by Andy McNab
The police headlights came back on and off they drove, exhaust pipe rattling, toward the border-crossing parking lot.
The Vitaras and their crews also left, and I finished the roll as I crossed the traffic circle and turned right, toward the river. The address that Liv had given me was on this road, which was known simply as Viru. Still wondering what the three guys had done to cause Marilyn such offence, I started attacking the last roll and the remaining cheese and chips. Like I didn't have my own stuff to worry about.
31
Viru wasn't any more uplifting than the rest of town, just gray, miserable blocks of housing, more black snow and more un cared-for roads. Then, bizarrely, just up ahead was a burned-out bumper car, its metal frame and long conducting rod charred and twisted. God only knows how it had got there.
The only thing moving was a posse of five or six dogs, creating a haze of steam above their bodies as they skulked around, sniffing at stuff on the ground then pissing on it. I didn't even feel bad as I dropped my plastic bag, along with the chips and cheese wrappers. When in Rome Now and again a patched-up Sierra clattered past on the cobblestones, its occupants looking at me as if I was mad to be walking in this neighborhood. They were probably right, if the sulfur fumes I was inhaling were anything to go by. There was obviously another environmentally friendly factory near by.
Slipping my hands deeper into my pockets and my head deeper inside my collar, I tried to adopt the same miserable body language as everyone else. Thinking about what I'd seen at the "komfort baar," I decided not to tangle with private-enterprise security if I could help it. The State police looked a softer option.
Viru started to bend to the right, and straight ahead I could see the icy riverbank, five or six hundred yards away. That was Russia.
As I neared the bend I could see into the gorge, with the river Narva about 200 yards below. Following it around, the road bridge was about 400 yards away. Cars were lining up to leave Estonia, with foot traffic moving in both directions, carrying suitcases, shopping bags, and all sorts. The checkpoint on the Russian side had barriers across the road and guards checking papers.
If the numbering on the map was correct, Number 18 Viru would soon be on my right, a little past the bend and facing the river.
It wasn't an apartment building as I'd been expecting, but a large old house that was now a baar. At least, that was what the sign said, in white but unlit neon lettering above a rotten wooden door. Big patches of rendering were missing from the front of the building, exposing the red clay brick underneath. It was three stories high, and looked really out of place among the uniform concrete blocks surrounding it on three sides. Most of the upper windows were covered by internal wooden shutters; there were no curtains to be seen. There was another neon sign, also not illuminated, of a man leaning over a pool table with a cigarette in his mouth and a glass of beer on the side.
According to the sign next to it saying "8-22," it should have been open. Trying the door handle, I found that it wasn't.
Four cars were parked outside. There was a brand-new, shiny red Audi, and two Jeep Cherokees that had seen better days, both dark blue and with Russian plates. The fourth vehicle, however, was in the worst state of any I'd seen in Estonia, apart from the bumper car. It was a red Lada that had been hand-painted and had to belong to a teenager.
There were domestic music speakers clamped on the back shelf, from which wires hung like spaghetti. Very cool, especially the pile of old newspapers on the back seat.
I looked through the grime-covered ground-floor windows. There were no lights on and no sounds. Walking round to the other side, facing the river, I could see a light shining on the third floor, just a single bulb. It was like finding life on Mars.
Back at the wooden door I hit the intercom button near the baar sign.
The building might be in as shit state as Tom's, but the intercom was in better condition. There was no way of telling if it was working, though, so I tried again, this time for longer. There was static and crackling, and a gruff male voice, half aggressive, half bored, quizzed me. I didn't know what the fuck he was on about. I said, "Konstantin.
I want to see Konstantin."
I heard the Russian or Estonian equivalent of, "Eh, what?" then there was more gabbing from him and voices shouting in the background.
When he came back to me it was with something that obviously translated as, "Fuck off, big nose." The static ceased; I'd been given the brushoff.
I buzzed again, working on the theory that if he got pissed enough he might come down to the door to fill me in. At least then I had a chance of making some progress. There was more shouting, which I didn't understand; I got the gist but carried on regardless.
"Konstantin? Konstantin?"
The machine went dead once again. I wasn't sure whether there was going to be some action now or not, so I stayed where I was.
After about two minutes there was the sound of bolts being thrown on the other side of the door. I moved out of the way as it was pushed open. Behind it was an iron grill door, still closed, and behind that was a guy of maybe seventeen or eighteen, who looked like the style fairy had crept up on him and waved her LA-street gang wand. I bet he owned the Lada.
"Do you speak English?"
"Yo! You want Konstantin?"
"Yeah, Konstantin. Is he here?"
He gave a big smile. "Yes, he sure is, for that's me, man. You are the England guy, right?"
I nodded and smiled, holding back laughter as he tried to match his speech with his dress sense. It just didn't work, especially with a Russian accent.
He beamed as he looked me up and down. "Okay, smart guy, come on in."
He was right, I didn't look as if I'd come straight from the dry-cleaners. Or maybe he'd been expecting a man in a bowler hat.
The grill was secured from the inside with two lever locks. As soon as I'd walked in, both the door and the grill were locked behind me and the keys taken out.
He held up his hands. "Hey, call me Vorsim." He wiggled his fingers, or rather, the ones that hadn't gone missing, in the air. "Everyone does. It's Russian for eight."
He gave me another quick once-over as we both smiled at the joke he'd probably cracked a thousand times. "Hey, follow me, England guy."
I followed Eight up a narrow wooden staircase to the first floor.
The banisters and handrails were bare wood, and the exposed steps sagged with age. There was no light apart from the dull glow coming through the ground-floor windows. I could only just see where my feet were going.
It was an old, once-grand house. I couldn't see any evidence of a bar, but at least it was warm and dry-almost too dry. It had that dusty smell places get when the windows are never opened and the heating is on all the time.
Our footsteps echoed round the stairwell. Eight was about three steps above me, wearing a pair of the most blindingly yellow and purple Nike sneakers I'd ever seen, beneath a pair of baggy, blue hip-hop-style jeans that were stone washed-the kind with big horrible streaks of white-and a black leather bomber jacket with the L.A. Raiders pirate logo stitched on the back.
We hit a landing and turned for the next flight which would take us up to the second floor. Weak light filtered through the slatted shutters.
All the doors leading off it were paneled, with faded flowers painted on ceramic door knobs; it must have been a splendid place when it was first built.
We passed the second and carried on up to the third floor, then walked along a larger landing. He opened one of the doors toward the river.
"Your name is Nick, right?"
"Yeah, that's right." I didn't return the eye contact as I walked past him into the room. I was too busy checking what I was walking into.
There was just one bulb in the center of the room, producing the dingy, yellowy light I'd seen from outside. The very large room was in semidarkness and was boiling hot. The only job the lighting did was expose a layer of cigarette smoke that clung to the high ceiling.
There was a glow from the TV to my left, its volume set at low, with a body in front of it. Directly in front of me, about forty-five feet away, was a single sash window, its shutters open in the hope of letting in a little natural light. The shutters on each side were still firmly closed. There were no carpets or wall hangings, just empty space.
To my right, near a large marble fireplace, three men were seated on fancy chairs around what looked like an antique table with ornate legs.
They were playing cards and smoking. Beside them, and to the right of the fireplace, was another door.
The three heads at the table turned and stared as they sucked on their cigarettes. I nodded without any reaction from them at all, then one of the guys said something and the other two guffawed and went back to their game.
The door closed behind me. I looked at Eight, who was bobbing up and down with excitement. "Well, man" arms moving around like a rapper "you hang here, Vorsim won't be long. Things to do." And with that he placed the grill keys on the table and disappeared through the door near the fireplace.
I looked over at the guy by the TV. The color picture was a bit snowy, perhaps because it was perched on a chair with a coat hanger for an antenna. He sat on a chair opposite, his nose nearly touching the screen, too engrossed to bother looking round at me. His area was giving out more light than the bulb in the ceiling; it was a mystery how the other guys could see their cards.
No one offered me anywhere to sit, so I went over to the window to have a look outside. The floorboards creaked with every step I took. The card school, now behind me, just got back to mumbling to each other as they played.
It was easy to see what went on here. Two sets of electronic display pharmaceutical scales sat under the table at this end of the room. Next to them were stacked maybe ten to twelve large Tupperware boxes, some containing white stuff that definitely wasn't flour, others holding dark-colored pills that similarly weren't M&Ms.
Directly beneath the window was Viru, dirty snow and ice covering overflowing dustbins. At the corner of the building three scabby cats lay perfectly still in the snow, gathered around a drain, waiting for their black furry dinner to serve itself up.
Over the lip of the gorge the river on both banks was iced up, but the center third was carrying big chunks of ice and trash sluggishly from right to left, toward the Baltic about eight miles downstream. Further upstream the bridge was still jammed with cars and people.
I turned back to the room. It might be sweltering in here, but I was desperate for a hot brew. The only drink I could see was a bottle of Johnnie Walker on the table, which was being emptied by the card players. They all had black leather jackets draped over the backs of their chairs. They'd obviously watched too many gangster movies" because they were all dressed in black pants and black crewneck sweaters, with enough gold dripping off their wrists and fingers to clear Estonia's national debt. It looked like a scene from Good Fellas Packs of Camels and Marlboros lay on the table in front of them, gold lighters placed neatly on top. I made sure they couldn't see my Lion King watch. I didn't want them to start by shitting me, as there might be a time when they had to take me seriously. A smiling Disney character on my wrist wouldn't help.
I turned to the TV watcher as he clicked at his lighter and lit up, holding the cigarette between his thumb and index finger, then leaning forward, elbows on knees, to get his nose back into some low-budget American soap. What was really strange was that the dialogue was still in English; only after the actors had delivered their lines did the Russian dubbing take place. There was absolutely no emotion in the translation; a woman with more makeup than Boy George gushed, "But Fortman, I love you," then a Russian voice translated it as if she was buying a pound of cabbage. I suddenly knew where Eight got his English and dress code from.
The door opened and in he came. "Yo, Nikolai!" The bomber jacket was now off to reveal a red sweatshirt with Bart Simpson karate kicking another kid with fistfuls of dollars. Printed underneath was "Just take it." Dangling from Eight's neck was a thick gold chain that any rapper would be proud of.
He came and stood by the window with me. "Nick, I've been told to help you. Because, hey, guess what, crazy guy, I'm the only one here who speaks English." He shuffled from sneaker to sneaker as he clapped his hands. The Good Fellas looked at him as if he was a basket case, and got back to their game.
"Vorsim, I need a car."
"Car? Whoa, could be a problem, my man."
I half expected to hear his response followed by some bad Russian dubbing. He turned to the Good Fellas spoke some very fast stuff and did some mock begging. The oldest one, maybe in his early fifties, didn't look up from his hand but replied really aggressively. He must have been drinking liquid nasty instead of Johnnie Walker. I caught his drift, though: "Tell the Brit to fuck off ski I wondered if I should produce the insurance policy but decided not to. Better to save it until it really mattered.
Another one of the three sparked up with an idea, pointing first at Eight, then at me, and made out he was hitting something with a hammer. The other two really liked that one. Even the TV addict joined in as they all had a good laugh. It was Merlin's laugh: King Arthur used to get frustrated when he made a kingly decision and his wizard just laughed, because Merlin knew the future and the king didn't. I felt the same sort of thing was happening here. Liv was right: Don't trust them an inch.
Eight's shoulders slumped. He walked back over to me. "I'll have to give you my car."
"Is it one of the ones outside?" I'd already guessed, but was hoping I was wrong.
"Yes. But hey, man, I need it for bitches. Will I get it back soon?
How long do you need it for? A couple of hours?"
I shrugged. "Maybe a couple of days." Before he could react I added, "I also want to see you later tonight. Will you be here?"
"Cool, I'm always here. I live here, my man."
He pointed up at the loft. Rather him than me.
"OK, I'll be back later. Will your friends be here?"
"Oh sure, Nikolai, they'll hang for a while. Business to do, people to see."
I put my forefinger and thumb together and shook my hand. "Keys?"
"Keys? Oh sure, sure. I'll have to come with you, my man. Show you something cool." He ran through to the other room. The Good Fellas ignored me completely as I waited, concentrating instead on throwing more liquid nasty down their throats.
Eight reappeared, pulling on his bomber jacket and zipping it up as he took the keys off the table. We went downstairs and out into the cold.
After locking the door and grill behind us, it turned out that the cool thing he wanted to show me was that I'd have to hit the starter motor with a hammer before it would turn over. He said he liked it busted like this because no one could steal it.
While he was busying himself showing me what to do, it was pointless talking about licenses or whatever if I got stopped. I just wanted to get away from here and do my job. I didn't have time to fuck about.
The Maliskia knew the NSA were out and about and would be moving location any day now.
But Eight wanted to remove his speakers and music first. I looked at the cassettes as he piled them on the passenger seat. There was an array of American rap bands I'd never heard of, all following Eight's lead in the gold-chain department, plus some really hip Russian artistes who looked as though they were on the way to a reunion of the Liberace fan club. It was the white tuxedos that really gave them class.
I was waiting for him to disconnect the speakers when a 5 Series BMW, with a hint of silver beneath the dirt, cruised down the road from the direction I had walked. I noticed the plates first because they were British, and it was right-hand drive, then I looked at the driver.
The subconscious never forgets, especially when it comes to trouble.
Carpenter. I couldn't believe it. As if he hadn't fucked up my life enough these past couple of weeks.
He was slowing down as a van approached from the opposite d
irection, but it wasn't to let him pass; he was heading over to where we were, and if he saw me I bet I wouldn't be getting the Russian for, "Hello, nice to meet you."
I jumped into the back of the car with Eight and made as if to help him pull out the speakers, my knees badly creasing up his newspapers.
The BMW pulled into the parking lot, its tires crunching louder and louder on the ice the closer it got. I suddenly found the speakers very interesting indeed, and made sure my ass faced very definitely toward the BMW. I was feeling extremely vulnerable, but not as much as I would if he saw me.
The engine shut down and the driver's door opened.
Eight was the other side of me and glanced over my shoulder as Carpenter's door slammed, then turned back to his beloved speakers.
After hearing the wooden door close, I was still pulling out some very risky wiring as I asked, "Who's the English guy?"
"He's not England, you crazy guy!" He tutted into the air.
"So why has he got an England car?"
I'd obviously said something very funny. "Because he can, my man! Some England guy isn't going to St. Petersburgjust to get his car back; that would be crazy, man."
"Oh, I see."
In this part of the world it obviously didn't matter if you drove around with a hot car's plates on display. After all, if you had the money to have a BMW stolen to order, why not flaunt it? I could see the dealer's sticker in the rear window; it was a firm in Hanover, Germany, which probably meant that some British grunt had been saving up for ages to buy his tax-free bargain, only to get it lifted so it could rumble around Narva in the snow.
