by Greg Wilson
“Plenty of time for the details. Come on, drink up,” he gestured expansively. “Enjoy yourself. This is the beginning of a new life for you”
Borisov’s brain was already starting to swim but this, he knew, was not the time to argue. He gave a taut smile, raised his glass and drained it then held it out again, watching as the thick, clear liquid splashed from the neck of the bottle.
It had all gone smoothly. The fact that it would was a foregone conclusion but now Borisov was beginning to experience a growing sense of unease about the whole affair.
Not only was there the outstanding threat from Aven himself – God knew where that now stood – but there were other things that didn’t feel right; other questions that hung in the air as ominously as the familiar stench of disease and death.
He had fulfilled his part of the bargain so where was his promised reward?
Since Aven’s escape he had tried every day to see the superintendent in order to discuss the arrangements but so far his door had remained firmly closed. Closed to Borisov, anyway.
Alone in his cell he stared at the ceiling and chewed his thoughts.
Solitude. That was one of the few luxuries he had been granted for his years of service to the system. The right to his own private quarters. His own bunk bed and his own small desk and chair, and his books and clock and radio and the desk lamp by which he could read when the other lights had been turned out. And breakfast served in his cell. Not the foul, stale rubbish the other prisoners were forced to eat, but the same breakfast as the guards. Fresh bread and boiled eggs and hot tea and even meat or chicken sometimes, set out in a civilized arrangement on a cloth-covered tray, passed through the slot in the wall at six-thirty a.m. precisely, every morning. His eyes fell to his clock. Which was what made this morning unusual. It was six forty-five and there was no sign of his tray.
He heard something outside and his ears tuned to the world beyond the steel door.
Footsteps approaching.
He sighed. So breakfast was late, that was all. But then… He sat upright in his bunk, listening. Breakfast came with one set of footsteps and what he heard was not two… but three. Three sets of footsteps, but softer than usual and now they were stopping at his door and the key was turning in the lock and the door was moving inwards and Borisov knew that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
He drew back further against the wall as the three figures spilled into his cell. His eyes narrowed, darting between them, searching their faces. One seemed familiar but the others weren’t and there was something strange… something incongruous about their dress. His eyes fell to their feet. They were wearing rubber boots. His eyes rose slowly. Rubber boots and rubber aprons over their uniforms and black rubber gloves that stretched half the distance to their elbows.
Borisov shrank back further against the wall, his eyes snapping from one impassive face to another. The man he recognized pressed the door closed behind him, unlapped his holster and drew his pistol, while one of the others crossed to the desk and lifted the lamp, turning it around in his gloved hands, inspecting it. It was hard-wired. No wall switch. Just a thick black lead snaking back to the outlet on the wall. Borisov watched with a rigid fascination as the man leaned back and turned his head aside, grimacing and bracing himself, taking the power lead in one hand and the lamp base in the other then suddenly wrenching them apart. Borisov jumped with a start as the lead snapped free, its stripped wire ends glistening in the overhead light. Ignoring the doctor, the aproned guard worked methodically, setting the lamp down on the table then stepping back and delicately touching the raw leads to the top of the steel shade. The five wires danced and snarled against the metal surface sending a shower of electric sparks into the air. Borisov flung a hand across his face, his eyes wide behind it, staring at the blistered shell. A wisp of smoke rose above the desk and lingered, its fumes scorching the air with a sharp, acrid stench.
Suddenly he understood. A cold sweat broke across his brow. Suddenly he realized what they were going to do.
The man holding the lead turned to him and Borisov’s eyes widened further, his breath coming fast and shallow. He scrambled back on the cot until he was wedged hard into the corner and there was nowhere to go, staring at the stranger, shaking his head in violent denial. He tried to speak… tried to beg… but his mouth was suddenly so dry that his tongue seemed frozen. Then they were closing around him, the guard with the pistol standing back a pace, the other man reaching across the bunk and grabbing his arms and wrenching him forward, pulling him to his feet then propelling him towards the desk. He stumbled into the chair and a hand closed on his shoulder forcing him down onto the seat. Rubber-swathed hands closed around his arms and wrapped them behind his back. He struggled against them but it was useless. Tried to thrash out with his feet but they pushed the chair forward, its legs scraping against the bare concrete under his weight, until his chest was locked hard against the edge of the desk, his thrashing legs boxed harmlessly beneath it.
The power cable was thick and rigid enough to support its own weight. The guard who held it slid his grip back until it was half an arm’s length from the exposed wire ends then swung it towards him.
Borisov’s eyes glazed with terror as the lead loomed closer to them, its exposed ends wavering and glistening like the forked tongue of a viper. He opened his mouth in the start of a scream and realized the consequence too late. The guard holding the cord plunged it forward and Borisov looked down with terrified disbelief, watching as the wires snaked between his open lips, scoring his tongue as they thrust towards the back of his throat. Then suddenly his head exploded in a burst of blinding light and indescribable pain and his body was writhing and shaking and convulsing like a marionette gone insane, his knees beating and hammering upwards against the desk, his shoulders and arms bucking madly against the gloved grip that held them, and the last sense he had of life before it ended was the putrid taste and stink of his own broiling flesh.
PART THREE
30
NEW YORK
The white-shirted officer’s eyes met his and held them and Nikolai felt his chest tighten.
The flight had taken ten and a half hours, the wait in the immigration line twenty minutes more. Larisa was beginning to fade. Her face had grown pale, colored only by the faint flush of exhaustion that tinted her cheeks. Nikolai looked down at her and squeezed her hand and it felt cool and dry and resigned in his grasp. The immigration officer continued studying him for a moment longer then dropped his eyes to Larisa, inspecting her across the top of his black-framed spectacles. Whatever opinion he may have formed of them he kept to himself, picking up one of the passports and running it across the scanner, waiting for the computer to retrieve the file. If there was to be a test of the quality of Vari’s documents this would be it, Nikolai knew. His grip tightened around his daughter’s fingers and he watched the glow of the screen reflecting against the man’s glasses as the file loaded. The officer’s hand hit a key, then another, his eyes running across, then scrolling down, processing information. Then one hand slowly and mechanically slid the first passport aside while the other lifted the second, swiping it past the scanner and repeating the process. Nikolai’s fingers relaxed. Larisa felt the change in his grasp and looking up at him from weary eyes as the man behind the counter snapped the red booklets shut and slid them across with an expressionless nod.
Nikolai found their luggage on the carousel and steered Larisa forward into the customs line. They had nothing to declare but the dark-skinned officer who took their cards stopped them just the same, directing them aside, signaling for Nikolai to unzip the cheap shoulder bag he had bought at Arbat station, then rummaging through it with her long chocolate-colored fingers. Her practiced hands felt their way around the contents until they came to rest on something that interested them. She pulled out the twin DVD cases, inspecting them, turning them over in her hands. Her nails were painted a bright metallic pink, Nikolai noticed, a silver star glued somehow into
the lacquer of each little finger.
He smiled, answering the unasked question. “Just some family movies.”
She looked at him sharply and he shrugged and offered an open-faced smile.
‘That’s all. Truly.”
The woman glanced at Larisa, caught the little girl staring at her. To Nikolai’s surprise he heard his daughter’s voice, confident and clear, her English almost perfect.
“I really like your nails.” Her gaze shifted to the black woman’s hands. “They’re very pretty.” She looked back up, earnestly, her eyes tracing the woman’s face. “So are you.”
The dark woman blushed, her impassive expression dissolving at the unexpected compliment. She collected herself and answered in a rich, deep voice that seemed to go with the color of her skin.
“Why, thank you. And you’re very pretty as well.”
She tucked the DVDs back into Nikolai’s bag, beamed again at Larisa and waved them on. Nikolai glanced down at his daughter as they walked, and she glanced back, completing the silent exchange. They passed through the baggage scanner to the sliding doors below the exit sign, stepping out together into the stark gray-yellow light of the arrivals hall.
Nikolai stopped and looked around, his eyes following Larisa’s to the vast, illuminated, twilight image of New York that stretched across the opposite wall. His head swam for a moment in a sudden drift of confusion. Just a week before he had been sharing a cage with twenty animals in a dark prison on the forgotten upper edge of the Caucasus. Now he was standing with his lost daughter at the threshold of a new life in a foreign land. His gaze rose to the digital clock above the huge backlit billboard. It was one fourteen in the morning: a new day in a new world. His eyes moved on again, filtering through the scattered crowd while beside him he heard Larisa’s giddy voice.
“I can’t believe it, Daddy. We’re here. In America. We’re really here.”
He turned down to her, smiling at her wide-eyed awe, beckoning with his head for her to follow and moved on, skirting round the tape barricade, his eyes tracing the waiting figures, pausing each time they saw a sign, reading it and moving on.
He found the one he was looking for near the end of the line, the name Peter Alisenko scrawled in crude black letters on a white strip of card held waist-high between the hands of a thin, young man with shallow green eyes and a fringe of lank brown hair above an oval face edged with a scrawny beard. Their eyes met and Nikolai nodded and the man with the card fell back, tracking his way towards them around the perimeter of the loose milling crowd. Nikolai turned down to Larisa.
“You remember I told you someone would meet us?”
She nodded. The man with the card appeared again at the end of the barrier. Nikolai cast his head towards him.
“Well there he is. His name is Sergei, okay? We are going to stay with him and his wife for a while. And for a while I have to use another name. But it’s nothing to worry about, alright?”
Larisa nodded cautiously as the man approached, tearing the card into two and tossing the pieces into a concrete trash container as he passed, a smile widening across his face, his faded green eyes lit by the bright fluorescents. When just a few meters separated them he flung his arms wide apart in a grand theatrical gesture of greeting.
“Hey, Peter! Welcome… Welcome to New York!” Sergei Surikov’s voice was thick. The vowels sustained, the Rs deeply rolled. The crude accent of English acquired rather than learned.
He slapped a hand on Nikolai’s shoulder, his fingers closing in a grip of surprising strength, and looked down, beaming.
“And this… this must be Larisa, huh?”
He reached forward and closed Larisa in a giant hug. Nikolai saw his daughter’s face tighten, her muscles tense in resistance. Surikov seemed unconcerned. He clung to Larisa for a moment then let her go, grabbing one of the suitcases from Nikolai’s hand.
“So.” He brushed his fringe back from his forehead and his pale green eyes searched Nikolai’s face, sliding sideways a fraction towards one of the overhead video cameras then slipping back again, sending their unspoken message. “You are finally here, my cousin, hey? After all this time.”
Nikolai played the game. Smiled and clapped a hand around the stranger’s shoulder and Surikov drew him into an embrace, his voice low and husky in Nikolai’s ear.
“Since the terrorists they watch the airports all the time. We’re old family, okay? Don’t give them anything to think about.” He broke the clasp, stepped back and inhaled.
“So now, you visit us at last.” He wound his free hand in the air. “Come, come! Katrina is impatient to see you. We have so much to do and see. It is so exciting, yes? Come, Larisa.”
His eyes widened and he thrust out a hand to Larisa. She glanced up at her father and he nodded and she reached out tentatively, reluctantly allowing the stranger to wind his fingers into hers, trailing along with him as he led her towards the door, looking back anxiously across her shoulder to make sure her Nikolai was following.
When they reached his blue Voyager van Sergei Surikov’s demeanor changed completely. He let go of Larisa’s hand, broke open the back door, tossed the suitcase inside and nodded curtly for Larisa to follow. She sensed the change and regarded Nikolai with a wary expression. Behind them Sergei Surikov was already moving around the vehicle to the driver’s door.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Nikolai whispered. “Do as he says.” He took his daughter’s hand and pressed it between his fingers. “I’m here. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”
She nodded doubtfully and climbed inside and Nikolai pressed the second suitcase and the shoulder bag in behind her and drew the panel closed, reached across to the front passenger door, hooked it open and climbed in. To his left Sergei Surikov was already grinding the ignition.
“So,” he said, glancing into the rear view mirror. “You’ve had a bad time, I hear?” The voice was the same, the tone different. Tough and uncompromising.
Nikolai glanced across at him. “Bad enough.”
Surikov ran the window down, pulled a pack of Chesterfields from a central tray, lifted it and tipped a cigarette into his mouth. He paused, offering the packet to Nikolai, gave an offhanded shrug when he declined and reached down to stab the lighter, steering the van out of the parking bay, wheeling it through the lot towards the exit, casting a nod across his shoulder.
“The kid okay?”
Nikolai turned and glanced at Larisa. Saw her gaze tracking nervously between him and the driver. He gave her a tight smile of reassurance and turned back.
“She’s fine. We’re both fine.”
The lighter ejected and Surikov pulled it free, lifting it, sucking in his breath. The tip of tobacco glowed red in the darkened cabin. He slotted the lighter back into the dash and swung his hand back to the wheel, talking around the dangling cigarette. His voice terse, the sentences abrupt.
“I do this as a favor for Vari, okay? I give you place to stay for a while. I organize new papers, then you’re on your own. You understand?”
He cast a glance towards his passenger. Caught the silent nod and turned back again.
Nikolai spoke to the windshield. “You know Vari well?”
Surikov’s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “A friend of a friend.” The tone was dismissive. Nikolai considered the response. Let it ride.
“One thing you need to understand,” Surikov studied the road. “While you stay with me you work for your keep. You got problems with that?”
Nikolai turned slowly.
“That depends on what you mean.” He studied the younger man’s profile. Noticed the corner of his mouth ride up in amusement, the dim glow from the instrument panel playing fight across the wisps of his beard. They were coming up to the toll booth now. Surikov flipped the lid of the armrest that separated them and delved inside, pulling out a sheaf of notes, bringing them across and counting them against the wheel. He turned back to Nikolai, closed a thumb and forefinger around the cigarette
and pulled it from his mouth, exhaling a stream of smoke into the air between them, his face traced with humor.
“You find out soon enough.”
He slotted the cigarette back between his lips and edged the van forward, tucking the notes into the attendant’s outstretched hand.
“You have a nice day,” he called as he touched the accelerator. He spun a glance at Nikolai and winked.
“See, you’re in America now, my friend. That’s one of the things we like to say here. No one ever means it, but…” he flicked his hands from the wheel, “we say it anyway.” He repeated the phrase, spinning it out in an exaggerated, thick-vowelled chorus.
“You have a nice day, now.” His head rolled with the words. “Welcome to America. How may I help you?” The voice turned sour and his features drew together in a twisted grin. “Allow me to fuck you before you fuck me!”
Malcolm Powell scanned the street. Threw back his cuff, stared at his watch and fumed silently to himself. Twelve-thirty at the Four Seasons for his meeting with Haysbert and Perlman. A ten minutes ride, minimum, and here he was at twelve twenty-eight, still pacing the sidewalk outside his townhouse in the stinking June heat, waiting for his goddamned car which was late again.
He stepped to the edge of the curb and craned his head along the street. Gritted his teeth and cursed aloud – Jesus Christ! – fell back, narrowly avoided a collision with a package-laden Upper West Side matron and grumbled an under breath apology in response to her withering glance.
It wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford his own chauffeured limousine. Christ, he could afford a dozen if he wanted them, so why the fuck did he have to put up with a goddamned unreliable car hire service, trucking around town in the back of crappy dressed up family sedans with upholstery stained by God-knew-what and stinking of that sickly Auto-Pure crap that burrowed its way into the broadcloth of his suits like some cheap hooker’s even cheaper perfume.
