker let himself sink back in the seat as the jigsaw slowly assembled itself in his mind. But some pieces didn’t fit. ‘But Sinclair didn’t even know me.’
Rusak didn’t reply. He finished his cigarette and for a few minutes ignored Teschmaker altogether. He stared out the window into the darkness, all the time toying with the pistol on his lap. Then, after they had passed through Daleborough, he touched Teschmaker on the arm.
‘It hurt me to see Oliver so worried. “Why continue a situation in which two people are so unhappy?” I said to him. “Wouldn’t it be better if at least one of you is happy?” Of course he agreed. Why not? It is logical. So I said to him, “Then let us make you happy.”’
‘Very public-spirited of you.’
‘So I told him that he should kill his wife. So simple. But it seemed he hadn’t the heart for it and so I told him I would arrange it.’ Rusak shrugged. ‘What else are friends for, huh? And then we found you. That was a very beautiful moment. You just turned up and started stalking her. The right man at the right moment. It was perfect. It was as though we had scripted you. You were having this torrid affair with her. She writes you the love letters. You find out that she and Grice have been playing in the Chambers. You see the photographs and in a fit of rage you demand she leaves Sinclair immediately. She refuses, you kill her and then, in remorse, you kill yourself. It is like a poem. You were made for each other. Her husband is heartbroken, of course, but he is comforted by the fact he still has their daughter and his millions. Oliver thinks it an elegant solution.’
They travelled the rest of the journey in silence. When they arrived at the house, Rusak handed the pistol to the driver and instructed him to take Teschmaker upstairs. The man who emerged from behind the wheel turned out to be as solidly built as Rusak, but with a look about him that suggested he had spent a lot of time in one of the armed forces. He prodded Teschmaker forward.
They were met at the bottom of the steps by another of Rusak’s Russians. Even in the low light spilling from the house, Teschmaker could see the man was the complete opposite of the driver. He was as slim as a shadow, gaunt, sallow-cheeked. His hands were long, thin-wristed. His long hair, black, streaked with grey, was tied back in a ponytail. A wraith. A junkie? He looked at Teschmaker, his expression open and curious, then turned and took the steps two at a time. The fitness didn’t square with addiction.
‘How is the bzdenok?’ Rusak asked.
‘He sleeps, he farts, he doesn’t talk.’ The Wraith stood at the stop of the steps and shrugged, then added, ‘Mne eto vs’e osto’eblo.’
‘How bored you get is not my concern,’ Rusak growled, then softened. ‘I’ll see if I can find you some more books.’ The man shrugged again and led the way upstairs.<
br />
‘What zoo did you get these guys from?’ Teschmaker asked. ‘Were you all in the army together?’
‘Army?’ Rusak snorted. ‘The army is for arselickers.’
‘Really? I’m disappointed. I was guessing you got your scar in Grozny or Afghanistan.’
Rusak stopped on the landing and turned to Teschmaker, the disfiguring scar exaggerated by the angle of the light. ‘I got this in Moscow. In a bank.’
‘What happened? Walk into the door?’
For a moment Rusak looked as though he was going to hit him, then he relaxed and smiled. ‘No, Teschmaker, not a door. A friend of mine overestimated the amount of explosive and underestimated how strong the metal on the safe was. The damn thing disintegrated. Fucking Soviet workmanship.’
‘Blowing up bank vaults doesn’t sound like part of the working brief of someone elected to the Duma. Must have been after you resigned?’
‘No. Before. Getting elected to the Duma is a very expensive undertaking.’
Teschmaker clamped down on his impulse to laugh and the driver, following a cue from Rusak, pushed him through the door into the top room.
Teschmaker hadn’t taken more than a step onto the carpet runner when he felt the hand on his shoulder. Rusak spun him round and smashed his fist into his face. Teschmaker didn’t even see the blow coming and went down hard, hitting the side of his head on the floor. Rusak looked at him for a minute then gestured for the driver to drag him to his feet.
‘Nobody insults my mother, Teschmaker.’ He spat in his face. ‘I’m sorry that I can’t have the pleasure of killing you now. But I can wait. We have a little drama to play out. You know, Teschmaker, I have always enjoyed the theatre. What about you? You enjoy a good comedy? No? Tragedy, perhaps?’
Teschmaker tried to speak but his head was reeling and he couldn’t get his jaw to move. He tried to focus on Rusak’s face but there was blood or spittle in his eyes and his head kept lolling to one side. The driver pushed him onto an old settee beside the wall. Rusak came over and looked down at him.
Delicate Indecencies Page 26
