Moscow Noir

So what would she get in exchange for all that?

Me. Just me. And with no guarantees.

It’s still dark outside the window, but it’s already morning. We’re on our way back. We’re already close: there’s that goddamned Atrium on the other side of Sadovaya. Only five or ten minutes left, no more. All we have to do is turn around at Taganka and drive a little ways to get there, to Kursk. It’s really early, and the Atrium is as depressing as an abandoned medieval castle.

Things are going good, as Stary used to like to say. Soon this will all be over. Things are going good. One of our guys will meet me on the platform. I’ll board the Moscow-Odessa train, a third-class car, and, finally, I’ll get some sleep. No, first I’ll go to the dining car and grab something to eat. Then I’ll go to sleep. Things are going good. Except that—

There’s one little thing, one small thing that won’t let go of me. Like the dull end of a drill, it pierces my brain. Some business I forgot to take care of, or an unanswered e-mail, a mistake in a quarterly financial report, or the last piece of a puzzle that has fallen behind the couch.

I still haven’t been able to figure out what that little thing is. Maybe it’s just exhaustion, some inconsequential glitch in my nervous system, some whim, and it would probably be best to ignore it. I should just look out the window and not think, not think, not think …

I’m just looking out the window—at the road, at the traffic lights, at the Atrium.

The Mercy Bus driver turns on the radio:

“… record-breaking cold this month, temperatures tonight have plunged down to thirty-eight below! But it’s going to heat up today, we have a warm front coming in …”

“… to understand her you gotta know her deep inside, hear every thought, see every …”

“… shhhhhhhhhhhhh …”

The bus driver turns the dials mercilessly.

“… regardless of what you say, transformation on that scale is only possible in a democratic society …”

“… have you ever really really really ever loved a woman?”

“… I’ll send you sky-high for a star! …”

“And now for our top news bulletin. A police spokesman has confirmed that the primary suspect in the murder of Nikolai Starkovsky, State Duma deputy and owner of the Star Oil company, is Andrei Kaluzhsky, PR manager for Star Oil and organizer of the Merciful Monsters Charity Ball, which took place in Moscow on the night before the murder. According to police, they have ample evidence implicating Kaluzhsky in the murder. At present, according to investigative authorities, Andrei Kaluzhsky is in hiding somewhere in Moscow. He has not left the city. ‘I simply cannot believe that this man would commit premeditated murder,’ said Elizabeth ‘Foxy’ Lesnitskaya, girlfriend of the late deputy, in an interview. ‘Andrei was so kind and honest. The whole ChaBa was his idea. It was a lovely charity event, which has already helped hundreds of homeless people!’”

Foxy Lee, my red-haired girl. How kind and foolish you are to protect me. Hold on a little while, soon this will all be over. We’re already pulling up. Here we are at the station.

The bus comes to a stop.

No one in his right mind will go looking for me in a third-class car on the Moscow-Odessa train, will they?

“… police are doing all they can to find …”

The merciful in masks are walking down the aisle. Drowning out the blaring radio, they announce: “The Mercy Bus has arrived at Kursk station. Those who can leave the bus by themselves should do so now. Extra medical treatment will be provided for those who are sick or cannot walk. Those of you who are seriously ill can check in at the local hospital.”

The swollen, smelly passengers pry their eyes open, hoisting themselves lazily and awkwardly out of their seats.

“… A photograph and description of the suspect have been sent to all police stations, airports, and trains stations. Police are on high alert …”

I stand up and walk slowly down the aisle behind the stooped, stinking zombies.

Through the bus window I see a police car, its lights flashing. Standing next to the car is an officer—that asshole from yesterday—and a herd of other cops.

A photograph and description of the suspect have been sent to all police stations. He’ll recognize me. Dammit! He’ll recognize me right away. He saw me here yesterday. He’ll remember me for sure. I won’t be able to get by without being seen!

Stay here. I have to stay in the bus.

“… The Criminal Investigation Department says that by today …”

“You can walk!” a person in a medical mask yells right in my ear. “Please get off the bus!”

“… Some news just in about the murder …”

“I can’t,” I whisper weakly in response. “Help. I need medical assistance.”