A Wild Justice

by Craig Thomas

  ‘You’ll see the shed, off to your right.’

  ‘OK. Watch yourself’

  The fire crackled behind them, stirred to a rage by the wind.

  ‘Christ, the bloody rabbit!’ Dmitri cried. Lock was stunned — the girl’s, he realised. The four-legged icon wrapped in fur, every feeding-time a devotion for the lost daughter. He couldn’t say damn the rabbit… Dmitri awkwardly pulled on the overcoat he had dragged from the table. Lock felt his own thrown against him and he struggled into it. Then Dmitri lifted the rabbit’s cage down from a work surface and cradled it to his chest.

  The fire was garishly orange, blocking the open door to the living room. Smoke roiled and billowed, making Lock choke.

  He stared at the kitchen door. ‘The church in the old town, can you find it?’

  ‘Yes’

  ‘Rendezvous there if we lose contact — OK? Alexei will make for it, too!’ The rabbit’s eyes were preternaturally large, hypnotised in terror by the light of the fire as it crouched in its cage.

  He hesitated only for a moment, then slipped to the door and reached up to silently unlock it. Gripped the handle, then flung it wide, his whole body protesting at the imminence of pain. He flung himself to the right side of the door, rolling along the narrow, snow-covered verandah, bullets slapping into the wooden wait just above him, throwing up puffs of snow near his face. A bloody rabbit, was all he could cogently think, a bloody rabbit, for Christ’s sake!

  Rolled off the verandah into deep snow which masked him, whitening his overcoat into camouflage. He swallowed icy snow and looked up, attempting to locate the shed. Flame burst through the roof of the wooden dacha and from the windows at the rear of the house, outlining him. He climbed to his feet and ran in a crouch, stumbling through the snow as through deep, tidal water. Shots. Felt nothing. Numb with cold and shock, he wouldn’t even sense the bullet that crippled or killed him —

  — breath bullied from his body by collision with the wall of the shed. Snow fell from the roof, covering his head and shoulders.

  Impact like that of a bullet, halting him. His cheek against the rough wood. Still alive, unhurt. Just winded.

  Firing, away on the other side of the house. Dmitri and his daughter’s bloody rabbit — pointless. Pointless without the rabbit?

  He dragged air into reluctant lungs. Ice in his throat, his cheeks numb as the blizzard dried the melted snow on his face, caked it with more snow. Two shots impacted into the opposite wall of the shed, smashed glass. He saw a child’s swing skeletal against the pale sheen of the snow, oranged by the fire. The whole of the dacha was now ablaze.

  The church in the old town. He remembered it from his previous visit — a lifetime ago. Onion-domed, neglected, black with grime. Shots again from the far side of the garden, perhaps pistol shots, perhaps Dmitri…

  He knelt in the snow, recollecting the surroundings of the dacha, aware of his shadow thrown by flames on the wall of the shed. The haze of the town’s lights was dim, almost invisible. That way-?

  That way. He crawled into a bush which shed its weight of snow on him. Crawled into and through its snagging, scratching thorns and found the fence. Rickety, low, decayed — turned at the noise and fired, giving away his position, killing the greatcoated man who was blundering at him, rifle aimed.

  The soldier seemed to dive over him, still attacking as he died. then the body was still in the deep snow, arms splayed as if he had drowned and the body was floating.

  Lock flung himself against the fence and it gave outwards, then collapsed. He fell sideways and ludicrously into a snowdrift, hearing a voice cry out:

  ‘Over here! Across the lane — in the trees, here!’ He did not even pause to consider some kind of trap, it had to be Dmitri calling to him. He blundered through the snow, which suddenly dipped and spilt him into what must be the lane. He struggled free of the drift and climbed the bank of the buried lane. A few lumbering steps more and the depth of snow diminished, surrendering to the dark barrier of the firs.

  He could see nothing.

  ‘Dmitri?’ he called.

  ‘Over here!’ It was him.

  He gripped the man’s sleeve as he might have done a lifebelt, breathing stertorously, hearing the gasps of Dmitri’s exhausted breaths. Head hanging, he found himself staring into the wide, black, terrified eyes of the rabbit, its cage half-filled with snow.

  The eyes reflected two tiny, burning dachas.

  There was silence inside the trees, hardly any wind, little blown snow.

  ‘How did you — ?’ he began.

  ‘It’s my place. They don’t know it, didn’t know the lane was there, probably — no time now. Come on, this way. Quickly!’

  Vorontsyev switched off the mobile phone, then stared at it as if he had received news of a bereavement, puzzled and shocked rather than endangered. Marfa seemed more alarmed than himself at the raised, urgent tone of Dmitri’s voice.

  ‘What is it — what’s wrong?’ she asked, moving closer to the bed, glancing back more than once towards the door. ‘Dmitri sounded as if he was in trouble.’

  ‘He was,’ he said, pushing back the bedclothes. His legs looked pale and weak as he stared at them. The hospital robe that tied at the back was rucked to his thighs. ‘We have to get out of here — check the corridor.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, nowV he snapped at her uncomprehending expression.

  She looked bovine, simple. ‘For God’s sake, check the corridor, then get me my clothes!’

  She scowled at him, then crossed to the door. Looking out, she saw nothing, not even the duty nurse or another patient.

  Was that suspicious? She turned back into the room, to find Vorontsyev struggling to twist the shiftJike robe around so that he could untie the knots. His plastered arm flailed as if he were beset by bees or dogs. He appeared so comical she burst into laughter. His reddening face glowered at her.

  ‘Get me my bloody clothes!’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she yelled back at him.

  ‘They want to finish it tonight, by the look of it!’ he ranted, sweat breaking out on his forehead, the fingers of his left hand merely tightening the knots in the ties of the robe. ‘For God’s sake I’

  ‘Don’t waste time dressing,’ she said levelly, calming a surge of fear that was as sudden as nausea. ‘Just get your boots and a coat on ‘

  ‘I’m bloody dressing nowV he bellowed.

  It seemed like a domestic quarrel that had ascended to some insane boiling point, like some of her parents’ rows.

  ‘Then let me,’ she said, pushing him towards the bed. Then she dragged his clothes from the wardrobe. ‘Sit down — sir.’

  His gun was in his hand, as if to ward her off, but aimed at the door. She bent down and put on his socks. Then she reached for the knots of the robe and he sat staring stupidly at her. It was risible rather than erotic and she bent her head to avoid his noticing her smirking expression. She was aware of the door behind her and of the skin itching on her back in anticipation of someone entering. She undid the knots with quick, nervous fingers, then said:

  ‘Take it off — sir.’ Her voice was as clogged as if she were undressing him in sexual foreplay, but the fear was becoming uppermost now. Dmitri’s voice had been panicky, over the edge.

  ‘Is — is Dmitri in immediate danger?’

  ‘Quiet — I’m listening for noises in the corridor!’ he snapped in a hoarse whisper. ‘Yes,’ he added. ‘I’m certain.’

  He shuffled his loins into the jockey shorts she held out like a mother dressing an infant. He seemed unaware of her, but before she could experience pique, what he had said jolted her and she felt very cold.

  ‘Trousers,’ she said hurriedly.

  He stood up and climbed into them as she held them. Then the shirt, then she zipped the trousers, buckled the belt. Off to school… He thrust his feet into his boots and she laced them, her fingers cold and anxious.

  ‘Come on!’ he snapped.

 
‘I’m hurrying as fast as I’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She helped him into his overcoat, and held out his fur hat after she had buttoned the coat loosely across his padded, immobile arm. He shook his head.

  ‘Painkillers — that drawer/ he said, pointing with the pistol.

  Then he moved to the door and opened it softly.

  Vorontsyev looked out. Empty. Good. He waved the pistol in his left hand, to bring Marfa to the door behind him. ‘We’ll use the big lift, the one they use for moving people about on stretchers … come on.’

  He went through the door and Marfa followed him, watching beyond his shoulder, expecting at any instant the arrival of armed men, and aware of his broken arm and the stifled grunts of pain as she had dressed him. His condition made her fearful for her own safety rather than his, even though the sensation shamed her. He was loo vulnerable, too weak and injured to be of help.

  She tried to outface the thought of death, squash the memories of her experiences on the rig — the attack, the semiconsciousness, the smells of rubbish, the maw of the garbage truck towards which she had slid helplessly … He turned, and his expression made her realise she had stopped and was leaning limply against the corridor wall. He hurried back to her, shuffling like a hunchbacked grotesque, something from a movie.

  ‘Come on!’ he said urgently. ‘It’s all right, we’ll make it!’

  Vorontsyev realised that the calm with which she had dressed him had been all she possessed to help her confront the situation.

  Her ordeal at the rig had been too recent. He threw his left arm around her shoulders, to drag her into an embrace of encouragement and to move her towards the lifts. They really had to hurry

  TWELVE

  Modest Offices

  The two men hurried behind him along the corridor, as if they were in pursuit or taking him on a journey he had no wish to make. His panic mounted as he reached the door of Vorontsyev’s room. His hand refused to reach for the handle. Then one of Bakunin’s men, the one in the leather topcoat, elbowed him aside and jerked open the door, throwing it wide onto -

  bedclothes pulled back, signs of urgency. A glass of water had spilt onto the carpet. David Schneider felt a great relief overwhelm him, then a sense of danger as the two GRU men glared at each other, the bed, then him.

  ‘Where are they? You were responsible for keeping them under surveillance!’ one of them bellowed at him. His companion in the leather coat moved towards Schneider, the Makarov pistol gripped like a small club in his fist.

  ‘Who warned them, Yank? Who?’

  ‘Not me! They were your orders, you two were told to take care of him — he was here only minutes ago!’ he blurted it all out, the words like flailing hands attempting to counter an assault.

  ‘The lift!’ one of them snapped. ‘They can’t have got far, the cop’s injured — come on!’ They passed Schneider, the one in the leather coat growling;

  ‘We won’t find them in this storm, if they’re already outside.’

  ‘Get some back-up!’ the other shouted back at him as they stood before the lift doors. ‘It’s being used, look!’

  ‘Stairs — I’- Schneider heard, and then they were running along the corridor to the staircase.

  He slumped against the wall, wiping the back of his hand across his wet, loose lips. God —

  ‘Where’s your car?’ Vorontsyev’s breath whistled between pursed lips that registered the pain in his arm and ribs.

  ‘The car park — not far from the main doors.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Where then?’

  ‘Teplov’s knocking shop. I told Dmitri the church, but he’ll know what I meant. Teplov will be discreet.’ He tried to grin, but his lips were as wet as his forehead. Groaning in a short-breathed manner, he cried: ‘These bloody ribs!’

  She moved involuntarily towards him but he merely glared her away. The lift door opened. Icy cold drowned the compartment, snatching away their breath. Vorontsyev shivered uncontrollably.

  ‘Come on,’ she urged, and he leaned the least of his weight against her, no more than a gesture.

  The underground delivery and emergency area stretched away around them like a cavern of concrete. The blizzard hurled itself down the ramp and through the echoing stanchions. He stumbled ahead of Marfa, doubled up as if against the full force of the wind rather than to nurse his arm and ribs, and she followed like a servant. The security man in his booth, its windows fugged and cosy, seemed oblivious of them as they climbed the icy ramp -

  to be struck by the wind and its burden of hurled snow, made breathless and blind by it. Vorontsyev staggered against her, knocking the breath from Marfa’s lungs. She felt drowned in rushing air. Then her breath caught. Sodium lamps flared like distant gas rigs in the bellow of the storm, showing the snow as impenetrable, solid.

  ‘All — right?’ she screamed against his cheek.

  ‘Yes!’ he bellowed back, a thin, small noise.

  ‘This way. Over hereV

  He merely nodded, his head slow like that of an ailing donkey, as she guided him towards the car park. Their boots clumped through six or seven inches of snow and, as the wind numbed her to the bone, she was further chilled by the thought of an iced car, the failure of the engine, the condition of the road. She was afraid of awakening the pain in his ribs as she touched at his elbow, moving them like two ridiculous, lost blind people across the indeterminate white expanse of the car park. She looked up once, twice, a dozen times to orientate herself by the dim, masked lights of the main hospital block. There was no noise but the wind, no images that were not fluid and white, except the occasional whitened lumps of cars, shapeless as cows asleep in a field. She began to yearn for the warmth that even the distanced, almost obscured hospital lights dimly promised.

  Then she lurched in a cuffingly stronger surge of wind into her own car, her numb gloved hand smearing the snow on the windscreen. She rubbed at it furiously as if to uncover a familiar, buried face. Vorontsyev was crouching beside the lock, flicking at a cigarette lighter, which refused to ignite in the storm.

  ‘Try it,’ he said.

  The key turned like a lever lifting a great weight, then she pulled the door open, climbed in and unlocked the passenger

  “door. Vorontsyev collapsed gingerly into the seat and shut the door. The blizzard seemed hardly diminished by the metal of the car; it drummed and plucked on it, making it a sounding box. The windscreen fugged. Marfa turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed and refused. Twice, three, four coughed and accepted at the fifth attempt. The engine sounded very small, like that of a distant lawnmower. She heard Vorontsyev’s laboured breathing before she gently pressed the accelerator.

  She had left the handbrake off when parking. The back of the car squealed and shimmied itself like the rear of a cat about to strike, before it moved out of its parking place, clambering over thick snow covering rutted ice. The car struggled, danced drunkenly, slipped and mocked its way towards the exit. In the headlights came the occasional whitened shape of another car and the flying snow.

  The streetlights …? Two of them — another two as she turned onto the road towards the invisible town. Another two coming slowly out of the storm as she passed the second two then a fourth pair, a fifth, measuring out their tortoise journey across the treacherous, cleared but filling road. The snowploughs could do no more than bail desperately, like men in a sinking dinghy. And all the time, Vorontsyev’s breathing …

  … maddening her. A snowplough surged forward like a liner, flung snow enough to bury them, moved away behind them.

  The car skidded across the road, then furiously back as if eager to make amends. Her wrists ached … arms … eyes … Eventually, her ears dulled to his breathing and winces of pain.

  A hundred pairs of streetlamps, two hundred — phantasms of shops and cafes like blank screens to either side, and finally, after perhaps an hour or more, the semi-darkness of the old town, then the dome and cross of the church ag
ainst the town’s bleary light. She drew the car close against dilapidated fencing, behind another vehicle — a customer, in this weather? The libido — pigs Exhausted mockery and contempt whirled slow as planets in her mind.

  She looked across at Vorontsyev, who was struggling from a doze.

  ‘Are we — here?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ she sighed, releasing the steering wheel with difficulty, as if she had captured it long ago as a prize. ‘Yes. The knocking shop — do you think you’re ready for it, sir?’ Then she began giggling with relief, aware that he was looking uncomprehendingly at her, helpless to prevent the giggle from becoming a roar of laughter.

  ‘OK now?’ he asked in the eventual quiet.

  Catching her breath, she said: ‘Yes. Can you climb out unaided or shall I?’

  ‘Help me, please,’ he said with ungentle abruptness.

  She got out of the car, rounded it through the snowdrift, and struggled his weight upright. He leaned gratefully on the roof while she locked the car, then dumbly followed her beside the churchyard, across the lane and along the side paih to the brothel. The old house seemed shrunken by the blizzard, its walls stippled and sheened with ice. The light above the front door fell weakly onto the snow-covered, trodden steps. Vorontsyev slumped against the stone of the porch as she rang the bell.

  Dmitri tugged back the door as if startled from sleep, his features widening into shocked relief, then narrowing at once to solicitation as he admitted Vorontsyev’s condition.

  ‘You look like my mother!’ Vorontsyev growled.

  Dmitri closed the door behind them. Vorontsyev raised his head and found himself confronted by Sonya’s bulk. She was dressed in an expanse of red sweater and trousers that seemed like those of a badly stuffed teddy bear. Her face was a hard, heavily made-up mask. Teplov, in dark slacks and jacket that hung from his small frame, stared out from behind her as if slung from her matronly back, his eyes tired and pessimistic.

  Vorontsyev laughed barkingly, the noise almost at once becoming a cough of pain.