by Adam Hall
'Shit!' she said, to more laughter.
'I'm sorry – I'll order some more, it won't take a minute.'
One of the servers came round from behind the counter with a bucket and a mop, looking daggers at me while I apologized again and gave the order, getting the same for myself, the potato soup and kebabs, while Mitzi told the two workmen to shut up, it wasn't funny, I liked her anger, it had a cat's energy, where did she want to sit, I asked her when I had the two trays in my hands.
I followed her to one of the bare scrubbed tables. 'Mind if I join you?'
'Please yourself.' She was silent for a while, wanting me to know she didn't forgive easily, then looked up from her soup. 'Clumsy oaf,' she said, but with a quick bright smile.
'Dead right.'
She opened her money pouch and flattened a bank-note on the table. 'You didn't have to do that.'
'One should pay for one's mistakes. Dmitri,' I added, 'Dmitri Berinov.'
'Mitzi Piatilova.' She picked up the note and put it away.
I took my time, talked about the snow, the plane crash, the fist-fight they'd had in the Duma last night, it had been in the papers, talked about Zhirinovsky.
'He's a genius,' Mitzi said.
'He is?'
'Look,' she leaned across the table, her long eyes serious, intense, 'that man has it in him to bring Russia back as an imperial power in the world. I like that.'
'He'll need to shoot an awful lot of people.'
'So? You remember what he said? "I may have to shoot a hundred thousand people, but the other three hundred million will live in peace." '
'You're ready for dictatorship?'
'With a man like Zhirinovsky as our leader, yes. He could make real changes, sweeping and dramatic changes, clear out the trash we've been living with for all this time.'
'Yeltsin can't do that?'
'Yeltsin is in the pay of America. Russia can get back her place in the world without any help from the almighty dollar. Look at what Zhirinovsky did when he went over there – he spat in their eye. That's the message we need to get across: we're an independent, sovereign people, and give us ten years – maybe even five – with a man like that in charge, and we'll be powerful again in our own right, a force to be reckoned with.' Her hand slapping the table: 'Russia had a soul once, and that man can give it life again.'
'You're in politics?'
'Politics? No, I'm with the RAOC. But an ordinary citizen can -'
'You work over there, across the street?'
'Yes.'
'You don't look like a bureaucrat.'
'I'm not a bloody bureaucrat,' and her eyes flashed again. 'We're fighting crime.'
'Making much headway?'
'Are you serious?' With a short laugh.
When her glass was empty I went to the counter for some more vasti and came back with some pastries as well.
'So why can't you make any headway?'
Mitzi threw her head back. 'Against the mafiya? It's a farce! We catch them and put them into the courts and they buy themselves out or get a slap on the wrist for first-degree murder because either the judge is in league with their boss or he's terrified of making a conviction. It's not difficult in this town to get shot; it doesn't make any difference who you are.'
'Rather frustrating for you.'
'A job is a job.' With a shrug: 'Corruption's everywhere, you know that. We can fight crime but we can't fight corruption.'
'It must be dangerous.'
'Dangerous?'
'Fighting crime.'
She looked across at a man sitting three tables away, then back to me. 'For some of us, yes.'
'He's one of them?'
'Who?'
'The man you were looking at.'
'You don't miss much.' She checked me over with a quick glance. I was wearing the things I'd arrived in last night, black jeans and a padded bomber jacket, not the tra-la tailoring I'd be using later. 'He's one of our special investigators,' Mitzi said. 'They're crazy, you know that? Young bloods after promotion. They think they can take on professional hit men in the street and get away with it. They should leave the mafiya alone.'
'You tell your boss that?'
'Of course not. I got this job because there wasn't anything else. None of us working over there has any illusions. I was talking to a Japanese businessman only a couple of days ago, and he put the whole thing in perspective. He says the organizatsiya provides a service. You know what he did? He found a contact in one of the most powerful syndicates and made a deal with him. The night he opened his fancy sushi bar, people from three or four other gangs paid their usual visit and told him what percentage they were going to take. He'd known this would happen, and all he had to do was give them the name of his protector – the one he'd made the deal with – and they cleared out and never came back. There's an unwritten rule – you take over a protectee from a rival syndicate and you're dead, I mean within twenty-four hours.' She spread her hands. 'The Japanese told me that every entrepreneur needs protection, and since the police can't help him he pays his dues to a syndicate – and gets service.'
'The way the KGB used to run things. Freedom from trouble for sale.'
'Pretty much. The normal abuse of power – nothing's really changed.' With a bright laugh: 'Except that the mafiya's better organized and makes a lot more money.'
The man sitting three tables away was getting up, pushing his chair back and going across to the door. I watched him go out, a young fellow, walking like a cat as he hitched up his belt, a gun there somewhere, adding weight.
I turned back to Mitzi. 'So how long has he got?'
She looked round, and her eyes were deep suddenly. 'Until morning.'
'How do you know?'
In a moment she said, 'I think you're being too inquisitive.' I'd been expecting her to say it earlier, had the pitch ready.
'You want me to be frank?'
'Just as you please.' But she looked suddenly attentive.
'I've got to go over there today.'
'Over where?'
'To the RAOC office. I need some help.'
'What kind of help?'
I leaned across the table, moving the pastries. 'The thing is, I'm not sure which side you're on, Mitzi. I mean, you work for the RAOC but you say the mafiya provides a useful service.'
She watched me steadily. 'What do you think?'
'I agree.'
'You agree?' In a moment, 'I don't know who you are. I think it's time I did.'
I gave it a beat. 'I'll come to that. Do you know any of these people? In the mob? I mean, have you met them in the course of your work?'
She looked down, up again, turning the ring on her middle finger, the sapphire I'd noticed when we'd sat down at the table. It was small but flawless, not the kind of bauble a government worker could buy on the standard pay. But then she was attractive, would have a boyfriend, at least one. I thought it wasinteresting, the way her subconscious attention had gone to the ring when I'd asked her if she knew anyone in the mob. 'One or two,' she said.
'How well?'
'I'm waiting to know who you are.'
I finished my vasti, taking my time about it. 'I'll put it this way. The help I need is for a friend of mine. He's with the Scorpion.' They had fancy names, the chiefs of the syndicates, according to Legge's briefing, some of them taken from the world of the predators – the Jackal, the Tiger – some from the American motor industry: Stingray, Cutlass, Baretta.
In a moment Mitzi said, 'A friend? Or is it yourself?'
'No. I'm an independent entrepreneur.'
'A brave man.'
'I know what I'm risking.'
'I hope so. Anyway, if your friend is with the Scorpion, he shouldn't need any help from outside. They look after their own, like the Sicilians.'
'Normally, yes. But this is a rape case, and the Scorpion doesn't like that. He says it gives the syndicate a bad name.'
'We've got rape cases on our files, of course. Has your frie
nd – you want to tell me his name?'
'Let's call him Boris.'
'Has he been charged?'
'Yes.'
'When?'
'A week ago.
With a shrug: 'It's still nothing anyone in the mafiya would need help with. Even if the Scorpion refuses, Boris must have more than enough cash in hand to fix the judge.'
'For one thing, he gambles – and loses. For another thing, the girl is still in the intensive care unit, and they don't think much of her chances.'
'So it could turn into a rape-murder.'
'Yes.'
Someone dropped an iron saucepan behind the counter, and Mitzi flinched, took a couple of seconds to recover. 'How do you think anyone in the RAOC could help Boris?'
'By taking the heat off him. Admitting to false arrest.'
She looked down again, turning the ring. 'It would be rather dangerous for you to approach our people over there. I only started work with them a month ago, so I don't know which ones would be open to persuasion. Most of them are loyal to the Administration, I do know that. You go to the wrong one and you'd be in trouble yourself. Deep trouble.'
'So what do I do?'
'Look,' she said in a moment, 'you could be anyone. You could be in the RAOC yourself – we've got internal investigators.'
I got out my wallet and put my identification card on the table. London had embossed it to read Dmitri Vladimir Berinov, Import-Export, Overseas Affiliates.
'What do you deal in?' Mitzi asked me.
'Anything I can find a source for. Antiques – mainly icons – furs, gems, strategic metals, drugs.'
'Have you got anything on you?'
I looked around, then pushed a small plastic bag across to her. 'Keep it out of sight.'
Mitzi opened the ziplock and sniffed the contents, her eyes on me. 'Is this coke?'
'You don't recognize it?'
'I'll take your word for it.' She zipped the bag shut and passed it back, her hand covering it. 'What kind of gems?'
'Diamonds, when I can find them. Rubies, opals, tourmaline, sapphires. That's a nice ring you're wearing. I've been admiring it.'
'Thank you.' She tugged her black sweater down, perhaps to show off her breasts: she'd done it several times, just as she tossed her head to show off her chestnut-brown hair. 'So maybe I'll trust you,' she said. 'Maybe I won't. It depends. This Boris – you mean he hasn't got any funds? Because of his gambling?'
'What would you call 'funds"?'
'I don't know – maybe a hundred thousand US dollars.'
'He might be able to find fifty thousand.'
'That could be enough.'
'But you said you don't know the people over there. The ones you might be able to buy.'
'I wouldn't do it through them.'
'How would you do it?'
Ignoring this, 'Ask him if he'll go to fifty thousand. And a thousand for me.'
'If he can't find that much, I will.'
She took another pastry and bit into it, dropping crumbs, watching me all the time. In a moment, 'What guarantee can you give me?'
'My word.'
'That doesn't mean a lot in Moscow these days.'
'It means a lot to me.'
'I like that.'
'And you like money.'
Laughing, tossing her head back, 'It's all I think about. Why shouldn't I?'
'Absolutely no reason. I'm not in import-export for fun, either. Excuse me a minute.'
There was only one man in the lavatory and I got out my wallet and did some counting. Back at the table I stood close to Mitzi and pushed the wad of notes against her arm. 'Put it away without looking at it.'
When she'd taken it I sat down. 'That's your thousand dollars. I'll hand over the fifty when Boris is off the hook.'
She looked at me with her eyes bright. 'How long will you give me?'
'He's due in court tomorrow.'
'That's rather short notice.'
'So you'll have to be quick.' The sooner the executive can find access at the outset of the mission the better it is for his nerves: he's no longer on the prowl in the field, trying to find his direction.
'I can't guarantee anything,' Mitzi said.
'That's understood.'
'You're a generous man.'
'It oils the wheels.'
Someone came in and let the door slam and she flinched again, and again tried to cover it with a wry laugh. 'Christ, somepeople are so noisy!'
'Gets on your nerves.'
She looked at her watch, a thin Jacques Picquot. 'I've only got ten minutes more of my lunch hour.' Getting a ballpoint and a piece of paper from her pouch, she began writing. 'TonightI'll be at the Baccarat Club. It's on Kirova Vlitsa. I'll be sitting at a table near the door. Be there by nine o'clock and give this to the doorman – he'll let you in.' She pushed the slip of paper towards me.
'And then?'
'There's a man you should talk to. I want to be there when he shows up. If he doesn't, I'll try and find someone else. But he should be there – he plays poker in a private room, most nights of the week.'
'He's mafiya?'
'Yes.'
'How big is he?'
'How big?'
'What's his status in the mob?'
She thought about it. 'Maybe halfway up the scale. But powerful. And dangerous – treat him with care.'
'What's his reket? '
'Protection, mainly, but he also deals in sable.'
'Nothing else?'
'Not as far as I know. But he keeps a few judges in his pocket. That's why you should talk to him.'
'You want to tell me his name?'
'Vishinsky. He calls himself the Cougar.'
'How long have you known him?'
'Maybe a month, six weeks. I've only talked to him a couple of times, but I know his reputation. And I see him around.'
'At the club?'
'Yes. I'm a spare-time hostess there when I've got nothing else to do.'
She looked at her watch again and I said, 'I'll be there before nine tonight.'
'All right. It's formal dress.'
'Black tie?'
'No, just a good suit.' She pushed her chair back, tossing her head. 'So I'll see you at the club.'
I got up and went with her to the door, and as I watched her crossing the street I considered the impression she'd been giving me all the time we'd been sitting together. Mitzi Piatilova was running scared.
4: SMOKE
She was extraordinarily supple, using the whole of her body in a wave of sinuous movement that flowed from her arms downward across her hips and into her long slender legs as she placed her feet with an instinctive precision, following me so closely that I had the feeling we were a single creature prowling through the jungle beat of the music.
Her name was Claudette, and the heavy gold necklace she wore had the flamboyance of solid gold.
Sometimes as we turned I saw Mitzi sitting at the end of the bar, the rainbow colours of its lights playing across her face. She hadn't looked in this direction since my partner and I had moved onto the small raised floor.
'Can you get me in?' I asked Claudette.
'To see him?'
'Yes.'
'Why should I?' Her eyes were huge, glinting with the sheen of black sable under snowlight as she watched me, amused, I think, because I couldn't dance with this serpentine grace that she possessed, give me a chance for God's sake, she was the soul of Africa and I was a runt from London.
'Because I want to do business with him,' I said. 'Mitzi said you might do me a favour.'
We were talking about Vishinsky. He was in the private room across there behind the podium where the band was playing. Vishinsky the Cougar. He had come in twenty minutes ago, two of his bodyguards pushing open the twin gilded doors and leading him along the wall past the rose-shaded lamps where people sat with their drinks. Reproduction? They could be original – this was a rich man's haunt, appointed with an understated splendour: the owner was F
rench, Mitzi had told me.
'I'm needed at the bar,' she had also told me when Vishinsky and his entourage had swept into the place. 'Go and dance with the black girl – her name's Claudette. Tell her I want her to help you.'
We turned, turned again, borne along by the music while these huge eyes watched me, never looked away. More than one man, I thought, must have drowned in them.
I didn't think Mitzi was needed at the bar. I thought she'd got cold feet at the last minute. We'd been sitting at a table near the doors waiting for Vishinsky to come in, and she'd said she would intercept him and introduce me, but the very pace of his entrance had made any interruption seem unthinkable, and she hadn't even got up.
'Mitzi thought I might do you a favour?' Claudette asked me.
'Yes.'
'I don't owe her.'
'So will you do me a favour anyway?'
I didn't put a price on it yet. She'd do that if she decided to.
'You say you want to do business with him.'
'Yes.'
'What kind of business?'
I made the gesture of looking around before I spoke. 'I've discovered a source of sable.' The Cougar's reket was mainly protection, Mitzi had told me in the fast food cafe, but he also dealt in sable.
A smile glowed in the huge black eyes. 'Vishinsky is the source of sable.'
'Not all of it.'
'All of the highest quality pelts. The rest aren't worth his attention.'
We turned again, her arms undulating like willow boughs stirred by a summer breeze. 'I'm told he's taken by you,' I said.
'Sometimes he pays me attention, yes. But that doesn't mean I can talk any kind of business with him.'
'I don't need you to. Just get me in there and introduce me.'
'You make it sound so easy. That's because you don't know the Cougar.' The music stopped and we moved to the edge of the floor.
'Would you like a drink?'
She glanced across at the patron, who was standing near the bar, hands tucked behind his dinner jacket, small spade beard, eyes everywhere. 'I think so,' Claudette said.
She asked for a Fernet Branca; I ordered Narzan, no ice. She watched me with her chin on her folded hands.
'No,' I said, 'I don't know the Cougar. So tell me about him.'
