Ask No Mercy

by Martin Österdahl

The man pressed his head toward Max. The stink of tobacco and sweat made Max queasy. Perhaps the attacker realized Max was both bigger and stronger? He tried to get past Max. What was over there on the other side? A weapon?

  Max tried to get to his Makarov but couldn’t reach it with the man on top of him. In his attempts to get over Max, the man knocked his own back and arms against the ceiling of the tunnel. The pipes sizzled when they burned through his clothes and touched skin. The man screamed, and the stink of burning flesh filled the tunnel.

  Max pushed the man against the steam pipe, and now the man screamed louder and louder. With a violent twist, he broke Max’s grip, and he started crawling away.

  Max turned in the other direction to get hold of the flashlight, and with it in his hand he lit up the body that was moving away from him. The man was moving unsteadily, in jerks. Max directed the light at the man’s head. He had several open wounds, the right side of his face was covered with blood, and his right ear had been partially burned off. A large open wound covered his left shoulder, and his leather jacket hung in shreds along his arm. His back looked charred; the burn marks continued up onto his neck, but Max could still see the tattoos.

  Max drew the Makarov and aimed at the vor.

  “Stay where you are,” he said.

  The man didn’t answer. He was looking around for a way out.

  Max pulled the hammer back, but the man just laughed.

  “Do you even know where you are?” he asked.

  Max’s index finger squeezed the trigger harder and harder. The slightest increase in pressure now and the man would fall down dead.

  “Where is she? The other woman.”

  “I guess she’s in heaven, too, right?” The man laughed again. “Even the rats don’t want anything to do with her body.”

  Max swallowed. Blinked. He’s lying, trying to throw me off balance. Stay cool. He knows the way into the hangar. He knows where Pashie is. If he dies, he won’t be of any use to me.

  The man began crawling away again, adopting a chimpanzee-like gait and speeding up his pace. Max followed, but the distance between him and the other man increased. Weren’t they going in the wrong direction? Back to where Max had started. Did the vor have a weapon there?

  “Stop!” shouted Max.

  But the man just kept on going.

  Max tried to imitate the man’s way of moving, scuttling along with his palms on the floor. He came closer and closer. The man glanced behind him now and then and realized Max was gaining on him. When the man stumbled, Max dropped the flashlight and threw himself forward, managing to catch the him just before they reached the ninety-degree turn. He got the man in a full nelson.

  “Show me where you have her. Then I’ll let you go.”

  The man hissed, “I’d rather die down here with the rats than be caught by the man up there. You’ll get no more use out of your little girl. She died tonight.”

  Everything went black. Max shoved the man forward, into the hot pipe that crossed the passage.

  There was a boom when the vor hit the pipe. The two-hundred-degree metal cut through the man’s bare throat. Max could smell the flesh burning but just pushed the vor against the pipe even harder.

  Wasn’t this what you asked for? A death among the rats?

  The vor shouted weakly a few times, but the sound of his voice was drowned out by the crackling of blood boiling on the pipe.

  81

  Max had left Margarita Yushkova’s body behind. Using the flashlight, he looked for a hatch or door that would lead into the hangar. After a short while, he found a low door on the right side of the tunnel. Obviously, the vor hadn’t carried Margarita’s body very far.

  The door was unlocked, and Max opened it and shone the flashlight into the space beyond. The stink hit him, and he swallowed hard. It looked like an old carpentry workshop that had been turned into a storage room.

  A plastic tube lay on the floor. Next to it was a paper bag containing bread crumbs. An empty vodka bottle stood between the legs of a chair. Metal shelves covered the walls. When he let the beam of the flashlight play across the floor, he saw bloodstains that reminded him of Pashie’s bathroom.

  A short distance away was a door. Under it he could see a strip of light.

  Max took out his cell phone. No signal. He pressed the door handle down and emerged into a basement corridor. He caught sight of a metal staircase, next to which was a door with a frosted-glass window. Max put his ear to the glass, felt the cold from the outside but heard no sound except the wind. The door must lead to the outside, which seemed odd since he was still below ground level. A subterranean inner courtyard? He looked at his cell phone again. Still no signal. This was hardly a possible flight route.

  He started walking up the stairs. When he had gotten halfway up, his phone vibrated in his pocket. Ilya had sent him a message. A one. Everything went according to plan. Max answered with a two.

  I’m in but have met resistance.

  He continued up the stairs to a large hall with closed doors both on the left and on the right. Straight ahead of him, a corridor led into the hangar itself.

  The right-hand door was made of metal and looked like the outer door they had seen from outside. The left-hand door was old and beautiful; it was made of some type of dark precious wood and had a shining round brass knob. On the wall hung a large painting, and Max started when he saw it. It was a famous painting depicting Stalin at the top of a staircase, welcoming an assembly representing the various Russian peoples.

  Above the door was a security camera that tracked him like the head of a snake.

  Before Max could react, he heard a click, and the lights in the building went off.

  Everything went black.

  Max took out his phone and sent a message to Ilya. A three.

  Confrontation.

  He couldn’t go back to the basement; that would be like running down a dead-end street. Instead he ran over to the metal door. He pushed it open and felt a cold gust of wind on his face. When he came out into the courtyard, he heard the same clicking sound again and everything was lit up like a soccer arena.

  He stood there with the strong light shining right in his eyes. He couldn’t see anything; he felt like a living target. What would come next? The sound of gunfire or the hot pain of a bullet wound? Suddenly everything was clear to him. Death had always walked at his side, and he was ready to die if that was what awaited him now.

  Straight in front of him, in the middle of the courtyard, stood a massive figure with both hands around a pistol that was aimed at Max’s head.

  It was the other vor he had seen outside Margarita’s home.

  “Drop your weapon,” said the man. He took two steps toward Max.

  Max did as he said, dropping the Makarov at his feet.

  “And the flashlight.”

  Max let it fall to the ground, too. The man took a few steps toward him, and Max saw his face twitch.

  “How the fuck did you get in here?”

  Max just shook his head.

  The butt of the pistol struck the corner of Max’s mouth, hard. The force of the blow snapped his head backward, and he backed up a few steps to keep his balance.

  “Where is Lyosya?” asked the man.

  Max assumed Lyosya was his tattooed partner but chose not to answer.

  “Get down on your knees. Hands on your head.”

  Max did as he had been told. From his position on the ground, he looked up at the giant Russian, who was still gripping the pistol hard with both hands.

  Not an experienced pistol man.

  “I said, where is Lyosya?”

  When Max didn’t answer, the man kicked at Max’s chin with a steel-toed boot. Max fell over backward, spitting blood. The man walked around him and stood above him, pointing the pistol at his head.

  You don’t need to aim at my head. A torso shot would be sufficient to neutralize me. The head is a small target for an inexperienced marksman.

  “I�
��m asking you for the last time: Where is Lyosya?”

  Max looked around.

  “Who is Lyosya?”

  The man hesitated.

  “How did you get in?” he asked again.

  Max looked around. A few meters from him lay something he could use.

  The man directed a new kick at Max. That was the opportunity Max had been waiting for. The steel toe cap struck a soft spot just under his ribs, and pain gripped his kidney. But it was pain he had to take.

  Max coughed, tasted blood in his mouth.

  When the kick had connected, Max had struck the back of the vor’s knee with his left arm. By exploiting the force of the kick and rolling to the side, he succeeded in bringing the big Russian down.

  Once they were both lying on the ground, Max reached for the object he’d seen, a ceramic vessel. He picked it up and slammed it down, then grabbed a shard and drove it into the vor’s leg just above the top of his boot.

  The pain made the vor jerk; he rolled away from Max and tried to get a grip on the shard.

  Max sprinted to the limousine and took cover behind it. The vor fired a round that ricocheted off the brick wall behind Max.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Max caught a movement. He looked over at the gates; someone was climbing over them.

  Ilya.

  More shots were fired. A bullet tore a flesh wound in the vor’s leg. It hadn’t been a lethal shot, but given that Ilya had been sitting on top of the gates when he’d fired it, it had been a pretty good one.

  Then everything went dark again.

  Max ran out into the courtyard, quickly snatched the Makarov from the ground, and returned to his place behind the limo. The vor moved in the other direction, opened and closed the metal door.

  “Are you okay?” asked Ilya.

  “Yes. I’m behind the limo.”

  Ilya jumped down from the gate. There was a thud when his heavy body landed in the courtyard. He switched on his flashlight, directed its beam toward the limousine.

  “You’ve been in a fight,” said Ilya.

  “Old friends of yours.”

  “I didn’t kill him, did I?”

  “No, he managed to get inside. But his buddy’s dead. Down in the tunnel.”

  Ilya nodded. One fewer to worry about.

  “Time to finish this,” said Max.

  “Someone’s playing with the lights.”

  “Probably the Goose himself. He has a system of security cameras. No doubt they cover the entire area.”

  In the weak moonlight, the hangar looked much bigger from the outside. Somewhere in there were Pashie, the Goose, and the answers to all their questions.

  “I’m going through that metal door,” said Max.

  Ilya smiled.

  “I guess it’s probably too late to renegotiate my conditions.”

  82

  They went back inside, convinced the Goose was watching every step they took. This isn’t how this should be going, thought Max. Nevertheless, he had no doubts. He had to do this. He had to find Pashie. And he had to look the Goose in the eye.

  Ilya illuminated their path. Max walked ahead of him, to the door of dark precious wood next to the famous painting of Stalin. The brass doorknob shone in the beam of the flashlight. Max looked up at the security camera, expecting it to track them as they approached the door. But it didn’t move.

  Max nodded at Ilya, who took hold of the brass knob and tried to open the door. It was locked. Ilya pushed against it with all the strength in his muscular body, but it didn’t move a millimeter.

  “Move aside,” said Max.

  When Ilya was out of the way, Max pointed his pistol at the lock and fired twice. The shots echoed through the whole building, but that made no difference—they’d already lost the element of surprise. Max kicked the door and then kicked it again. The wood was hard and very resistant, but after a third kick it opened.

  Ilya stopped in the doorway, keeping watch to their rear. Max quickly moved into the room. A desk at one end, a bookcase at the other.

  No trace of Pashie.

  Max walked to the desk and glanced at the equipment on it: a TV monitor and a few new cell phones. He turned around and saw a suit of samurai armor in the corner next to the bookcase.

  There must be more rooms.

  Max could hear movements outside the hangar, and Ilya waved him over. But Max had just caught sight of something in the bookcase that had attracted his interest. He held up a finger—give me a second—and hurried over. On a shelf stood a photograph frame, the front of which had been turned toward the wall. Something had been written on it.

  He took the frame down and read the text.

  Tatyana Sedova.

  Born on November 7, 1919, in Bayrak, Ukraine.

  Died on February 22, 1944, in Stockholm, Sweden.

  He felt a chill rise from his tailbone all the way up to his neck.

  On February 22, 1944, in Stockholm?

  Max heard his mother’s voice: “Don’t dig in the past.”

  It was too late for that now.

  His hand was shaking when he turned the frame around. The photograph was of a Soviet wedding. One might almost have thought it had been taken in a church; everything around the couple was in accordance with the religious ritual. At one edge of the picture one could see rows of benches on which people sat; behind the couple, a large flower arrangement was visible. In the hands and hair of the bride were more flowers of the same kind. A priestlike figure stood before them, radiating patriarchal love. With outstretched arms, he welcomed them into the light.

  Max blinked. He knew everyone at the front of the picture: the officiant, the bridegroom, and the bride.

  There could be no mistaking the identity of the man leading the wedding ceremony. The thick body, the self-confident, worldly smile, and the authoritarian posture—the image of Joseph Stalin, the dictator of the Soviet Union, was well known around the world.

  The bridegroom was Nestor Lazarev, Viktor Gusin, as a young man. Standing next to his master, he looked like a lighthouse. The huge body; the long, narrow neck; the small head. A big smile on his face.

  Joseph Stalin’s most beloved son.

  But it was the bride who made Max catch his breath. The message Sarah had left on his voice mail. A whole wall in a room in Gamla Stan covered with copies of a photograph of her. A wall in a room in Carl Borgenstierna’s house.

  He had seen Tatyana Sedova’s image only once before, but he was sure this was the same woman. The woman Sarah had seen, too.

  He had seen her in a faded photograph that had stood on a night table next to a hospital bed in Stockholm.

  Carl Borgenstierna’s hospital bed.

  He remembered Sarah’s words: “There were also pictures of your father. And . . . of you. I think you’re right. I think the woman and Borgenstierna are connected to your family.”

  Had it been because his mother had sensed where it would all lead that she had asked him not to dig in the past?

  Now he had gotten here, to the worst man in history.

  Max stuck the little photograph in his waistband and pulled his sweater over it.

  The Swedish authorities had covered up the truth about February 22, 1944. That no one had been killed was a lie.

  He didn’t know yet how everything was connected. But Tatyana had died that evening. In Stockholm.

  83

  Ilya leaned toward Max and said quietly, “The guy I shot is in there.”

  He nodded toward the hangar.

  Their weapons drawn, they walked side by side into the big, open hall. The wind was blowing in through gaps in the roof, and weak moonlight penetrated the narrow skylights far above them. In the murky light, Max could make out the contours of three old airplanes. He bumped into a metal bucket next to one of the planes, and a rag fell out onto the floor.

  Max bent down to pick it up. It was a piece of blue-and-red cloth that had been part of a T-shirt. A child’s size.

  New York R
angers.

  It had belonged to Margarita’s son.

  I should have gone to the airport with them.

  He saw a faint light at the end of the hangar. A glass wall. On the other side of the glass was what looked like a break room for workers, a place where they would have eaten their brown-bag lunches. Simple wooden benches and tables. A man was sitting in there, at one of the tables. He was sitting with his long, broad back to the rest of the hangar. His neck was concealed by the collar of a turtleneck sweater. A small head. Thick white hair.

  In front of the glass wall stood the black Mercedes. The front driver’s-side door was open. But no one could be seen near the car.

  Max and Ilya split up, each taking a side. Ilya took cover behind a cart laden with tools, Max behind the fuselage of one of the planes.

  “Do you see anyone?” asked Max.

  “Just the guy behind the glass.”

  “And the guy you shot?” asked Max. “Did you hit him with more than one round?”

  “Don’t know. But he’s probably in the car. Good place to be if you’re not very mobile.”

  Max signaled to Ilya that he should move toward the car and the break room. He looked at the man once again. He was sitting very still, looking at something he was holding in his hands as though he were reading a book, apparently unaffected by what was going on in the hangar.

  Max moved toward their goal, but after only a few steps he heard a sound that made him stop. A dripping sound. He looked over toward Ilya. In front of Ilya’s feet was a pool of blood.

  The blood was dripping from above.

  “Ilya!” shouted Max, running toward him.

  Above Ilya, straddling an iron beam, sat the vor with the long black hair. In one hand he held a long knife, in the other his Makarov, which was aimed at Ilya. He smiled when Ilya discovered him. Then he jumped.

  All three of them fired as the man fell through the air. The vor’s legs struck Max in the neck, and he fell to the floor, losing his grip on the Makarov.

  Ilya sank to the floor with blood pumping from his shoulder. The vor stood over Max; he had also been hit, and his right side seemed to be hanging slackly. His left side was working frenetically to keep him upright. He still had a smile on his lips.