by Rik Stone
“You bastard,” he screamed in a high-pitched voice. “I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill you…” He pulled out the knife and the blade swished from the handle.
“Now that has to count as one of the strangest responses I’ve seen. Here you are, sat in a remote lane with snowmelt running between the cheeks of your ass. I have a gun pointed at you and I’ve just put a bullet into each of your feet. And you’re making the threats.” He laughed. “Some people have no humility.”
Blood ran gray in the glow of the moonlight and diluted as it trickled into thawing ice. Jez fired a third shot and exploded Vasili’s kneecap. A fountain of blood thickened the melting water, which slowed as if halted by an oil slick. Vasili dropped his knife and screamed for mercy.
“No, no, please, don’t shoot me again.” He begged and held his hands up and out. “What do you want me to do? I’ll do anything but please, don’t shoot me again.”
Jez moved closer and kicked the knife out of reach.
“Right, tell me what you know about Mitrokhin and his flesh operation.”
“Mitrokhin?” he said, puzzled. “Mitrokhin isn’t involved with the girls anymore.” He wept the words more than spoke them.
Jez pressed the gun’s cold steel aperture against Vasili’s forehead.
“I want the full outline of Mitrokhin’s operation. If you lie again, I promise I’ll kill you.”
“No, no, please, it isn’t a lie. The operation has passed on from Mitrokhin. He no longer has anything to do with it. Please, that’s the truth.” Vasili wrapped his arms tightly around the top of his leg, trying to emulate a tourniquet. “I need medical attention. Please, please help me.”
“Yes, I will help you, but only after you’ve told me what you know.”
Through words erratic from pain, Vasili told Jez how the operation functioned. How Stefan Polanski was the main man who managed the business in Balashikha. That Stefan now answered to a man called Nabokovski – a mafia gang leader. That Nikkei and Ivan Romanov were two giant identical twin brothers who constantly guarded Stefan. That, other than the brothers, there were always four or five pimps and bodyguards in the club. And that the centre of the operation was the Red Lite nightclub.
“The Red Lite? But that was closed down.”
“That isn’t true, no, and I’ve never heard that it might be.”
Before Vasili had whimpered his answer, in fact as soon as his own words had left his lips, it dawned on him. Why close the club when he was the only incorrupt officer in internal security who knew of its existence?
“You’re right,” he said. “And why would it be? You’ve given me a lot of information, Vasili. You’re just a pimp out in the suburbs. How do you know so much?”
“Stefan is my friend. I’ve known him since we were children. I work this end of the business because I choose to.”
That was more than enough information to work with. Jez could see no more use for Vasili.
“Okay, thanks.”
He walked away, leaving him stranded in the melting water.
“What’re you doing? Where are you going, you bastard? You can’t leave me like this, you fuck. Come back here now. You said you would help me if I told you what I knew.”
Jez halted his pace and turned. Vasili had struggled to get to his feet, but only reached his good knee. Jez thought of the girls, and now this same aggressor knelt before him expecting mercy. His mind’s eye saw Anna walking a step ahead. She stopped and blood oozed from the back of her coat.
“Yes, but like you, Vasili, I don’t always tell the truth.”
He shook the vision clear, and noticed that an unnatural calm had come into his voice. He pointed the pistol and squeezed off a shot. Fifteen paces, and other than moonlight, stars and sludgy snow, darkness prevailed. But the 9 mm piece of lead flew with uncanny accuracy, made a slapping sound, and forced a gaping cavity in the centre of Vasili’s forehead. The pimp fell back and landed face-up on the gritted road. For a moment, his body shook, but when it came to rest, his open eyes stared up dreamily into the starlit heavens.
“All in all,” Jez said, taking ID and money from the dead man’s jacket, “a fitting end for such a romantic man.”
*
Jez went back to the Korbet home. He’d decided to stay for another two nights to go over his plans and make sure his preparations were still on track. Vasili’s information threw in a new twist and a few changes would be necessary.
“What happened to Vasili?” Rula asked. The question hung for a moment. Jez didn’t believe she came across as worried about the answer… but no, it might still upset her.
“Best you don’t ask, Rula. But I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough. Your neighbours will dine out on the story for some time to come.”
She seemed to know not to pursue the subject.
In town, Jez bought clothes, did what he could to change his appearance. His encounter with Vasili had changed things. Again, it was time for him to act as a soldier behind enemy lines. He had to forget about love and loss, and return to being the soldier the general had shaped. Now, after years in internal security craving frontline action, he was about to get it.
Chapter 50
Jez waited on Leninsky Avenue, a few meters from the Red Lite nightclub intersection in Balashikha. He’d copied what he’d observed from the pimps: slicked his hair into a stubby ponytail, tied it with a black ribbon, courtesy of Rula, donned a short black blouson leather jacket, put a simple gold chain he’d borrowed from Rula’s mother around his neck, and slipped into a pair of slim-fit trousers. He splayed the collar of an open-neck pink shirt on the outside of his jacket and hoped he wouldn’t have to take it off, or they’d see the shirt’s folds fresh from the box. He kept his beard, but cut it close to his face. Final touches: he placed the PB 6P9 and sound-suppressing barrel in separate pockets, where they’d be easily found when he was searched.
Early evening came and he descended the steps to the club entrance. Nervousness gripped him: these were the steps where only a year earlier his nightmare had begun. Not even a year ago, but for him a lifetime of torment.
He pulled his head back, braced his shoulders, and assumed the confidence the pimps were so practiced at. The guise would be maintained until he reached the office where, so long ago, he’d been overpowered by Mitrokhin and his people.
The handle pushed down, he opened the door and swaggered through the small passageway into the main saloon. People peppered the area: a few girls, several men, a couple of which may well have had an apartment full of second prizes judging by the flattened noses and small crumpled ears. Those with mangled features wore dark suits and sat around the bar on high stools.
An enormous man, also in a dark suit, sat back against the sofa seat that ran the length of the side wall. Arms stretched wide over the back support, he clasped a stubby cigarette between stained fingers, and the length of the ash suggested it had burned away without being smoked. His face had no battle scars, probably because his fighting weight couldn’t be matched.
Jez committed him to memory. He could be a handful when the time came. The passageway that led to the back office was covered by another giant of a man. Identical to the big man against the wall, clearly the other twin brother Vasili had mentioned. Jez approached, looked him over as if he’d picked him up on the bottom of his shoe, and guessed at which brother he might be.
“Ivan?”
With hands religiously folded before him, Romanov smiled sarcastically and nodded. “What if I am?” His answer carried nicotined breath, laced with alcohol.
“If you are, then you should be showing me through to Stefan’s office. He’s expecting me.”
“He never told me.” Romanov looked over to his brother, who had become otherwise engaged with one of the girls.
“Seems like the only way to prove me right or wrong is to take me to him. Or can you think of another way? Oh, yes, maybe you need your brother to come over and assist you with your decision?”
> Irritation visibly increased. “You’re a funny little man, aren’t you? You have weapons?”
“Of course,” Jez said, with amused surprise. Would he have let him go through if he’d said no? He handed over the pistol and held his arms out in crucifixion so that Romanov could search him properly. “Keep that gun with you. I want it back as soon as I speak with Stefan. I feel naked without it.”
“Your name?” the brother asked, as he patted him down.
“Alex Glushchenko,” Jez replied.
Romanov removed the contents of Jez’s pockets, slipped the pistol into his own jacket, and returned the other stuff. “Come… Comrade Glushchenko, and keep your hands where I can see them.”
Jez walked the length of the corridor in front of Romanov. The bodyguard stopped him just before they got to the office, pulled him roughly aside, pushed past, and went in.
“Stefan, I’ve got Alex Glushchenko here.”
Jez walked in behind him, using both hands to straighten his ponytail.
Stefan looked up in surprise. “Alex Glushchenko, Ivan – who the fuck is Alex Glushchenko?”
He was halfway out of his chair to take a better look when Ivan spun round angrily. Jez released a throwing knife from under his ponytail. Ivan stood before him and Jez thrust the dagger upward with the speed of an assassin. The blade penetrated the soft flesh under Ivan’s chin, drove through his tongue and lodged deep into the roof of his mouth. It had to have broken through into the front of his brain. As Ivan brought his hands up under his throat, Jez retrieved his gun and ammunition. Ivan dropped to his knees and froze like a petrified tree. Stefan got to his feet, but only to stand there and gape like a moron.
Ivan’s eyes had opened wide in shock and his throat gurgled as he choked. His hands had settled on the knife and the blood bubbled from his nostrils and down between his lips, running over his chin and hands. He repeatedly grunted, “Uh… ugh…”
Jez focused on Stefan, weighing him up. He was a handsome man, around his mid-thirties, and like the other pimps he was trim and well-dressed. His pencil-line moustache had prematurely greyed and his waved hair was streaked silver at the temples. A salt and pepper mane combed back above a squared-off face gave a respectable impression of Omar Sharif. But handsome or otherwise, darkness simmered in his black-brown eyes.
“Stefan, we have an opportunity to be of help to each other: you give me information, I let you live. But before we start, are you right-handed?” he asked.
Stefan looked puzzled. “Yes – why?”
Jez screwed the sound-suppressor onto the pistol, locked the final twist of the barrel and shot Stefan in the right hand just above the knuckles. A dull clap and he squalled in surprised pain, leapt back in panic, pushed the chair with him until they were stopped by the wall. Jez lifted a finger to his lips and pointed to the gun – shush.
“I have fast reflexes, Stefan. If you are stupid enough to go for a gun with your left hand – well, think about it.”
Stefan’s high cheekbones lost their attractiveness when the disagreeable expression of hurt twisted his face. But Jez’s questions would have to wait. He’d noticed the wooden filing cabinet in the corner and it cried out to be searched. It was locked. “The key,” he demanded. But no sooner had he spoken than the other twin filled the doorframe.
He stopped and stared numbly. “Ivan,” he begged weakly.
Jez took advantage of the big man’s bewilderment. With arm straightened, he aimed the silenced pistol and squeezed off two shots. The slugs thudded into Nikkei’s throat. The closeness of the target and the power of the gun caused the bullets to tear through the back of his neck, undoubtedly severing his spine. Nikkei collapsed like a felled redwood. His body bounced and came to rest face down at the base of Ivan’s knees. Other than “Uh… ugh…” it was a soundless moment. Ivan, still on his knees, both hands clutched to his throat, looked like a priest giving his brother the last rites – and maybe speaking in tongues.
“Okay,” Jez said, and his confidence grew, “key.”
“Desk – bottom left,” Stefan stuttered, coolness completely gone.
Jez slid the desk drawer open and pocketed a wad of cash that lay next to the key. He took out the first folder in the cabinet. The top page had a list of girls’ names, locations of where they had lived and details of… Jez presumed pimps. He thumbed through the entire file.
“This file shows Mitrokhin’s cut from the deal and an address in Leningrad. But Otto Mitrokhin no longer has an affiliation with this operation.”
Stefan looked reluctant to answer and Jez tired of the game. He sighed and pointed the pistol into his victim’s face.
“They’re old documents – just in case,” Stefan spluttered.
“I suppose these are the names of abducted women? Think hard before you answer. I have a bullet for each lie you tell me.”
Stefan’s face twitched and nervousness showed itself in the top lid of his left eye. The eye flickered and seemed to obsess him. He rubbed at the lid, pulled at the eyelash.
“Well?” Jez demanded impatiently.
“Yes, they’re the girls that were taken when Mitrokhin ran the game. I kept the details as extra insurance, like I said before, just in case.” His concentration returned to the eyelid.
Jez had been right about the missing peasant girls from the outset, but took no satisfaction from the knowledge. He put the file down on the desk and carried on. Several more folders, one highlighting the dealings of the new boss, Nabokovski; clearly more insurance policies. He put the sheets on Nabokovski together with the stuff on Mitrokhin and pulled out the last file from the drawer. It contained information about a man named Jacob Bernstein.
“Who’s this Bernstein?” Jez asked.
Stefan shifted uncomfortably on his seat and his attention returned to the wound in his hand. Jez became impatient.
“Stefan, I have no intention of constantly repeating my promise of injury. Any information you give me is between us, but this is the last time I ask. Who is Jacob Bernstein? And ask yourself, is holding back really worth dying for?”
“He’s Otto’s accountant. When Otto ran the operation, Adrik took their cut to the Jew in Leningrad. Bernstein manages Otto’s investments.”
“I suppose he’s no longer with him now the trafficking has been sold on?”
Stefan almost laughed. “You’re not serious. Otto has hundreds of scams in operation. Bernstein is probably working harder than ever.”
Jez put the folder on the stack and looked at the first list again. Two names had caught his eye, because they were Jewish. “There are two girls with the name Bernstein: any relation to Jacob?”
“Yes, his daughters… Otto’s little joke,” Stefan nearly grinned, but he moved his hand at the same time and only managed to wince. “He hates Jews, but needed the accountant. He told Bernstein he could get jobs and quarters in Europe for the girls… as a favor. You know, the old story: a better life. Bernstein knew Otto was crooked, but had no idea about the trafficking. His girls were shipped to Turkey where Beyrek Ozel works them. He makes them write to their father every now and then. The letters are posted from Italy.”
“This Turk, who is he? Where are his details?”
“In that same dossier, it’s all there.”
“Good. Now, vodka; is there any vodka?” he asked.
Stefan cocked an eyebrow but kept quiet and pointed to the wooden cupboard. The middle shelf was full of bottles. Jez took a couple out. He unscrewed the caps, emptied a little onto the top of the cabinet, rolled up a file he didn’t want and wound it into the neck. There was a cloth also on top of the cabinet, which he used to mop up the spilt alcohol, then stuffed it into the other bottle. Simple, but the revolutionaries never pretended the weapon was clever.
Jez pulled Stefan to his feet and spread-eagled him over the doorframe. “Wait,” he commanded, as if talking to a dog, and tucked the documents into his waistband. He lit both fuses, waited until the cloth had a big enough lick
and tossed both cocktails against the back wall. The flames flared and climbed the height of the office. The doors on the wooden cupboard were open and in seconds the flame surrounded the bottles he’d left untouched.
Stepping over Nikkei’s body, he pushed Stefan through into the corridor and pulled him backwards in the opposite direction to the saloon. Within a couple of meters of the door, the office exploded and fire flares chased them along the passageway.
Shouts echoed from the saloon area. Three men who were sitting at the bar earlier filled the aisle and gun muzzles flashed. Bullets splintered shards from the wooden fire door behind Jez. Another shot sliced through his upper arm, burning like a fireball. It hurt like hell, but he was sure it hadn’t hit bone. Even so it was bleeding enough for him to need to get out quick, or soon he’d be too weak to defend himself.
“Stop it, you fools,” Stefan shouted. “You’ll hit me!”
Jez slipped his pistol under Stefan’s arm and fired twice. The first shot was erratic, the bullet ricocheted, exploded plaster from the wall. Dust clouded the hallway, but the bullet fluked and struck a man in the cheek. He spun, fell to the floor with his hands clutched to his face and screamed.
The second shot flew straight and plunged into a man’s abdomen. No need to fire again, the third gunman had shied away. Jez noticed the bloodflow from his arm increase. Time to get out; a bullet wound and smoke billowing into the corridor could equal poor health. He gripped the back of Stefan’s hair, kicked the bar on the fire door and dragged him out.
At the top of the steps in a back alley, Jez spun Stefan to face him and stuck the gun in his face. “Tell Nabokovski, Otto wants his operation back.”
“Otto, you work for Otto, but…”
Jez walked away, but then stopped. One thing he didn’t need was Stefan back in the saloon organizing the troops. He shot him in the thigh. Stefan howled and fell, clutching his leg. Jez disappeared into the night.
