People Who Walk In Darkness ir-15

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Let us get Emil Karpo and become one of the people who walk in darkness.”

  Chapter Nine

  “The restaurant. It was delivered to the restaurant an hour past.”

  The speaker was thin, no more than thirty years old, a deep ebony color. He had been one of the men who had engaged Iosef and Zelach in a gun battle and had barely gotten away. In the middle of the table at which he sat were wadded and crumpled remains of pages from Pravda. Resting on the paper was a finger-the small, black finger of a left hand. The curled finger was a matter of debate between the speaker, whose name was Patrice, and the other two young men at the table. They, too, had been in the gun battle.

  The other two men were looking at Patrice for guidance, orders. The problem was that the finger on the table appeared to belong to James Harumbaki, their leader. In addition, the note left with the finger had said that both Umbaway and Roger were dead. The hierarchy was clear. Patrice was in charge, a position to which he did not aspire.

  “You think they have killed Harumbaki?” asked the tallest of the three men.

  Of the three, Biko looked most like a leader. He was erect, decisive in his language, prepared for whatever was to be done. The problem was that he had only one solution for any problem that emerged. Kill. Biko was more than a little crazy, and Patrice well knew it. Patrice also knew that Biko had two wives and six children under the age of ten.

  “I don’t think he is dead,” said Patrice, who had no idea if what he was saying was true.

  “He is not dead.”

  This came from the third man, short, bespectacled, and young, the youngest of the group, named Laurence. Laurence was seventeen. He looked fourteen. He was the most battle-experienced member of the group, having been a shirtless mercenary with a Kalashnikov when he was ten. Now he had an extended family of thirty people to support.

  “That’s not the finger of a dead man,” said Laurence, adjusting his glasses. “I’ve removed fingers from the living.”

  “You can’t be sure,” said Patrice.

  “I can,” said Laurence.

  “He is sure,” said Biko.

  “If we don’t give them diamonds,” said Laurence, “they will send us a toe.”

  “Or his penis,” added Biko.

  “No, that might kill him,” said Laurence.

  Biko and Laurence looked at Patrice, who stared at the finger and said, “Then we answer them by leaving a message. We set up an exchange location. We tell them they must bring James Harumbaki.”

  “We don’t have the next shipment,” said Biko.

  “No,” said Patrice.

  “What do we give them?” asked Laurence, already knowing the answer.

  “Bullets,” said Patrice.

  “James might be killed,” said Biko.

  “We might be killed,” said Patrice.

  “That is true,” said Biko.

  “We will give James’s share of everything for three years to his family,” said Patrice. “Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” the other two said in near unison.

  Patrice was afraid but not for his own safety. He was afraid he would be killed fighting the people who had James. Then who would look after his parents and grandfather?

  “Where do we meet them?” asked Laurence.

  “The park,” said Patrice.

  “Which park?” asked Biko.

  “East Gate Park on Kamiaken Street,” said Patrice.

  “I do not know it,” said Biko.

  “We had an exchange there under some statue when I first came to Moscow last year,” said Laurence.

  Patrice nodded to show that this was true.

  “The statue is a good place,” said Patrice. “It is quiet.”

  “See,” said Kolokov, “it doesn’t hurt much.”

  James Harumbaki saw little point in disputing the statement. In fact, the joint where his little finger had been removed really didn’t hurt very much. The crazy, parading Russian had given him two pills and a bottle of vodka. James accepted both with whatever dignity he could muster.

  The bar, owned by a trio of brothers who were well established inside of one of Moscow’s most entrenched Mafias, was crowded. People were laughing, drinking, smoking. Music was blaring, causing a deep headache over James’s right eye. Two very large-screen television sets were on, one over each end of the long bar.

  Kolokov was circling the table, balancing a drink in his hand, talking loudly over the pain, which was almost worse than the loss of a finger.

  “Do not worry,” the Russian said, leaning over the table. “You can always grow another finger. Oh no, I forgot. People do not regrow toes and fingers, do they?”

  Kolokov laughed.

  James was flanked on either side by two of Kolokov’s gang, one of them was the bald man, Montez, who kept his hand upon the Botswanan’s leg.

  “Do they?” Kolokov repeated leaning even closer.

  “No,” said James.

  “No, that’s right,” Kolokov repeated. “They do not, but they can reattach them. All we have to do is get you and your finger. . Oh, I forgot. I sent the finger to your friends. Pau, how long will a severed finger be usable?”

  “A day or so,” said Montez. “More if it is iced.”

  “Then,” said Kolokov, “we had better get you back to your friends quickly, or you may never be able to play the pipe organ again.”

  “We should not be here,” said Montez.

  “Why not?” asked Kolokov, looking around. “Our guest is not going to try to run. It would be useless and very painful. And he is not going to ask anyone here for help. Who here would help him? Do you see another single black face?”

  Silence.

  “Answer.”

  “No,” said Montez.

  “We are celebrating,” said Kolokov. “The friends of our guest have agreed to turn over to us a fortune in diamonds to get our guest back almost in one piece.”

  “I don’t trust them,” said Igor.

  “Of course not,” said Kolokov. “They mean to. . what do the Americans call it. . double crucifix us. I would. They will try. When they do, we remove another one of the fingers of our friend here. He gets weaker. We try again. Being a criminal is not an easy job.”

  Some fresh music blared and a woman, pretty, in her forties, with large breasts, wearing a sleek black dress, climbed on a small stage and began to sing in Russian.

  “What is that song?” asked Kolokov.

  “ ‘Bad Moon Rising.’ ”

  “I know it, but she is destroying it.”

  Kolokov moved through the crowded tables and climbed onto the stage next to the singing woman. James tested the grip of the bald man. As soon as James moved no more than a twitch, the Spaniard’s fingers dug deeply into his thigh.

  “No,” said Montez.

  James went nearly limp. His bloody finger had been rinsed with alcohol and wiped with a towel of doubtful cleanliness. The tape over a small square of bandage was clinging without conviction to his finger.

  Kolokov sang. The woman in the black dress sulked as he nudged in front of her at the microphone. When he had taken the microphone, the bar patrons who were listening had hooted for him to sit down, but they quickly discovered that Kolokov was more than adequate. He was good. He tapped his foot, held the microphone almost touching his lips, and belted out the music. Hoots turned to cheers.

  The three men at the table with James tried to disassociate themselves from their leader. He was a clown, a buffoon. But he was also fearless and smart-at least smarter than they were.

  And then James made a decision. His arms and legs were strong, very strong. The big man at his side could probably crush him, but James surprised him with his sudden strength. James pulled out of his grasp, threw his elbow into the mouth of the man on the other side of him, and dumped the table and its contents into the face and lap of the third Russian.

  Then James ran for the door, leaping over a table.

  The three Russians an
d the Spaniard were up, but behind in the chase. No one seemed to care or notice very much. Kolokov registered the uproar but kept singing until he saw James dashing for the exit.

  James felt light-headed, but he kept running. At the door, he paused for no more than a quick beat to keep from colliding with Iosef and Zelach, who had just entered. James dashed past them into the night. The pursuers were only a few steps behind.

  The pursuers bumped into Iosef and Zelach, and tried to push them out of the way. Both of the detectives grabbed a pursuer. Iosef slammed Alek against the wall. Zelach punched the hip of Bogdan. Bogdan went down with a wailing groan. Montez ran into the night, followed by the wheezing Kolokov. One of the men now on the floor reached into his jacket. Iosef said, “No,” and held up the gun in his hand.

  Much attention was now being paid to the scene by patrons and the band on the stage.

  “What’s this?” said a bodybuilder type with an accent Iosef thought might be Bulgarian.

  “We’re the police,” said Iosef.

  “So?” asked the bouncer.

  “We’re looking for some black men,” said Iosef.

  “One just ran out of here,” said the bodybuilder. “If you hurry, you can catch him.”

  “He’s not the one we are looking for,” said Iosef, looking at Zelach.

  Zelach shook his head no. The man who had run from the bar was definitely not one of those with whom they had the shootout this afternoon. The detectives had been to five bars based on a vague suggestion by the restaurant owner, Maticonay, who had been shot. Iosef had begun to feel that they had been lied to until they came to this place.

  “Let’s take these two out of here for a talk,” said Iosef.

  The bodybuilder shrugged. It was not his business. He did not even care if they were really the police. He was paid to keep the place relatively calm. He swaggered away as the two policemen helped the men to their feet.

  “That business with the knuckles to the hip,” said Iosef, “where did you get that?”

  “Pressure point,” said Zelach. “I’ve been studying a tape, practicing.”

  “On your mother?”

  “No. On myself.”

  “You are a man of many talents, Detective.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We can. .” Iosef began, but did not finish.

  There was a gunshot outside, down the street. The detectives immediately abandoned their prisoners and dashed into the night. The two fallen Russians rose and went through the door after them.

  “Wait,” said Alek, holding out his hand.

  “What? It came from that way.”

  “Why don’t we go that way?” asked Alek.

  He was pointing in the opposite direction.

  “Yes,” said Bogdan.

  “If Kolokov gets back, we tell him we escaped from the police.”

  “Yes, that is what happened,” said Bogdan, already believing the lie.

  “Two of them,” said Detective Jan Pendowski as he sat feeding seeds to big, ugly, gray-black crows from a bench on Venetsiansky Island in Hydropark.

  They could hear the balls bouncing on the tables in the Ping-Pong area beyond a mesh fence a few dozen yards away. On nice days like this in Kiev, Jan liked to come out and watch the college girls bouncing under their thin shirts as they swatted at the balls.

  “Two,” said Oxana.

  She sat next to him touching a fingernail to her lower lip, where she sensed an imperfection in her makeup. As much as Jan liked looking at the young girls, Oxana Balakona liked to be looked at by males of all ages as they walked by. She had become a model because it had been what she always wanted to be: admired, looked at, wanted.

  “A man and woman,” said Jan. “Moscow detectives. They are looking for you.”

  Oxana turned to face him as he hurled a handful of seeds at a bird near his feet. The bird retreated, not sure if it was being attacked or rewarded.

  “Me?”

  “It appears that the woman who gave you the diamonds has been murdered.”

  He had her full attention now, but he did not look her way. The Ping-Pong balls and the laughter of girls beyond the fence was all-powerful.

  “Murdered,” she repeated.

  It struck Jan, and not for the first time, that while Oxana was clever, she was not terribly smart. She frequently repeated whatever he said as if she were mulling it over or using it as a question.

  “The diamonds,” he said. “They are here looking for them. We must get them to Paris quickly. The two Moscow detectives will find you here. It will not take them long. I’ll guide them in a long search for wild ducks but they will find you if you are here, and going back to Moscow does not strike me as a viable option. They will find you even more easily there.”

  “So, Paris quickly,” she said, deciding to stare down a boy of no more than seventeen who couldn’t help openly and longingly examining her.

  “I have something to tell you,” she said. “Something that is amazingly lucky.”

  “See that one?” he asked, pointing at a bird slightly smaller than the other dozen or so that circled before him on the ground, scurrying out of each other’s way. “Lost an eye. A fight, or disease.”

  “Disease,” said Oxana. “A fashion editor at Paris Match wants me to go to Paris with her tomorrow or the next day for a fashion layout. Perfect cover.”

  “How did she find you, this fashion editor?”

  “An agency here.”

  “She came all the way to Kiev just to find you?”

  “She was here anyway,” said Oxana. “And why would not a fashion editor come here for me? I am one of the very best.”

  “I know,” he said. “I have my own experience of that.”

  She allowed herself a small smile.

  “I think I should like to meet this famous editor,” Jan went on, digging into the small white paper bag on his lap for the last of the seeds. “Before we send you off with her and the diamonds.”

  “It can be arranged,” said Oxana.

  “I have the Moscow detectives today. I shall run them to every corner of Kiev and back. What is the name of your editor?”

  “Rochelle Tanquay,” she said. “She gave me a card. Here.”

  Oxana reached into her small, quite fashionable red leather purse and handed it to him. On it was the name of the woman in gold script and a cell phone number.

  “Call her,” he said. “Set up a time. Late night at Eric’s Bar.”

  “What do I tell her?”

  “That you want her to meet your fiancé, your handsome Ukrainian police detective. What does your Rochelle look like?”

  “Pretty,” said Oxana.

  “Better than ugly,” he said. “Call.”

  She took a sky blue ultra-thin cell phone from her purse and punched in the number on the card Jan held up for her.

  Four rings and then, “Hello.”

  “It’s Oxana.”

  “Yes. Can you leave tomorrow evening? The photographer will be available most of next week, and then he has to go to Bahrain.”

  “Of course. Can we get together tonight for drinks?”

  “I’ve got a dinner meeting,” said Rochelle. “It will have to be late.”

  “Late is fine. Do you know Eric’s Bar, across the street from the Kinotheater Kiev on Chervonarmiyska Street?”

  “I’ll find it. What time?”

  “What time?” Oxana repeated looking at Jan.

  He held up ten fingers and then another one.

  “Eleven?”

  “Eleven,” said Rochelle.

  “I’ll bring my fiancé,” said Oxana. “He’s a policeman. He would very much like to meet you.”

  Jan nodded yes.

  “Perfect,” said Rochelle. “Eleven at Eric’s Bar. I look forward to it.”

  The call ended, and Oxana returned the phone to her purse as Jan crumpled the empty white bag and dropped it into the metal trash container to his right. He got up. So did she.

>   Balta watched them walk down the path together. He was reclining on a blanket under a tree about fifty yards away. In front of him was a gathering of six old men watching two other old men playing chess on a park bench. They provided near perfect cover.

  Balta decided to follow the man with Oxana. At the moment he looked like someone for whom he should have some concern. Balta had no doubt that he could handle the man if it were necessary or if it would help get the diamonds. And he felt that this just might be the case.

  He welcomed the challenge.

  The street was almost empty. The few people James Harumbaki passed were drunken men and a woman who clutched her purse as he approached from behind her. She looked over her shoulder, saw this black man with his mouth open panting behind her, and pressed herself against the wall, searching inside her oversized bag for the knife her husband had given her for things like this.

  James saw the fear in her eyes and simply kept running, losing blood from the stub of his finger, leaving a red trail as he bled through the cloth napkin he had snatched from the table in the bar.

  It was not easy to will the world back into submission. He tried as he trod on, no longer running, not looking back over his shoulder. There was no need.

  Even with his loss of blood, the out-of-shape Russians were no match for the lean, athletic Botswanan. Still, he could hear someone coming behind him. James had no idea where he was running. His thought now was to get out of sight of his pursuer, hide until daylight, hope that he could stop the bleeding, and perhaps even get back to Patrice and the others and reunite with his missing finger.

  His run was now a slow shuffle. He chanced a glance over his left shoulder. There came a large man.

  The man was jogging steadily. He was not one of the three Russians who had taken him prisoner, killed his friends, and cut off his finger. This man was fully clothed and determined, and definitely not out for a jog.

  James willed himself to hurry. His body did not respond. He turned and spread his legs to meet the man who was coming. Maybe he could surprise the man, kick him between the legs, break his collarbone with a blow to the neck. The options were not good, but at least there were options.

  The man was closing. Far behind him, in the light from a street lamp, was another man, a slouching creature who reminded James less of a man at this distance than of a monster.