Last Snow (29 page)

All of which led him to one inescapable conclusion: He needed to pursue the inquiry into General Brandt’s sanction without informing anyone, not the president, not Jack. His own self-interest was and must remain paramount. He had no other recourse now, none at all.

“W
E DIDN
’
T
kill Rochev’s mistress,” Jack said, waving the CCTV photos he’d found. “She was dead when we found her.”

Kirilenko, disarmed and bound to a chair with lengths of electrical flex Annika had found in a nearby utility closet, said nothing. They were in a spare office Jack had discovered, reluctantly but needfully, because they had an unconscious body that required a quiet place to rest and come around, which Kirilenko did when Annika slapped him sharply across the face. Now there was a red blotch there like a congenital wine stain. The space was a standard office with a desk, table, several wooden chairs. A filing cabinet stood against a wall. Old-fashioned venetian blinds obscured the single window.

“We went to the dacha looking for Karl Rochev,” Jack continued. “We wanted to talk with him, that’s all.”

Kirilenko, maintaining his silence, ignored Jack and Alli completely, his baleful gaze fixed on Annika leaning nonchalantly against
a wall, her arms crossed over her chest, watching him like a hawk inspecting a snake.

“When we didn’t find him there we decided to leave, and that’s when we ran into your people.”

Kirilenko continued to glare at Annika, but with a smirk that made Jack think he was privy to information vital to them.

Apparently Annika thought the same thing because she came off the wall and smashed her fist into Kirilenko’s jaw. Blood spattered onto his suit lapels and his lap.

“That’s enough,” Jack said, grabbing hold of her right arm, which she’d already cocked for another blow.

“Someone had to knock that smirk off his ugly face.”

“And you’d be just the one to do it, eh?” Kirilenko said as he spat a thick wad of pink spittle onto the bare concrete floor. “Wild, short-tempered, out of control—in sum, a classic rageaholic—all the reports were right about you.”

Annika, pulling away from Jack, lunged at him with her head. “If by that you mean I’m impossible to control then you’re damn right.”

Alli interposed herself between the two, forcing Annika to look at her, not Kirilenko, and so throttling down on her anger level. After a moment of cooling Annika put a hand on her cheek and nodded her thanks.

For the first time Kirilenko looked at Jack. “What I can’t work out is why you’re with this very dangerous creature. She’s a murderer.”

“We’re all murderers here, Kirilenko,” Annika said.

“What about the girl?”

Jack leaned in beside Annika. “Leave her out of it.”

“Too late,” Kirilenko said. “From my point of view she’s as culpable as either of you.” He jerked his head away from Annika’s bared teeth. “She’ll pay the same ultimate price you two will, that’s a promise.”

Annika stood back, hands on hips. “You see, what did I tell you? There’s only one way to deal with a man like him.”

“Yes, by all means kill me,” Kirilenko said. “It’s the only way to stop me from taking you in, or killing you for your crimes.”

“We’ve committed no crimes,” Jack said.

“That’s what they all say.” Kirilenko shook his head. “Once, just once, I’d like to be surprised, but, no, you murderers are as sadly alike as crows.”

“There has to be another way,” Jack said, ignoring him. “It’s simply a matter of finding it.”

“Good luck with that,” Annika said. “I don’t know about you but I don’t plan to be here when security comes around to check all the vacant rooms.”

Jack took her by the waist and half dragged her into the far corner.

“Let’s stop this insanity,” Kirilenko said softly, conspiratorially to Alli. “Untie me and I’ll make sure you won’t be arrested or incarcerated.”

“You’re the one who’s incarcerated,” Alli said, “and it’s you who’s trying to bargain.”

She took a step toward Kirilenko, who was grinning at her like a monkey. He seemed sure he had taken the proper measure of her.

“I won’t be incarcerated forever and when I—”

“You think I’m the weak link, that you can somehow terrify me, but I’m not afraid of you.”

“Alli,” Jack said sharply, “please put your ear to the door. If you hear anyone coming let us know.”

“You should be.” Kirilenko clacked his teeth together like a chimpanzee or a crocodile. “If you don’t listen to me I swear I’ll bite your head off.”

“Alli . . . ,” Jack warned.

Alli, staring down Kirilenko, spat into his face, then she turned and, crossing the small room, obediently put her ear to the door.

“You asked for it,” Jack said to the Russian in a mocking voice, before turning back to speak in low tones with Annika. “You’re not going to kill him, that’s out of the question. Besides, he knows something.”

“What if he’s simply pretending he knows something?”

“What if he’s not?”

But Jack’s attention was now divided. He was watching Alli, who had come away from the door in the wake of their conversation. She had begun to walk back toward Kirilenko.

Annika, becoming aware of Jack’s growing agitation, turned to watch. “What the hell is she doing?” she said under her breath.

“Alli, get away from him,” Jack said sharply as he strode toward her.

But before he could get to her, she waggled in front of Kirilenko’s face the cell phone she’d scooped up from the corridor floor as the others were dragging his body in here.

“It’s you who should be frightened,” she said. “I have your life in my hand.”

Jack pulled her back. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“You missed this,” she said to Jack as she proffered the phone in the palm of her hand.

“This girl has balls,” Annika said with a laugh, “you have to give her that.”

Jack, noting the sour look on Kirilenko’s face, wondered whether Alli was onto something. He was about to pluck up the cell, when he changed his mind. “Check it out yourself,” he said. “You earned the right.”

Alli hesitated, looking as if she didn’t quite believe him. Then, seeing no contradiction in his expression, she flipped it open. She spent a few minutes scrolling through different menus before she apparently
came upon something of interest. Reversing the screen, she showed Jack and Annika the grainy photo of the three of them as they emerged from Rochev’s dacha.

“Mine is the only face identifiable,” Annika said, peering closely at the image.

Alli zoomed in on a portion of the photo. “Look at what you’re holding.”

“The
sulitsa
,” Annika breathed.

“What the hell is a
sulitsa
?” Kirilenko still had the remains of his own blood and Alli’s spittle on his cheek. “What did you use to kill Ilenya Makova?”

“At last we know her name,” Jack said, taking the phone from Alli.

“I didn’t kill her, none of us did,” Annika said. “As Jack said, we found her with this thing—this antique Cossack splitting weapon—sticking out of her—”

“I don’t believe you, Annika Dementieva.”

“—so deeply she was impaled to the mattress.”

Kirilenko moved his head from side to side. “I know you.”

“The fuck you do.”

“I know people just like you, I know you killed her.”

Jack pushed his way past a seething Annika and said to the Russian, “Listen to me because I’m only going to say this once. Annika is intent on killing you and I’m now inclined to agree with her.” He adjusted Kirilenko’s ugly tie so that the knot bit into his Adam’s apple. “Against my better instincts I’m going to give you this chance. Tell us what you know.”

“And then what?” Kirilenko said. “She’ll kill me anyway, I see the look in her eyes.”

“She won’t kill you if you answer my questions.”

Kirilenko laughed. “You think you can stop her?”

“Yes,” Jack said softly and slowly. “I do.”

The Russian peered into Jack’s face with his weary gaze. “Fuck you, Americanski. Fuck you and your entire decadent fucking country.”

F
OLLOWING HIS
numerous night visits Dyadya Gourdjiev had slept uneasily until noon. He dreamt that it had been raining for days, possibly weeks, and his apartment was developing cracks in the poorly constructed ceiling, around the cheap aluminum window frames. As a result water was leaking in from so many places it was impossible to caulk or patch them all. As soon as he dammed one up, two appeared in its place.

He awoke entirely unrefreshed. As he lay staring up at the ceiling, spider-webbed with cracks, he knew what must be done. Hauling himself out of bed he padded to the bathroom and with some difficulty relieved himself. Then he shaved his cheeks pink with a straight razor, carefully brushed his hair, dressed in a neat suit and tie in the best Western style, and ate his usual breakfast of black coffee, toast, butter, and Seville orange marmalade. He chewed slowly and thoughtfully. He felt like the root of a tree, the years fallen on him like the rusty leaves of autumn. He washed the dishes and cutlery, stacked them neatly in the drainboard, dried his hands on a dish towel.

In the closet next to the front door he extracted the things he needed, including his lambswool overcoat and soft cashmere scarf in the signature Burberry plaid, which he wrapped around his neck, making certain his throat was well protected against the strong April wind. Shrugging on his coat, he opened the door, went out into the corridor, noting that the bloodstain, now a dark, almost purple brown, had not yet been cleaned up. Everything continues to slide downhill, he thought, to erode, to sicken, wither, and die.

He met no one in the elevator, but as he saw the charming widow Tanova coming in from the street with an armful of groceries, he
smiled, holding the elevator door open for her. She returned his smile, thanked him, and asked him over for tea and her homemade stollen later in the afternoon, an invitation he accepted with genuine pleasure. The widow Tanova had lived almost as long as he had, she understood the nature of life, what was important and what must be let go. She was someone he could talk with, confide in, commiserate with, mourning the losses they had suffered. Also, she had great legs—stems, as they said in the old black-and-white American films he still adored.

Waiting until the elevator and its comely occupant were on their way up, he crossed the now deserted lobby and, pulling open the heavy front door, stepped out onto the yellow-brick stoop. He drew a breath of the chilly air deep into his lungs as he glanced both ways along the street. There were no pedestrians and few moving vehicles. But there was the car, just as he’d expected. He saw it immediately, a gleaming black Mercedes—in their supreme arrogance these people felt no need for discretion, vigilance, foresight, or even tact: last night being a perfect case in point. There were two men sitting in the front seat, flamboyant as every member of the Izmaylovskaya learned to be. Like a fucking cult, Dyadya Gourdjiev thought.

Having looked this way and that he strolled away from the car on the opposite side of the street, then crossed the street and turned back. When he was abreast of the vehicle he stopped and tapped on the driver’s window. The driver, startled, slid down his window in reflex. Even before the window was fully down Dyadya Gourdjiev had his Glock out. He pumped two bullets into the man on the passenger’s side as he was reaching for his pistol, then shot the driver between the eyes.

At once, sliding the Glock into the deep pocket of his overcoat, he sauntered away with jaunty insouciance. It was as if with each step several years had melted off him until, at the corner, he had been resurrected into the strong young man he’d once been.

As he turned the corner he began to whistle “Dva Gusya,” the old folk tune his mother used to sing to him when he was a child.

A
NNIKA PRODUCED
Kirilenko’s gun, which, as a member of the FSB, he was allowed to carry on all modes of public transportation. Aiming it at him, she cocked the hammer back. At that moment, the cell phone in Jack’s hand began to burr.

“Whoever’s calling you, will have to wait,” Jack said, “possibly forever.”

“It’s not his phone,” Alli said. “I checked.”

“Whose phone is it?” Jack said, staring at it.

Alli took the phone out of his hand, manipulated several keys to access the SIM card information. “A man named Limonev.”

Annika took a step forward. “Mondan Limonev?”

Alli looked up at her. “You know him?”

She nodded. “I know of him. He’s said to be a contract killer for the FSB.”

“A despicable lie put about by anarchist enemies of the FSB,” Kirilenko said sourly.

But Jack, studying his face, saw a different answer the Russian was afraid to voice, or possibly in the course of plying his profession he had come to believe the lies he uttered every day.

Annika came to stand beside Jack. “Limonev is also rumored to be a member of
Trinadtsat
.”