Moscow Noir

“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.