Quantum

17

Walter Guk walked into Rollie’s Bar just after midnight followed by three of his coworkers from the second shift at O’Hare International Airport. The banter of the broadcasters announcing the Cubs game blared from a television hanging over the far end of the bar. Three older men nursed a couple of drinks as they watched.

‘A round of beers?’ the bartender guessed.

‘You read our minds,’ Guk replied. ‘And by the way, is the pool table in back open?’

‘Yeah.’

The bartender placed four icy Miller longnecks on the bar. The cargo handlers paid for the round and disappeared into the back. Immediately the bartender pulled a business card from his pocket and dialed the number scrawled on it.

‘Yes,’ Voronin answered.

‘It’s Nicolai at Rollie’s Bar. Guk just came in.’

‘Spasíba, Nicolai. A couple of my associates will be there shortly to collect him.’

Leskov entered the bar accompanied by Josef. Both quickly surveyed the room, then moved straight to the bar.

‘You Nick?’ Leskov asked.

‘Yeah,’ the bartender replied.

‘Where is Guk?’

‘In the back, playing pool.’

‘How many others?’

‘Three men.’

‘Give me four beers.’

The bartender eyed Leskov for a second, then thought better of it and pulled four Millers from the cooler.

Leskov nodded, handed two of the bottles to Josef, and then moved toward the short hallway that led past the restrooms into the back of the bar. A burst of shouting erupted from the room, briefly overwhelming the excited voices of the baseball announcers.

‘What happened?’ Leskov asked.

‘The Cubs’ first baseman just hit a two-run homer,’ one of the men answered without taking his eyes off the replay. ‘Game’s tied at five.’

As the replay ended, Guk and his coworkers turned to see who had joined them. Leskov smiled warmly as he moved around the table, studying the four uniformed men carefully. A clip-on photo ID badge hung from the left shirt pocket of each man. Josef took up position between the pool table and the hallway.

Leskov took a small sip of beer, then flipped the bottle in his hand and threw it at Guk’s forehead. The bottle struck him on the hairline and exploded in a spray of foamy beer and broken glass. Guk’s hands covered his face, and he howled in pain.

‘What the fuck you doin’, man?’ one of Guk’s coworkers shouted.

‘Oh, shit!’ another added when Leskov drew a pistol from the small of his back and aimed it in their direction.

‘I’m bleeding,’ Guk wailed, staring at the reddish smears on his hands.

Josef stood near the hallway aiming a second pistol at the group. Leskov set his remaining beer on the pool table.

‘Gentlemen,’ Leskov announced calmly, ‘this matter concerns only Guk. I suggest you remain where you are and enjoy the rest of the game.’

Guk’s coworkers hesitated for a second, then slowly backed away. Leskov stepped over to Guk and struck him in the head with the butt of his pistol. Guk fell facedown on the pool table. Leskov grabbed Guk around the chest and dragged him toward the hallway. Guk hung limply in his arms, unconscious.

Once Leskov and Guk had exited the back room, Josef put his two untouched bottles of beer on the pool table.

‘This round is on us,’ he said with a laugh.

Guk regained consciousness as the sharp scent of ammonia burned in his nostrils. There was a dull throbbing in the back of his head. He tried to open his eyes, but something was holding them closed. He lay flat on his back, wedged between a pair of hard vertical walls.

I’m in a box, he thought, panicking.

Guk tried to sit up, but his arms and legs were bound. A fist struck his abdomen, knocking the wind out of him as he fell back.

‘He’s awake,’ a voice announced.

‘Good. Take that thing off his eyes.’

Guk felt fingers probing the material adhered over his eyes, and then a violent tug jerked his head upward as the tape tore the eyebrows and lashes from his face. He blinked repeatedly as tears filled his eyes, as much from fear as from the irritation of salty blood.

Slowly, his vision cleared and he was looking up at a white tiled ceiling. The room was warm and had a clean antiseptic look, like a hospital. Guk heard footsteps. Then a man with a thick fleshy face and stringy black hair leaned his arm against the rim of the box and looked down at Guk.

‘Walter, do you know who I am?’

‘Da, Pyotr Voronin.’

Voronin smiled. ‘Very good. Now for a more difficult question. What the fuck happened to the cargo container I sent to Moscow?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about! I didn’t—’

Voronin smashed his fist into Guk’s mouth, splitting the man’s lower lip.

‘Don’t lie to me, Walter. I know how things work at O’Hare — I get a percentage. Yesterday International Airfreight flight number eleven twenty-eight left Chicago for Moscow. I have a receipt confirming that a container of property belonging to an associate of mine was on board that plane. When the plane reached Moscow, the cargo was not on board. How is this possible?’

‘I don’t—’

Another fist slammed into Guk’s face. Blood flowed freely from his lip and nose; one eye was nearly shut from swelling.

‘I apologize,’ Voronin said as he wiped Guk’s blood from his knuckles. ‘I must not be making myself clear. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I am going to kill you. It will be slow and most unpleasant. Do you understand me now? Just nod your head yes or no.’

Guk nodded yes.

‘Wonderful. Where is my cargo?’

‘Moscow,’ Guk replied, slurring his words.

‘Why you little fuck!’ Voronin wound up for another punch.

‘No, no!’ Guk pleaded. ‘It’s in Moscow, I swear. It was on the plane.’

Voronin pulled his punch, his thick knuckles less than an inch from Guk’s damaged face.

‘How?’

‘I changed the flight manifest to make it look like the container wasn’t on board.’

‘But it was loaded on the plane?’

‘Da, it went to Moscow,’ Guk replied emphatically.

‘Why did you do this?’

‘I didn’t think anyone would notice. It was just some furniture, a computer, and a stereo. It was insured, so if it got lost, I figured the owner would rather have the money.’

‘If you were going to steal my property, why did you send it to Moscow?’

‘I didn’t know it was yours. God, you must believe me,’ Guk pleaded. ‘It looked like something no one would miss. I have a cousin in Moscow who is getting married soon. I sent it to him as a wedding present. You know, a housewarming gift.’

‘How did your cousin get it if Customs in Moscow says it didn’t arrive?’

‘He works cargo at Sheremetyevo.’

Voronin saw all the pieces fit together. He’d been a little too clever in packaging Orlov’s stolen property, making it so innocuous that this termite Guk stole it without a second thought.

‘What is your cousin’s name?’

‘Konrad. Konrad Guk,’ the man blubbered.

Voronin pulled a phone from his coat pocket and selected a number from its memory.

‘Dóbraya útra,’ Voronin said into the phone. ‘I have the information Orlov requested. The package arrived in Moscow but was stolen by a cargo worker named Konrad Guk. I have his cousin here who tells me that he’s the one who altered the plane’s manifest and made Orlov’s property disappear. The furniture was to be a wedding gift.’

Voronin paused for several minutes, listening to the other person on the line.

‘Da,’ he replied, ‘I’ll take care of it.’

Voronin slipped the tiny phone back into his pocket and looked down at Guk.

‘Walter, I’m so glad we had this talk, but I must go now. Don’t worry, I’m leaving you in very good hands.’

Voronin stepped back. A man appeared on the other side; he smiled and then swung a hinged lid over the top of the box. Guk was again plunged into darkness, and quickly the box reverberated with the sound of a hammer driving a nail.

‘Oleg,’ Voronin said as Artuzov set the last nail, ‘once again, thank you for your assistance.’

‘No bother at all, Pyotr Yefimovich. I’m just happy to be of service.’

With that, Artuzov rolled the trolley bearing the wooden box up to the door of the cremating furnace. The wooden box shuddered as Guk thrashed inside, screaming for his life. When the trolley was properly aligned, Artuzov walked over to the console and started the cremation. Slowly, the wooden box glided down the stainless-steel rollers into the furnace. Already the temperature inside the box was over two hundred degrees. The superheated air seared Guk’s throat and lungs, each frantic, labored breath more difficult than the last. The thrashing inside the box stopped as Guk lost consciousness.

This isn’t the first time Artuzov has incinerated a living person for me, Pyotr Voronin thought with a smile. No doubt, it won’t be the last.

As Voronin walked out of Artuzov’s funeral parlor, he thought about Guk’s cousin in Moscow and the visit he would soon receive from Dmitri Leskov.

‘Fool,’ he said incredulously, ‘you stole from the wrong man.’