“All fine quality,” Aleks said. “But I am looking for something special.”
The man returned the rack beneath the case, glanced at Aleks. “I am intrigued.”
“I am looking for a Barhydt.”
The man drew a quick breath in reaction, recovered. “I see.”
Jan-Marie Barhydt was a limited edition armorer from Holland, an artisan of the first order. He produced some of the finest and most sought after knives in the world.
“I’m afraid this is something quite expensive,” the man said. “We are a small, humble shop. We don’t carry these items.”
The dance, Aleks thought. Always the dance. He held the man’s gaze for a moment, then reached into his pocket and removed three money clips, each clasped around a stack of different currency. Euros, US dollars, and Estonian kroon. He placed the three stacks on the counter, like an expensive shell game.
For a few moments, no words were spoken. The man glanced briefly toward the door, and the street beyond. They were indeed alone. He placed his right forefinger on the stack of euros. Aleks put the other currencies away, unclipped the bills. He counted off 3,000 euros, roughly 4,500 US dollars. “If one of these items were to be available here,” Aleks said, “would this be adequate compensation?”
The man’s eyes flashed for a moment. “It most certainly would,” he said. “Would you excuse me?”
“Of course.”
The man disappeared into a back room, emerged moments later. In his hand was a beautiful walnut case. He opened it. Inside was a thing of beauty, a stunning specimen of craftsmanship. The blade was hot-blued Damascus, as were the bolsters. The scales were premium white mother of pearl, the titanium liners were anodized purple, the back bar was inlayed with four pieces of abalone. It was an authentic Barhydt.
“I shall have this,” Aleks said.
“Very good, sir.” The man brought the box to the rear of the store. He slipped the polished case into a felt bag, drew closed the gold twine. Moments later he walked around the counter carrying a handled shopping bag with VILLEROY TERARIISTAD on the side. He handed the bag to Aleks.
Before leaving, Aleks looked at his watch, a gold Piaget he wore on his left wrist, the crystal facing in. Being a purveyor of fine things, Aleks knew the man’s eye would be drawn to the timepiece. What Aleks wanted the man to note was not the expensive piece of jewelry, but rather the elaborate tattoo on Aleks’s wrist, the black star peeking out from beneath his shirt cuff.
When Aleks glanced up at the man, the man was looking at him directly. Aleks did not have to say a further word.
There was no box, no bag. There was no Barhydt. No money had changed hands, no commerce had been conducted. In fact, the tall man with the pale blue eyes and small ragged scar on his left cheek was never there.
Paulu was vennaskond, a fellow thief. But vennaskond were not merely thieves, they were brothers, and adhered to a strict code. Steal from one, you steal from all. A vennaskond was never without someone at his back.
In his early thirties, Paulu was slight of build, but quite robust, with fast movements and a nervous energy that never allowed him to keep still. He had grown up in the city and was therefore never at peace, never at rest. He wore his black hair straight back. A pair of gold hoops ringed his right ear lobe. He displayed his tattoos with unabashed pride on his forearms and neck.
They met on a secluded section of the western shore of Lake ulemiste, just a few miles south of Tallinn city center. The main airport was on the eastern side, and every few minutes another plane roared overhead. The two men spoke in Estonian.
“When will he arrive?” Aleks asked.
“Eleven. They say he is quite punctual.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Not much,” Paulu said. “I told him you have a daughter, a daughter who is pregnant with the child of a Lithuanian. I told him you were in the market to sell the baby.”
“And you are certain he is the man who made the deal to sell my Anna and Marya?”
Paulu nodded. “Through his minions, he made the deal. He has been in the black market for children for many years.”
“Why haven’t I found him before?”
“He is expensive and secretive. There are many people afraid of him, too. I had to meet with three other men first. I had to pay them all.”
This angered Aleks, but he pushed the feeling back. Now was not the time for anger. “He will come alone?”
Paulu smiled. “Yes. He is this arrogant.”
Ten minutes later, bright headlights split the darkness. A vehicle topped the hill; a candy red American SUV with chrome wheels. The sound system blasted Russian rap.
Another gaudy vory, Aleks thought.
“That is him,” Paulu said.
Aleks reached into his pocket, pulled out a rubber-banded roll of euros. He handed it to Paulu, who pocketed the roll without looking at it.
“Where do you want me?” Paulu asked.
Aleks nodded to the hill to the west. “Give this five minutes. Then go.”
The smaller man hugged Aleks once – a man he had never met before this night, a man to whom he was bound in ways even deeper than blood – then slipped onto his motorcycle. Moments later he was gone. Aleks knew he would watch from the nearby hill much longer than five minutes. This was the vennaskond way.
When Paulu’s bike was out of sight, the SUV cut its lights. The man soon emerged. The Finn was big, nearly as tall as Aleks, but soft in the middle. He wore a tan duster, cowboy boots. He had thinning ice white hair to his shoulders, a yeasty, wattled neck. He wore red wraparounds at night. He would be slow.
His name was Mikko Vanska.
Vanska smelled of American cologne and French cigarettes.
“You are Mr Tamm?” he asked. Tamm was Estonian for oak. They both knew it was not a real name.
Aleks nodded. They shook hands cordially, lightly. The distaste between them was thicker than the smell of spent airplane fuel in the air.
“I understand you have something to sell,” Vanska said.
Something, Aleks thought. This was how this man thought of the children, of Anna and Marya, as if they were objects, some sort of commodity. He wanted to kill him right there and then.
Vanska reached inside his coat, extracted a pack of Gitanes, put one between his lips. He then took out a gold lighter, lit the cigarette, drew on it deeply. All quite dramatic and unimpressive. All leading up to a discussion of money.
“There are many expenses on my end,” Vanska began, as expected.
Aleks just nodded, remained silent.
“I have traveled a good distance to be here, and there are a number of people – highly placed people – who must be paid.” At this, Mikko Vanska removed his sunglasses. His face was bone-pale, with dark smudges beneath his eyes. He was a drug addict. Aleks surmised meth.
“What is your profession?” Vanska asked.
“I am a farrier,” Aleks replied. While it was true that he shod his own horses, there was something in the tone of his reply that told Vanska it was not exactly the truth. The man ran his hand through his greasy white hair. He looked out over the lake, then back.
“You do not have a child to sell at all, do you?”
Aleks just stared at the man. It was answer enough.
Vanska nodded. He smiled, crushed out his cigarette with the toe of his boot. He used the movement to slide back the hem of his coat. The move was not lost on Aleks.
“Do you know who I am?” Vanska asked.
“I do.”
The man shifted his weight. Aleks relaxed his massive shoulder muscles, poised to strike. “And yet you waste my time. You do not do this with Mikko Vanska. Tallinn is my city. You will learn this.”
Aleks knew it was pointless trying to finesse men like Vanska. They looked at him as if he were some sort of rube, a provincial from south-eastern Estonia. “Let us just say it is a tragic character flaw.”
Mikko laughed, a raspy sound that echoed among
the trees. “I am going to leave now,” he said. “But not until you pay me for my time. And my time is very expensive.”
“I think not.”
Vanska looked up. It was clear he did not hear this sentiment often. Before he could make a move or a reply, Aleks had the man off his feet, face down on the muddy earth, the air punched from his lungs. An instant later Aleks had the man’s weapon removed from the holster at the small of his back. It was an expensive SIG P210. He continued to pat him down, found nothing else. He lifted the dazed Vanska back up to his feet.
“The question now is, my Finnish friend,” Aleks began, his face just a few inches from Vanska’s, “do you know who I am?”
A tic in the man’s lower lip betrayed his fear. He remained silent as he caught his breath.
“I am Koschei,” Aleks said.
The man smirked, then realized that Aleks was serious, and probably insane. This made him twice as dangerous.
“This is a myth,” Vanska said. “Koschei the Deathless. A tale for children and old women.”
Aleks lifted the SIG, chambered a round. He handed it back to Vanska. Vanska took it in a snap, leveled it at Aleks, his hands shaking. “Fuck you, vittu! You do not come to Tallinn and talk this way to me. You do not lay your fucking hands on me.”
Aleks shrugged, took a backward step. “Then you have no choice but to shoot me. I understand.”
“What?”
Aleks slapped Vanska across the face. Hard. So hard the man stumbled back a few steps. His lower lip began to bleed. Hands trembling violently now, Vanska cocked the weapon.
Again Aleks slapped the man; this time a rotted tooth flew from Vanska’s mouth. Vanska put the gun to Aleks’s forehead and pulled the trigger.
Instead of a loud report, there was only the small, impotent echo of metal on metal. The weapon had jammed.
For a moment, Tallinn fell silent. No traffic, no airplanes. Just the sound of the water lapping onto the shore of Lake Ulemiste.
With lightning speed, Aleks lashed out with his left hand, striking the man just beneath the solar plexus. Vanska dropped the weapon, clutched his heaving stomach. A gush of yellow vomit flew from his mouth. Aleks picked up the SIG and threw it into the lake.
When Vanska caught his breath, Aleks slipped the Barhydt out of its sheath, opened it to its fearsome length. Vanska’s eyes bulged at the sight. Aleks touched a finger to the perfect steel. It seemed to disappear in the blackness of the night.
“You should know this about me, Mikko Vanska. I am a man who asks a question just one time. I will ask you a question. You will tell me the truth. Then we will part company.”
Vanska tried to stand tall. His shaking knees prevented this. He remained silent.
“Four years ago, just before Easter, you brokered the illegal adoption of two newborn Estonian girls,” Aleks said. “The girls were stolen from their mother’s bed in Ida-Viru County. All this I know to be true. Who was your contact on the other end?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Aleks brought the knife up with a movement so fast it seemed a mere distortion of air. At first, Vanska did not know what happened. A second later, it was all too clear. The man in front of him had slit open his left eye. Vanska fell to his knees, blood gushing between his fingers, his shrieks echoing across the ancient hills. Aleks knelt, covered the man’s mouth. The snarl of another jet soon covered the screams.
“A man can live with just one eye, yes?” Aleks asked when the roar had trailed to silence. “He cannot live without his heart.” Aleks held the tip of the blade over the man’s chest.
“A man,” he said. His breath came in small, wet gasps. His face was spider-webbed with blood. “His name is Harkov. Viktor Harkov.”
“A Russian?”
Vanska nodded.
“He is in Russia?”
The man shook his head. Blood flicked from the open wound. “He is in New York City.”
The United States, Aleks thought. He had never imagined this. Anna and Marya were now American children. It would take a lot to undo this. And getting them out presented a whole new set of problems. “New York City is a big place,” Aleks said. “Where is he in this city?”
For a moment it appeared as if Vanska was going to go into shock. Aleks cracked an ammonia capsule beneath his nose. The man choked, took a deep breath. “He is in a place called Queens, New York City.”
Queens, Aleks thought. He knew someone in New York City, a man named Konstantine Udenko, a man with whom he had served in the federal army. Konstantine would help him find this Viktor Harkov.
For a moment Aleks studied Vanska’s face, or what was visible beneath the gloss of fresh blood. He believed him. He had little choice. He put his gloved hands under the man’s chin, stared into his remaining eye. “You told me what I needed to know, and I now consider you to be a wise and honorable man. I am going to let you live.” Aleks brought his face close. “But I want you to tell your associates of me, of this man from Kolossova who is to be taken seriously, a man who cannot be killed. You will do this?”
Another slow nod.
“Good.” Aleks helped the man to his feet. The man was heavy, and offered no aid, but Aleks’s arms and back were powerful. He handled him with ease. “Which is the nearest hospital?”
Vanska hesitated. He had not expected this. “West Tallinn Central. On Ravi Street.”
“I have a car,” Aleks said. He pointed to the crest of the hill. “Just around the bend. I will take you. Do you know the way?”
“Yes.”
“Can you walk?”
The man took a few moments, found his center. “I… I think so.”
Aleks glanced over Vanska’s shoulder. He saw the moon reflecting off the glassy surface of Lake ulemiste. He recalled the way the Narva River shimmered on warm summer nights in his youth, glimpsed from the window of his stifling stone room in the orphanage, how he had always wondered what lay at either end.
He thought about his little girls, about this man in front of him. The wrath ignited within him as…
… the acrid smell of burning flesh hangs over Grozny, a damp, red blanket of death. In this hellish moment, as death rattles around him, he feels his destiny, the centuries he has lived, the centuries yet to come. He sees the farmhouse at the top of the hill. He hears the cries of the dying animals and…
… the man’s arrogant words.
You have something to sell?
Aleks turned. In one nimble motion, he spun 360 degrees, the torque of the movement, combined with his strong legs and back muscles – as well as the exquisite steel of the Barhydt – caught Mikko Vanska just below his jaw, nearly severing his head from his body. The arterial spray launched nearly ten feet as the man chicken-stepped. Aleks then plunged the knife deep into the man’s groin, bringing it up with great strength. He pulled it out and finished with a lateral slash forming a T. Vanska’s bowels spilled into the night, pink and black and foul as the man himself. He was dead before he hit the ground. Steam rose from the ropy entrails.
Aleks took a moment, closed his eyes, sensing the man’s soul on its journey. He always gave this moment its due. In the distance, in the silent canopies of the forest, a murder of crows stirred, awaiting its moment.
Ten minutes later Aleks walked to his car, and drove back to the center of the city. Tallinn was coming alive, and he would take full advantage of its charms.
Harkov, he thought. Viktor Harkov of Queens, New York City.
I will meet you very soon.
The next morning Aleks awoke early, showered, dressed casually. He had rolled Mikko Vanska into a large canvas tarpaulin, weighted his body with stones, and sank him in Lake ulemiste. It would only be days before the man floated to the surface, but by then Aleks would be long gone.
Over breakfast, he logged onto the Internet and began to plan his week. He purchased an e-ticket to New York. He made arrangements for lodging in New York, and arranged to ship what he could not brin
g with him – including the Barhydt, and more than one hundred thousand US dollars in cash – via International FedEx. He returned to his room, packed everything into a FedEx box, and dropped it off with the concierge.
He may not have been at home in the city, but he availed himself of every progress, every advancement. Laptops, cellphones, wi-fi, online banking.
Over his final cup of coffee he searched the web for Viktor Harkov. He found him with ease. Viktor Harkov, Esq., was the owner of a firm called People’s Legal Services. He printed off the information at the hotel’s business center, making sure he erased all files and the cache from the hotel’s computer. He slipped the data into his carry-on bag.
During a layover in London’s Heathrow Airport Terminal Five – while luxuriating in the British Airways Terraces lounge, the area set aside for those traveling business class – Aleks allowed himself a massage in the Elemis spa.
Three hours later he sat in the section of the lounge overlooking his gate, a tumbler of Johnnie Walker Black in hand. He glanced down, saw Elena’s face swim up from the depths of the clear amber liquid. He recalled the first time he saw her, standing in the grove where he had seen the grey wolf, already an ennustaja of her village at the age of seven.
He wondered: would Anna and Marya look like Elena? Would they have the same beguiling blue eyes, the same milky skin?
He reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat. He took out the three crystal vials held on an exquisite gold chain. One of the vials was filled with blood. Two were empty. He slipped the chain around his neck.
Three girls, Aleks thought. The legend of Koschei and the prince’s sisters. Anna, Marya, and Olga. When all their blood was at long last his, they would live forever.
He looked out the window at the lights of Heathrow’s runways. Cities, he thought. How he hated them, and all that they have spawned. Now he was heading to the most important city in the world.
An hour later he settled into his seat on the plane, the power within him beginning to grow.
The Devil_s Garden Page 4
