The Killer

THIRTY-SEVEN

St. Petersburg, Russia

Saturday

16:58 MSK

They’d taken the Siberian’s car. Victor rode in the back, sat directly behind the passenger seat so he could watch the driver. The car was a black eighties BMW with all the trimmings. The interior stank of stale smoke, and the upholstery was dark and stained.

Victor had locked the Russian with the broken ribs in a back room at the bar, telling the bartender to let him go after an hour. If he released him before then Victor would come back to castrate him. Victor could tell by the wet patch on the guy’s jeans that he’d been believed.

They drove in silence, the Siberian’s eyes fixed on the road, taking Victor through parts of the city he didn’t recognize: Anonymous factories lined the streets, dead areas of wasteland stretched between, and in the distance steam rose from tall towers and mixed with clouds.

After thirty minutes the car slowed. Derelict warehouses, empty for years and left to rot lined both sides of the street. The road was uneven, potholed, curbs full of litter and black water. Victor’s eyes met the Siberian’s in the rearview.

“We’re here.”

Up ahead a chain-link fence and gate bisected the road. A tall man in an astrakhan fur hat stood in front of the gate smoking a cigarette. Behind him, through the fence, Victor could see long low buildings, dark with pollution.

The Siberian brought the car to a stop five yards in front of the gate and lowered the driver’s window. The tall man threw his cigarette away and walked over to the car. He leaned down and peered in, whistled when he saw the Siberian’s smashed face.

“Holy shit, Sergei,” he said. “Another jealous husband with a crowbar?” He was about to laugh when he noticed Victor in the back. “Who the fuck is this?”

Victor spoke before the Siberian could answer. “Just tell Norimov that Vasily is here to see him.”

Beneath the astrakhan the tall man’s face creased in thought. He stepped back from the car and took out a cell phone that would have embarrassed any Western teenager. He turned his back on the car while he spoke. After a ten-second conversation he put the phone away. When he looked back at Victor there was fear in his eyes.

“Go on.”

He pulled open the gate and the Siberian drove through onto a wide expanse of uneven blacktop with puddles of dirty water mixed with oil. The stars were lost in the dark clouds above.

The car drove slowly toward two large factory buildings. The rusted shell of a train carriage lay on its side in the distance. The car turned into the gap between the two buildings and came to a stop. A roll-up door was open to Victor’s right, leading into one of the factories.

The Siberian gestured toward the door. “Through there.”

Victor climbed out of the car, pretending not to have noticed the dark shape lurking on the sloping roof above or the one standing in the factory behind him. He kept his movements deliberately slow, doing nothing that might cause a nervous Russian to discharge his weapon unnecessarily.

He walked toward the opening, keeping his hands outside of his pockets despite the cold. Inside he could see the shells of old electric trains, half-built and rusted, dominating the space. Victor looked around, imagining that in the days of the Soviet Union the vehicles built here were exported thousands of miles to every friendly state and that, when the empire collapsed, the train yard had shut down, the work simply halted, never to start again.

Victor stopped, seeing two huge Russians emerge from the shadows and walk toward him. In their thick clothes and beards they looked more like apes than men. One appeared to be in his forties, his beard streaked with thin lines of gray. The other was younger, his face and neck scarred sometime in the past by fire.

He carried an assault rifle, an AK-74, a later variant of the infamous Kalashnikov. It wasn’t pointed at Victor, but the way the scarred man held it meant it could be snapped into a firing position in an instant. Former armed forces.

The older man carried no weapon in his hands, but it wasn’t his ribs causing the irregular shadow under his left arm. The Russian with the AK stood back while the other approached Victor.

He slowly unbuttoned his coat and held his arms out at right angles to his body. The Russian searched him roughly but with a weariness in his eyes. He frowned when he felt the Baikal in Victor’s pocket. He pulled it out.

“Any others?” he asked.

Victor shook his head. The man searched him anyway. If there had been any other weapons the man would have found them.

“This way.”

The man turned around and led Victor through the factory with the AK guy following a dozen steps behind. The factory was just as cold and damp as outside. There were gaping holes in the roof and Victor was careful to avoid the puddles formed beneath them. The two Russians were both wearing boots and didn’t care about walking through the near-freezing water. Their heavy footsteps echoed.

When they reached the far side of the factory they stopped. A set of metal stairs led up to offices that stood overlooking the factory floor. Victor noted one of Norimov’s men on the roof of one of the trains, another standing in the darkness beneath the offices. Each was armed with an assault rifle.

The man who had searched Victor told him to wait and walked up the metal steps and into the office above. He came out a minute later but didn’t come down. He took up a position on the stairs, now armed with an AK just like the others.

Five men with assault rifles now covered Victor, each positioned so that they could fire without risking hitting one of their own. As things stood, if they so wished, Victor had no chance.

He had to admit they were good at what they did.

The office door opened and Norimov came out. He hadn’t had much hair when Victor last saw him and he had even less now. What was left was cut short to just a few millimeters. He was a tall man, face square, wide at the shoulders, massive arms. He looked ungainly, but Victor knew Norimov’s size was deceptive. There was enough speed and agility hidden away to give most would-be aggressors an unpleasant surprise.

He wore a neutral expression, his eyes deep set, shadowed under thick eyebrows. The once-dark beard was mostly gray now, neatly trimmed. He was dressed in a black suit, looking more the respectable businessman than the ruthless entrepreneur and former government agent. A curious half smile appeared on Norimov’s face as his eyes met Victor’s, a mixture of disbelief and caution.

“Vasily,” Norimov called. “You’ve taken me somewhat by surprise.”

He had a smooth refined voice as befitted his privileged upbringing.

Victor returned the half smile. “You know I like to make an entrance.”

“Yes, yes I do. But when I got a phone call five minutes ago saying you were here I didn’t actually believe it was the real you. I thought the next time I’d see you would be on the far side of the River Styx.”

“Do I take it then that you aren’t glad to see me?”

“Now,” Norimov said, smile widening. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Then what would you say?”

“That your methods were perhaps somewhat excessive. You didn’t have to be so rough with Sergei and Dmitri.”

“I had to use a language they could understand.”

“Did you try Russian?”

“I must be rusty.”

Norimov grunted. “They were just looking after me, making sure I wasn’t bothered unnecessarily. Like screening phone calls.” He laughed. “These days I have to be more careful than ever. If it’s not my many rivals after my blood it’s stinking corrupt cops. I don’t know which is worse.”

“The price of progress,” Victor said.

Norimov nodded. “Things are more cutthroat now than they ever were. You look different.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Surgery?”

Victor nodded.

Norimov smiled. “You were prettier before.”

“I know,” Victor agreed. “That was the problem.” He held the Russian’s gaze for a moment. “Are you going to come down from there?”

Norimov put both hands on the railing. “I’m quite happy up here.”

“Do you think I’m here to kill you?”

The sudden change in Norimov’s face told Victor he had been thinking exactly that.

“I am unarmed.” Victor said, holding open his jacket.

“I believe you,” Norimov said. “But when has not having a weapon ever stopped you before?”

Victor nodded, accepting the point and backhanded compliment. “If I had wanted to kill you,” he explained, “I wouldn’t be standing in front of you now. I want to talk.”

Norimov considered for a moment. Victor kept his eyes locked on the Russian, ready for any possibility, ready for the hand gesture that would signal the guards to fire. If it came he had no idea what he was going to do. Die would be the most likely course of action.

“Okay,” Norimov said at last. “Let’s talk.”