by Greg Wilson
He stepped away from the wall and moved forward again, using the girl’s body to shield his approach from the man beneath her. When he reached the end of the bed he moved to the right while his associate went left.
Even now Vitaly Kolbasov was unaware that he was there, his eyes grimaced shut somewhere between pleasure and pain as the girl moved above him. The man from the car was beside her now. She glanced at him, unsurprised by his presence, apparently unconcerned by her nakedness, the intimacy of her occupation or the audience she had acquired, continuing to work the body below her, watching him as he raised the pistol. His eyes swept across the bedside table, past the near-empty bottle of vodka and the two used glasses, settling on the scattered trail of amyl nitrate capsules that littered its surface. How many had they taken, he wondered, to prolong the enjoyment.
It wasn’t until Vitaly Kolbasov felt the cold steel of the barrel pressed against his forehead that he opened his eyes, then when he did they flooded with dismay and wild confusion and disbelief. His mouth started to open and move but the man with the gun raised a finger to his lips to quieten him and for some reason Kolbasov chose to obey. His eyes strained sideways beneath the pressure from the weapon and he saw the second man to his right, watching him, expressionless, a pistol in his hand as well. Then his gaze snapped back to the girl. For some reason she was still going. Still soothing up and down above him, watching him, and despite everything he could feel himself still hard; rigid as a rock inside her. His gaze snapped back to the first man – the one holding the gun to his head – and now, from the jumble inside his brain, he managed to form a panicked string of desperate questions.
“What is this? What are you doing? Why?”
The man with the gun eased it down harder, forcing Kolbasov’s head further back into the pillow. He considered not answering. But then he decided that Kolbasov deserved something more. He pondered for a moment then spoke in his deep, rumbling voice.
“Just think of it as a change of order. A revolution if you like.” He allowed himself a brief smile at his choice of analogy. Shook his head. “You shouldn’t regard it as anything personal. Quite the opposite, really.” He regarded the girl a moment. “Your friend has always had the greatest regard for your loyalty. That’s why he requested that we go to so much trouble to ensure that as far as possible you enjoy the moment.”
Kolbasov looked aside, staring at the girl. She was the one he had sent to Ivankov just a few days before, the one he had been so pleased with. She slowed her pace, her eyes boring into his. Rose high above him then plunged down, closing her eyes and gasping, reaching forward and raking her nails across his chest. His arms had fallen to the bed by his side. She leaned forward and pinned his wrists, levering off them, starting to rise again.
The man with the gun regarded her with a faint smile then turned his attention back to Vitaly, hesitant.
“You know, there are a couple of things you can help me with.” He tipped his head in speculation. “Maybe – no promises mind you – but maybe” he eased the word, “maybe we could rethink everything if you co-operate.”
Kolbasov’s eyes lit with faint, desperate relief. He tried to shake his head. “Anything. Whatever you want.”
The man with the gun lifted it a little, raised his free arm and settled it on the girl’s shoulder, bringing her to rest. He dipped his head at Kolbasov. “Okay. No promises, but we’ll try, shall we?”
Two minutes passed, the interrogator asking his questions, Kolbasov tripping over the words of his answers in a frenzied bid to please… to somehow renegotiate his fate. When the last matter had been dealt with the man with the gun turned to the girl and gave her a silent nod and she began moving again, slowly to begin with, then gathering momentum and speed, and despite the terror and the panic that gripped him Kolbasov felt his body involuntarily respond. Then the barrel of the gun was back again, pressing hard against his forehead and he stared up into the other man’s face, his eyes growing suddenly wild – the eyes of a cornered animal – as he realized there would be no reprieve. He tried to struggle – tried to raise his arms – but the girl had them pinned, then he felt her plunging down on him again and he gasped aloud, lost in the unbearable pleasure as the three bullets exploded one after another into his brain.
The first man returned to the lobby alone. He had paid the girl the money – five thousand dollars as instructed – then left her to shower and dress while his associate attended to everything else.
As he stepped outside he looked at his watch. One-thirty. In the half hour he had been away a crowd had gathered around the entry. He wove through the throng and made his way across the pavement to the car, opening the rear door, sliding in and pulling it closed behind him. Inside the air was thick with the aromatic smoke of cigar. He settled back against the seat as the figure to his right turned towards him with an enquiring look. He nodded once abruptly, tossed the parcel into the other man’s lap and turned ahead as the driver slid the vehicle from the curb and into the flow of traffic.
“Dad?”
“Hi sweetie.” Jack Hartman juggled the hands-free as he scooped coffee into the machine, “How’s it going?” He tucked the receiver between his jaw and shoulder and reached for the door of the freezer.
“Going just fine,” Kelly answered. His eyebrows lifted in supposition at the breeziness of her reply. “What about you?”
He swung the door shut and carried the carton of cream back to the kitchen counter. “Perfect, Kel. Everything’s just perfect.” A hand slid around his waist from behind and he felt the warmth and the curves of Gina Rosatti’s body pressing against his back. Her tongue traced his free ear.
“Morning,” she soothed.
There was a pause at the other end of the line. Then Kelly’s voice came again. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“I thought you said something?”
He shook his head. “Uh uh. Not me,” he answered nonchalantly. He leaned sideways and touched his lips to Gina’s cheek as she stepped away.
“Oh,” Kelly mused. “Okay. So, how’s it all going for you? Are you ready for next week?”
Today was Saturday. The Senate hearing was set for two p.m. Monday. Thanks in no small part to his daughter and the trail her information had set him on, it was going to be a show- stopper. Over the last few days it had all come together in a rush. He now had everything he needed to blow it all wide open. Powell and Ivankov firmly and inescapably locked in his sights.
“Locked and loaded,” he grinned. “You coming down to DC for the show?”
It wasn’t something Kelly had thought about. “I don’t know. Am I invited?”
“If you’d like to come then you’re invited.” The coffee was starting to brew. Gina sat at the table on the other side of the counter, smiling back at him, her chin propped on her laced fingers. ‘So,” his eyes fell lower to the deep open V where the edges of her silk robe loosely crossed her bare chest, lingered there a second and moved on. “What do you think?”
Kelly spun her chair to the window and gazed down at the fountain playing in the courtyard below. She enjoyed the relaxed, semi-deserted quietness of Saturday mornings at the office: being able to slop around in jeans and sneakers and a soft shirt, make her own coffee and put her feet on the desk without causing anyone offence. “Maybe I will,” she supposed. She spun her chair around, reached for her diary and flicked it open to Monday, scanning the page. “I’m all clear here so I could manage it. And knowing what you have in store for them, it could be fun. Anyway…” she spun her chair back to the window, “the reason I called is, I’m heading up your way tomorrow, so if you’re going to be around I thought I’d drop in.”
Jack Hartman paused. Raised his eyebrows again. “You don’t drive, Kel. Remember?”
“I know,” she agreed. He imagined her fingers toying with the telephone cord. “I’ll be with a friend.”
Hartman pursed his lips. “A friend, huh?”
“Yeah. Y
ou know. A male friend.” She tried to sound casual. “Just a guy I’ve been seeing. He has to make a trip upstate on business Sunday morning so I thought I might tag along for the ride then we could call in on the way back and take you out for dinner.” A pause. “Maybe Gina would like to come along. Since she’s there, why don’t you ask her?”
Touché. Hartman gave a silent laugh. There wasn’t much his daughter missed. He juggled the phone from one hand to the other, lifted the coffee pot and began to pour, regarding Gina Rosatti across the counter, his response part answer, part question. “I’m sure Gina would be delighted to join us for dinner tomorrow, Kel.” He looked pointedly at Gina and caught the shadow of doubt that fell across her face. The fact that there was only a four year age break between his daughter and the woman who now increasingly frequently shared his bed had become something of an unspoken challenge for all of them. He watched Gina considering through a pursed-lip pause until in the end she shrugged and surrendered with a nod. He winked at her and spun his attention back to the phone. “In fact, I’m positive she would. But we were planning on staying in, so why don’t we meet here. My turn to cook, okay?” He looked at Gina again and saw her press a smile. “How about you plan on showing up around seven?”
“Seven’s good,” Kelly confirmed. From across the room Gina added her own nod.
‘So…” Back to the phone. “This friend of yours sweetie, he got a name?”
“Yep,” Kelly answered, bouncing upright in her chair. “His name’s Alex and you know what, Pop? I think you two are going to really hit it off.”
33
NEW YORK
Nikolai ran the side of his forearm across the mirror to clear away the steam and leaned closer, inspecting his face. The cut below his left eye had come from the shower of glass that had exploded from the windscreen. It had bled for a while but it wasn’t serious and the torn skin had already begun to heal. At least he had been strapped into his seat the night before when the stolen Ford had slammed into the green BMW convertible on a deserted stretch of Vernon Boulevard under the Queensboro Bridge. Sergei hadn’t been. Nikolai had heard the splintering snap of his ribs above the impact of the crash as he was thrown forward into the steering wheel, the howl of pain as he bounced back against the seat and the string of expletives that followed as they staggered from the car onto the street while the owner of the BMW – their customer, as Sergei referred to him – clambered back into his wrecked vehicle through the passenger door, burrowing his way under the inflated airbags, buckling himself back into the driver’s seat, messing his hand through his hair and pulling his tie aside, lying back and groaning in pretended agony like a bad actor desperate for an audience.
By the time they’d stumbled across the road Nikolai could already hear the wail of sirens in the distance. Sergei was limping and cursing, one arm wrapped tightly around his chest, grimacing with pain and the effort of escape. Nikolai had no idea where they were going but at least he had no difficulty keeping up. As they slid into the dark folds of Queensbridge Park he threw a glance back across his shoulder to the street where the two crumpled vehicles lay splayed across the concrete, locked together, steam curdling from beneath the buckled hood of the abandoned Ford, its doors thrown open, the driver’s side of the BMW jacked a foot into the air by the force of the impact and suspended there in a twisted tangle of steel.
Sergei staggered on for two hundred meters more before slowing to a walk then finally circling in a wide dazed turn and falling back to prop himself against the gnarled trunk of a massive tree. He was breathless, his face contorted with pain.
“Fuck!” he hissed. He lowered his arm and winced. Swung it back up again and clutched his chest. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” His toe kicked the ground with each repeat of the word, biting through the thin cover of grass into the soil beneath.
Nikolai drew up beside him, his breath steady despite the exertion. Between the branches overhead he could see the lights that traced the framework of the massive Queensboro Bridge. The steady rolling drum of the traffic crossing to and from Manhattan was relentless. He regarded the other man through the shadowed gloom.
“Perhaps you should try the seatbelt next time.”
Sergei threw him an angry glare. Pushed himself away from the tree and stumbled on again, walking this time, threading his way north through the park.
The second car was waiting for them at the corner of 9th Street and 38th Avenue. Sergei fished in his pocket for the keys and tossed them to Nikolai. He caught them from the air and looked at them.
Sergei glared at him again in the gray glow of the streetlamp. ‘So what’s the matter? Don’t tell me you can’t fucking drive?”
Nikolai shrugged. “Sure. I can drive. It’s just ten years since I did, that’s all.”
He was surprised at how easily it came back to him despite the unfamiliar controls and the foreign environment. In prison he had often tried to imagine what it would be like… the simple pleasure of driving a car again. Now that he was doing it there was no pleasure; it was merely a minor function of survival. Using the backstreets it took them half an hour to get back to the ocean end of Brooklyn, Sergei mumbling instructions while Nikolai steered cautiously, all the time keeping one eye on the speedometer. He parked as directed in a vacant lot a block north of the rail line. Switched off the engine, left the keys hanging in the ignition and helped Sergei from the passenger seat, easing him upright and walking him slowly back through the darkened streets, under the elevated rail tracks, to the apartment.
Katrina was waiting up. When she saw the way her husband staggered through the doorway she gasped and ran to him. He brushed her aside and edged across to the sofa, settling carefully on the arm, tearing his shirt open and inspecting his chest, breathing heavily. An ugly dark blue stain had already formed across its center and begun to spread. Katrina’s eyes moved anxiously between the two men.
Nikolai shrugged. “Some broken ribs, that’s all. You have bandages?”
She tossed her head.
“A sheet then. Get me a sheet. Some scissors.”
She nodded, stepped aside and disappeared along the hall.
Sergei looked at him, his pale green eyes anguished with pain.
“You’ll live,” Nikolai dismissed.
Sergei studied his swollen chest again. “I might live but I’m fucked if I’m going to do another one of those tomorrow.”
Nikolai crossed over to him, pushing his shirt from his shoulders, inspecting the damage. He glanced questioningly at the other man. “Tomorrow?”
Sergei gave a sullen nod. “Tomorrow night. Upstate somewhere.” He winced as Nikolai’s fingers gently probed his chest. “I’m taking a break. They want it done they can fucking find someone else.”
Katrina arrived back with the sheet and watched as Nikolai tore it into strips to bind her husband’s chest. When he had finished Sergei gave him a grudging nod for his effort.
“You’re welcome,” Nikolai said for fun, without smiling. “Don’t mention it. Have a nice day.” He turned and made his way along the corridor, easing into the bedroom without turning on the light. In the darkness he could hear Larisa’s breathing. Controlled and anxious, not the settled even breath of sleep. He undressed without speaking, climbed across her mattress and settled himself down onto his own next to hers, his hand reaching out in the dark, finding his daughter’s. Her fingers laced into his and squeezed them gently and he spoke with soft reassurance through the darkness.
“Don’t worry. Everything’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here.”
She was still asleep at seven when he woke and made his way to the bathroom. His muscles ached as though he had been kicked by a mule and when he inspected his chest in the mirror he could see the diagonal bruise from the seatbelt burnt across his shoulder. The hot shower helped loosen him up and by the time he stepped out of the cubicle, wrapped the towel around his waist and wiped the fog from the mirror he was feeling clear-headed and strangely exhilarated.
Perhaps he had left the door open. But then if he had, the steam from the shower would have escaped. In any event it was only when he moved that he caught sight of Katrina’s reflection. She was standing in the doorway, wrapped in a cotton housecoat, her eyes wide, riveted on the mirror. For a moment he didn’t understand why, then his own eyes fell to the reflection of his chest and the dark sprawling patterns of his prison tattoos. He turned around slowly, watching her, seeing the curious awe in her expression as her eyes trailed back and forth across his skin. Finally she looked up.
“I can read them,” she said.
He shifted his gaze a fraction, his razor poised in his hand. Her eyes held his. “My father was in prison for six years. My older brother for nearly three.” Her eyes lowered momentarily. “Have you really killed that many?”
He set the razor down beside the basin, regarding her evenly. “What do you think?”
Her eyes read his. “I think yes,” she said. Her head edged slightly to one side. “Sergei does not know this, does he?”