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 fingers, 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.
After dragging the bodies around the corner and stacking them next to Double Jack, he drove the Geländewagen on, into the rear yard, and parked it next to the Land Cruiser. The blizzard was not abating. Veltsev tried to warm himself for a couple of minutes behind the wheel. Even though he was soaked with sweat from dealing with the bodies, he was still chilled to the bone. “We’re rolling, rolling, rolling,” he intoned, holding his palms over the humming heating vents. He stared at the thug’s loaded gun in front of him.
The Uzbek’s gang showed up at Lana’s entrance like clockwork, at exactly 11:30. Three men came out of their SUV, which differed from the Land Cruiser parked out back only by its license number. Veltsev was waiting for them to go through the door, but after conferencing at the lobby threshold, the trio returned to the car. Veltsev blinked away his frost-induced tears. There was a weak crimson glow spreading behind the Land Cruiser—probably from the taillights, but broad enough that it lit up the whole section of the apartment building spread out behind the car, as well as the buildings in the rear of the courtyard, about 150 meters away.
When it became clear to him that the SUV was headed down the track blazed by the Geländewagen around the building, the Land Cruiser had already driven into the rear courtyard, rocking over the potholes. Veltsev removed his gun from its holster. “Rolling, rolling, rolling …”
After hurrying to the abandoned cars, the trio moved around them in single file, and then—obviously following Veltsev’s tracks—came upon the bodies heaped in the front garden. Veltsev, whose teeth were now chattering from the cold, leaned his shoulder into the edge of the back wall. The blizzard was seething all around, but a silence fell over the front garden such that when mustache guy’s walkie-talkie started talking in the snowdrift behind it—“Five, where’d you go? Over”—Veltsev nearly pulled the trigger. Disjointedly, reluctantly almost, the trio turned toward the sound. Seeing their vacant young faces animated by death, he shot them calmly and methodically, like targets at a shooting range. Only the gunman at the far right had time to throw up his arm before falling onto the powdered bodies. “Five, are you asleep?” he heard behind him.
Veltsev rested his hands on his straight legs as he bent over. He was struck by a chill. “I think that’s enough for today,” he muttered, glancing at the front garden. The trio’s car was parked with the engine running and its bulk lit up, and once again he caught a glimpse of a reddish glow behind the SUV, only now its source definitely wasn’t the taillights but something beyond the cemetery fence. The trees and flying snow on that side were tinted by a hazy crimson. Puzzled, he walked over to the Land Cruiser, opened the door, and looked inside. Nothing special. The same smell as in the Uzbek’s car, half sheepskin, half hash. A sticker with Arab lettering on the rearview mirror. A phone. A cigarette burn on the driver’s seat. Veltsev was about to slam the door shut, but he froze when he noticed a fresh drop of blood next to the melted hole in the seat. Stepping back, he peered down at his feet and saw something tiny break off into the snow from the Beretta’s silencer. He raised the weapon in front of him: the left side of the gun, and the tips of his right fingers as well, had obviously been dragged through blood. Frosted oily traces had caked across his coat’s lower lapel. On the upper lapel, to the side of the lower button loop, gaped a small hole. Veltsev opened his coat. The silk lining on the left side, some of his sweater below his chest, the edge of the holster that touched his shirt, and his pants down to the knees—all of it was wet and steaming with blood. The bullet had penetrated his waistband and entered his belly above his pelvis, a little lower and to the left of his navel; judging from the fact that his waist was still dry, it had landed in his abdominal cavity. “The Vul,” Veltsev whispered, and then closed his coat. “Nice and easy …”