Moscow Noir Page 7

  Veltsev moved his head out from under the shower stream and listened: through the wall he heard a rumbling, first soft, then louder. He’d been hearing this rumbling for a while and hadn’t paid it any mind, thinking it was the pipe rattling, but once he turned off the water he realized the din was coming from the apartment and it was a fight, not the plumbing. Muffled blows and shuffling were interspersed with Lana’s cries and a man’s voice choking from fury. While Veltsev was drying off and putting his clothes back on, the point of the tussle became clear to him in general outline. The man, who spoke with a strong Asian accent, was demanding information from Lana about Sharfik (doubtless the smiling guy in the photograph) and about some major debt. “If he doesn’t come up with it, I’m coming for him!” the man yelled hoarsely. “He’s a dead man! Understand? A dead man! And that guy in the bathroom—does he know? Ask him.”

  “Idiot!” Lana replied, sobbing. “That’s the renter. I told you.”

  Dressed now, Veltsev attached the silencer to his Beretta, slipped a cartridge into its chamber, carefully, held his thumb down on the safety, touched the trigger, stuck the gun in his holster, flung the door open, and came out of the bathroom.

  Lana, wrapped in her robe, was sitting on the bed holding her broken nose. Not only her face but her arms above her wrists and her neck as well were splattered with blood. The imprint of a slap burned on her cheek. Opposite her, his arms akimbo and legs spread, stood her attacker, a strapping, athletically built Uzbek wearing a sheepskin coat sprinkled with melting snow and a large Kalmyk fur cap, earflaps down. A small scar crossed the uninvited guest’s mouth on a slant from nose to chin, beads dangled from his fist, and the merest edge of his knife’s carved hilt stuck out of his fur-trimmed right boot top. Birds of a feather, Veltsev thought. Then: Who the hell let this guy in?

  “Who are you?” the Uzbek breathed out at Veltsev, turning toward him slowly, as if he were going to kick him.

  Veltsev peered at a very still Lana.

  “Go get washed, please,” he told her.

  She rose silently; splashing him with the scent of her floral cream, she proceeded to the bathroom. The bolt clicked in the door. Veltsev collected the photograph from the sideboard glass and held it out to the Uzbek.

  “I’m here because of him too.”

  “What?” The Uzbek grabbed the snapshot and stared at it vacantly, as if it were blank. “Because of what?”

  “I know where the money is,” Veltsev explained. “You came for the money, right? So did I. Let’s go.”

  The Uzbek threw the photograph at his feet and swung his beads. “Where?”

  Veltsev backed up and glanced into the front hall: a key with electrical tape wrapped around the handle was jutting out of the keyhole. “To get the money. I’m telling you. It’s close by.”

  The area around the front of the house was spectral, tinted by the light from the windows. Big fat snowflakes were falling from the sky. The trees, the cars, the garages—everything with the exception of the Land Cruiser blocking the alley—was covered in a layer of white. The newly fallen snow creaked underfoot. Veltsev lit up, peered around as he was walking, and nodded at the Uzbek waiting in the lobby. Passing down the ravine between the cemetery fences and the business center, they descended to the Yauza. Not wide, ten meters or so, the channel appeared narrower than it actually was because of the ice frozen along its banks. Veltsev touched the thin crust with his boot tip, as if he were searching for something, took a few steps up and downstream. Saying not a word, the Uzbek shone the flashlight for him. “Here,” Veltsev said at last, pointing at random at the black water. “Only we need something to retrieve it with.” The Uzbek had come closer to the water too, and was regarding it warily. He was holding the light in his left hand, and the end of his knife hilt peeked out of his closed right hand. “We need something to retrieve it with,” Veltsev repeated, and walked over to the reeds on the riverbank. Pulling his gun out of the holster, he took a quick look around. Not far away, on the river, outside the circle of light, he heard the quacking of ducks, and down the opposite bank fireworks were chirring and exploding.

  In the air, thick with snow, the shot clanged softly, as if getting stuck in it. The bullet hit the Uzbek at the very base of his neck, knocking out of his cap a puff of what was either steam or dust. The Uzbek dropped the flashlight, sat down briefly, and fell face-first into the water. After rifling the dead man’s pockets, Veltsev took his car keys and shoved the body with his feet farther into the water, where the current would quickly bear him away. The earflaps of his fur cap, which was still smoking from the shot, floated in the water. A double ribbon of blood danced on the bottom in the flashlight’s tiny glow.

  The snowfall had been heavy enough that Veltsev didn’t find his own tracks on the way back. On the other hand, he did find a handprint on the driver’s door of the SUV, which was parked in the middle of the road. “Asshole.” Veltsev made quick work of searching the hash- and sheepskin-impregnated glove compartment, drove the car to the cemetery gate, and abandoned it there on the shoulder of the road. On the way the car phone rang twice, and both times he could barely restrain himself from answering with some graveyard humor.

  When Lana found out what had happened, she clutched her head with both hands, dropped into the armchair feet first, and said, “That’s it. I’m a dead man too. “

  “Why’s that?” Veltsev asked.

  “He’d been on the phone arranging… a meet-up with his pals near the front door.”

  “A meet-up—for when?”

  Lana looked at the cuckoo clock. “Eleven-thirty. In an hour, I guess.” Still holding her head she turned toward Veltsev. “Listen, couldn’t you have asked me what was going on? Before you—”

  “Do you have the 300,000 he was talking about?” Veltsev interrupted her.

  “Where would I get that?” Lana’s eyebrows shot up. “I’ve got five hundred rubles till Wednesday.”

  “And this Sharfik of yours—do you know where he is?”

  “I told you where.”

  Veltsev pulled his sleeve back over his watch. “In that case, calm down. They didn’t come for the money today.”

  Lana dropped her arms. “What did they come for?”

  “You.”

  “Why?”

  “He was going to have himself a horror flick. Do you have somewhere to go?”

  “No.”

  “I can put you up in a hotel for a little while.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t have my passport.”

  “Why not?”

  “Baba Agafia has it.”

  “So?”

  “So she won’t give it back.”

  Veltsev wiped his face, which was still wet from snow. “Damn. I can’t stay here long.”

  Lana sniffed her swollen nose. “I’m not keeping you.”

  Grinning, he gave her a close, appraising look. “That’s not likely to win you a star for heroism.”

  Hugging her knees, Lana looked blindly ahead and fiddled with her toes. “Fine with me. We’ve got a whole cemetery full of heroes right here.”

  Veltsev took the magazine out of the gun, brought it up to his eyes like a thermometer, and jammed the weapon back in the holster. “I’m asking you for the last time. Will you come with me?”

  She didn’t answer, in fact she seemed to have stopped hearing him altogether. Veltsev took his wet cap off the shelf in the front hall, replaced it with three thousand-ruble bills, took one more look at Lana, and pushed the door open with his fist.

  It was snowing a little less, but the wind had picked up. In the courtyard the wind beat only at the treetops, but as soon as Veltsev came out in the open it took his breath away. He was walking back to the subway, heading toward Menzhinsky Street, following the same route he’d taken an hour and ten minutes before—down the shoulder of the road between river and cemetery. “Pigheaded fool,” he said aloud through clenched teeth, squinting at
the cutting snow. He raged less at Lana than at himself for imagining god knows what about her. Waiting for the Uzbek’s buddies to show up was sure suicide, and Veltsev had no idea where to get ahold of more rounds now. He’d cut off access to his home arsenal yesterday, and there was too much risk involved in going to his old suppliers. There was still one other Mityai gunman left, of course, Kirila the Kalmyk. Veltsev had beaten off a band of skinheads for him the year before last and ever since had been practically a second father to him. After what happened yesterday, however, when Kirila was left completely out of the loop, even his filial feelings might have changed; furthermore, contacting him now presented a purely technical problem. Veltsev had smashed the SIM card from his own telephone and thrown it out the day before as he left the club, and a call from Lana’s apartment could easily be traced. After taking a few shaky steps, Veltsev stood up and brushed the snow from his eyelashes. The thought of the phone in the Uzbek’s Land Cruiser came to him the second before he noticed the SUV there in front of him, right where he’d abandoned it.

  Kirila the Kalmyk answered the moment the call went through.

  “Yeah.”

  “Got the number?” Veltsev said instead of a greeting.

  “Yeah,” Kirila replied after a slight hesitation.

  “Call back from a pay phone. Only not from your building or wherever you are.” Veltsev hung up, started the engine, adjusted the rearview mirror with a finger, and examined himself carefully. Weirdo psycho.

  A transparent sticker with Arabic lettering bubbled up in the corner of the mirror. Veltsev was about to scratch it off when the phone rang. He picked up.

  “Hello.”

  The acute, spacious silence of the ether pulsed in the receiver. Veltsev called the incoming number—they were calling from a cell phone. Calling the Uzbek, that is.

  “Hell on the line,” Veltsev said and he waited a little, ended the call, and looked in the mirror again. “Warm already.”

  When Kirila called, his voice was cracking from strain. “Everyone got blown away. What were you thinking? The committee’s mopping up both the crooks and the cops. You know who Mityai was working for. They’ve got three mil on you.”

  “Already know how you’ll spend it?” Veltsev asked.

  Kirila said nothing, breathing loudly through his nose.

  “Sorry,” Veltsev sighed. “Here’s what’s up. I need a couple of clips for my Beretta—bad. Forty minutes tops. Bring them?”

  “Where?”

  “Babushkinskaya. When you turn off Menzhinsky onto Olonetsky, there’s this business center. Right behind the cemetery. Can you make it?”

  “I’ll try.”

  Veltsev tossed the phone on the seat, turned the wheel from side to side, and, without putting the vehicle in gear, hit the pedal a few times, so abruptly and hard that the heavy vehicle rocked.

  Half an hour later, Kirila’s Cayenne, plastered with snow, rolled into the vacant parking lot in front of the business center fence. Veltsev, who had left the Land Cruiser in back of the apartment building, was waiting behind the trees between the road and the river. Once he was convinced that Kirila had come alone and hadn’t brought a tail, he got in the car with him. The smell of alcohol struck him immediately.

  “Batya”—the Kalmyk called him “Father” even though he was just ten years younger—“I respect you!” The man broke out in a smile, holding out his right hand to Veltsev and three full magazines in his left.

  Veltsev shook the fighter’s rock-hard hand, took the magazines, and reloaded his gun. “What do you respect me for, Kila-Kirila?”

  “Oh, just in general.” Kalmyk shook his shoulders. “If Mityai had done the same to me, with my Svetka… I don’t know. I wouldn’t have had the nerve. Maybe if I was high.”

  Veltsev holstered his gun, distributed the extra magazines in his pockets, straightened his clothes, and stared into Kirila’s eyes. “Well, how’s it going? Many gunning for the three mil?”

  “I don’t know.” Kirila sobered up instantly. “I haven’t seen anybody today. Everyone’s crazy angry, of course—at you and at Mityai. The committee’s after him for treason. You know all about it.”

  “Right.” Veltsev glanced at his watch and reached for the door. “Gotta go.”

  “Listen!” Kalmyk barked. “Maybe I should come along.”

  “No, Kila.” Veltsev jumped down into the snow. “You’ve helped enough as it is.” Slamming the door, he headed for the alley behind the parking lot.

  “Well, I’ll hang out here another five minutes anyway!” Kirila shouted after him.

  Veltsev waved him off in silence.

  The storm was picking up. Snow was eddying in the lane and from time to time the wind gusted so hard it made his ears ring. A few meters before the corner, between the rear and front façades of the apartment building, Veltsev heard a woman’s anguished cries coming from the courtyard. He could make out the blue glow of a flashing light. His gun at the ready, Veltsev peeked around the wall. Where the Uzbek’s Land Cruiser had recently been parked, Mityai’s empty Geländewagen sat idling in exhaust. The flashing light was poking up off the top of the armored car’s roof. Next to the car, on the narrow patch of ground between the alley and the door of the scorched lobby, Baba Agafia was trying to beat off Kostik, Mityai’s chief bodyguard, who was attempting to strong-arm her. “I’m not letting you in! I’m not letting you the hell in! Get out! Get out!” Baba Agafia rasped as if it were her last breath, and she tried to hit Kostik, windmilling like a swimmer. Mishanya Ryazanets was marking time behind Kostik. A little farther off, in a side alley, wiping his frozen mustache with his wrist, a thug Veltsev didn’t know wearing a cashmere coat and a tall fur cap was pacing back and forth, a lit cigarette in one hand and a walkie-talkie crackling in the other. Veltsev stepped back behind the corner and pressed himself to the wall.

  Thank you so much, Kila-Kirila.

  He had to make a decision, but before he could think of anything he saw Double Dima—the identical twin of Jack, who had died yesterday with Mityai—coming around the opposite corner of the building, from around back. Cursing, Dima was zipping his fly as he walked and stamping his feet from the cold. A walkie-talkie antenna was poking out of the pocket of his sport coat, and his legs were caked with snow up to the knees. Veltsev ran toward him with his gun in his outstretched arm, so that by the time Dima finished with his fly and looked up, his forehead nearly ran into the Beretta’s silencer.

  “Back,” Veltsev commanded, advancing. “Nice and easy.”

  Dima, dumbstruck, started backing up submissively. Around the corner, in the front garden, Veltsev made him kneel in the snow and noticed a line of tracks near the wall.

  “Have you been peeking in windows, you bad boy?”

  Dima vaguely waved his raised hands. His bulletproof vest bulged out between the lapels of his open jacket.

  “Give me the walkie-talkie,” Veltsev said.

  Dima fumbled in his pocket and handed it over.

  “Easy,” Veltsev said, “nice and easy. Tell them you see me and can take me out through the window. Repeat it.”

  “I can see… him through the window, I can take him out.”

  “Do it.”

  Dima spoke the words into the walkie-talkie, and as soon as he heard the reply—“One sec, we’re there”—Veltsev shot him right between the eyes. Shuddering as if gripped by a powerful chill, Dima collapsed onto his side and stretched out his legs. The snow under his head sank quickly and turned dark. Riveted by the sight of blood, Veltsev recalled how he’d shot Jack yesterday the same way, in the head; he spat and made a cross over his numb chest. Double Jack, who you could only distinguish from his brother by the mole over his eyebrow, was lying in front of him. Dima had been guarding Mityai yesterday. “If he twitches, whack him, don’t wait,” cooed the walkie-talkie, which had fallen into the snow. Veltsev picked it up and was about to say something but turned it off instead and dropped it by the body. Kneading his numb finger
s, he stole a glance around the corner. First to appear on the path along the rear wall was Kostik, followed by Mishanya wielding his gun, and then the guy in the cashmere coat, hanging back like a coward. “Bang bang bang,” Veltsev whispered.

  They dropped, one after the other, no sound, just like that, all three, like a row of dominoes. Kostik and Mishanya died before they hit the ground—the former got a bullet in the eye and the latter bcv fb’s nose was obliterated—but the thug in the coat, after he crashed forward, suddenly answered fire. Stumbling, Veltsev dropped back around the corner. He tried to count the shots, but immediately realized that was impossible. He probably wasn’t firing an ordinary silenced piece but a gun with noiseless ammo, which meant you could only distinguish a shot after the bullets had ricocheted off something. Regardless, there was no time to waste. The thug could call in reinforcements over his walkie-talkie at any second. Veltsev caught his breath, emerged from his cover again, and, moving along the wall, started shooting at the mustached man’s twitching back. He held the trigger down until he’d emptied what was left in his magazine, all eleven cartridges.

  Even though his face had blossomed like an onion and was smoking like a pot, the thug nonetheless kept squeezing his gun, which had its safety engaged. Propping one elbow on the ground, he aimed up at someone in front of him. When his arm dropped, sapped, Veltsev picked the gun up delicately with two fingers.

  It was a silent, six-round Vul, a special make for special agents like this. Before this Veltsev had only seen one in pictures. You couldn’t get the gun or ammo for it on the black market for any amount of money. Now, after firing, the open chamber didn’t even smell of powder. Actually, examining his trophy, Veltsev wasn’t thinking about its unique characteristics anymore but about how he no longer needed to search the dead man for documents because his identity was obvious. An agent of the special services—whether GRU or FSB was irrelevant—had just given up the ghost.