The Killer

FORTY-SIX

East of Kohtla-Järve, Estonia

Monday

16:45 CET

The service station was little more than a large café/bar with a surrounding area of uneven asphalt that served as a car and truck stop. On one side of the parking lot was a row of fuel pumps under a crumbling shelter. It was snowing, and the windshield wipers swept back and forth in front of Yukov sitting high in his truck’s cab. The suspension was shot, and he bounced around in his seat as he maneuvered the big vehicle across the parking lot. The tires churned up brown slush.

Yukov stifled a yawn and pulled the truck to a stop. It had been a long drive from Russia, and he was desperate for a piss and a thick sandwich. He might allow himself a drink or two. Maybe even a nap if he thought he would have time.

There had been a delay at the border that had put him almost an hour behind schedule. He had no idea what was going on, but guards had been checking the identification of every vehicle heading out of Russia. They hadn’t even had the courtesy to let him know why.

Perhaps the nap wasn’t a good idea. He had to be in Tallinn before midnight, and if he overslept, he would be in for it. He pulled his coat from across the seat and put it on. It was blissfully warm inside his cab, but it would be far below zero outside. He grabbed his wool hat as well and pulled it down over his ears before slipping on his gloves. Kohtla-Järve was right on the northern coast of Estonia, and the wind blowing in from the Baltic could be murderous at the best of times. It was worse than normal tonight though-far worse.

When the door was open he shuddered instantly. The windchill turned his face bright red. He locked his truck as fast as he could and hurried across the parking lot toward the service station.

He had no reason to check his trailer before he left, and even if he had it was unlikely he would have noticed the split in the tarpaulin on the left side. It was a vertical cut about three feet in height held together on the inside by heavy-duty tape.

Slowly, one by one, the pieces of tape were removed, and the tarpaulin was pulled open by hands trembling in the cold. A shaking figure emerged through the gap and dropped to the ground, where he collapsed onto the asphalt, his half-frozen legs failing to keep him upright.

With enormous difficulty Victor pushed himself to his knees and, using the truck for support, pulled himself onto his feet. He was wet from the ground and knew if he didn’t get inside soon the water would freeze on him.

His whole body shook uncontrollably. He couldn’t feel his hands or feet anymore. The sound of teeth chattering stung his ears. The service station was maybe fifty yards away. He pushed himself from the truck and stumbled forward, walking fast to keep his balance. The wind, coming at his right, forced him to the left, and he leaned against it, jaw against his shoulder, hands pushed down the front of his pants because that was the warmest part of his body. He bounced back and forth off parked vehicles as he moved around them, unable to walk steadily.

He had spent several hours in the back of the truck with only his clothes to keep him warm. Victor wore a thick overcoat, hat, and gloves, but they hadn’t been enough to keep the cold at bay. They should have been, but the weather conditions had been extreme, an unpredicted Baltic storm. Taking a flight or a train out of the country would have avoided the weather but also would have delivered him straight into the hands of his enemies. He couldn’t risk driving himself, in case he was stopped by the authorities. Hiding in the back of the truck had seemed a good idea before the weather had turned. The trailer was transporting vegetables, and he had squatted down between crates to try and escape the wind that found its way under the tarpaulin. The cut he had made to gain access only exacerbated the windy conditions.

By the time the truck had reached the border, he had been in no state to defend himself had the guards been diligent enough to check the trailer. Knowing how cold the weather had been, he’d considered paying the driver to take him across so that he could sit in the cab, climbing into the trailer only as they neared the border. It would have kept him warm, but there was the risk that the driver would either give him up to the authorities or would give himself away by acting suspiciously.

Victor reached the entrance and pushed open the door. He received several glances from the Estonian and Russian patrons. His appearance and demeanor couldn’t help attract everyone’s attention, but there was nothing he could do about that. His priority was to get warm. There was no point dying of exposure just to stay unnoticed.

He made his way to the counter and said, “Coffee, please.”

He didn’t speak Estonian so he spoke in Russian instead. About a quarter of the population were ethnic Russians, and the city was so close to the border it was likely Russian would be understood. With his teeth chattering and his voice hoarse he had to repeat himself twice more before the woman behind the counter could understand him.

Victor downed the coffee in one gulp, not caring that he burnt his mouth in the process. He needed to raise his body temperature-and fast. He asked for another coffee and drank it as quickly before ordering sweet bread soup and some pelmeenid, steamed dumplings stuffed with beef and served with sour cream.

He ate the food quickly and didn’t care about the mess he made. It took a while, but finally he started to regain feeling in his fingers. As the temperature of his torso increased, blood returned to the extremities. He had never forgotten the words of his drill sergeant. Warm your insides, and your insides will take care of your outsides.

Fifteen minutes later he could flex his hands; after thirty minutes he could feel each of his toes again. Forty-five minutes after entering, he was ready to leave. He would have liked to have stayed longer, to have taken a room and rested, but he was still too close to Russia to relax. But he couldn’t go anywhere dressed as he was.

He purchased a bottle of vodka and sat with it while he waited for the right moment. He didn’t have to wait long until a man of similar height got up from his seat and headed toward the toilet. The man had no companions at the table he had vacated. Perfect. Victor waited a few seconds and stood up. He entered the toilet thirty seconds after the man.

It was a stinking, filthy room, but Victor was unconcerned about the lack of hygiene. The man moved up to the urinals and began to relieve himself. There was another man alongside him and Victor waited by the sink, pretending to wash his hands, until the second man had left.

Victor didn’t have much time. Someone could come in at any moment. He moved up behind the man at the urinal. He was fast, the man noticing him too late. Victor grabbed his hair with his right hand and slammed his head off the tiles above the urinals. The man grunted, dazed.

Victor hoisted him backward, swung him around, and threw the man into a cubicle. Victor rushed in afterward, flung the door closed, and locked it.

The man was on his knees, groaning, trying to push himself to his feet. Victor positioned himself behind him, feet on either side of the man’s own. He wedged his left arm under the man’s jaw, and pushed into his throat with the edge of his forearm. With his right hand, Victor grabbed the back of the man’s head and kept him steady.

The man struggled desperately, but he was on his knees, Victor over him, and the concussion made him weak. He lost consciousness and Victor released him. Another minute and he would be dead, but since Victor was going to take his clothes, it was the least he could do to pay him back with his life.

When he was changed Victor dressed the unconscious man in his old clothes as best as he could before emptying the bottle of vodka over him. When he came round and started babbling about being attacked he would be ignored as a drunk. At least long enough for Victor to get a head start.

He exited the restroom. He kept his head down, but not too low, as he left the service station. The man’s clothes gave him good protection from the weather, but the wind was still painful on his exposed face. He hurried across the parking lot toward the highway, where a group of people waited in a bus shelter.

“Excuse me, when is the next bus to town?”

The old woman he asked thought for a moment. “Five minutes.”

“Thank you,” he said.

He was exhausted, in desperate need of rest, but he couldn’t stop yet. From Kohtla-Järve he could get transportation to Estonia’s capital, Tallinn. Then the first flight out of the country. For the moment any destination would do before going back to France.

To the broker.

Victor hoped she had been more successful.