“Smerdyucha suko,” he shouts, “ya komu skazav, viddai meni vsi babky!”
He grabs her hand holding on to his thick chain and twitches her wrist. The woman yells from pain, falls on all fours and tries to crawl away.
A police patrol car drives by them. It slows down for a minute, then accelerates again and drives off. Neither do the passers-by on the sidewalk pay any attention to the scene. A pimp punishing a hooker is not a sight they would prefer over looking at the glittering shop windows.
The man is too preoccupied with beating the woman to pay attention to them. He is about to slap her once more when his hand, ready to deliver another strike, goes down and reaches behind his back. Then he looks at his palm which is bloody all over. His body jerks forward as if he had taken a punch from behind. Then he looks down to his left chest from where the tip of a long, curved blade is protruding.
“Shcho tse bulo?” he whispers before emitting a painful moan as he collapses. A car drives by, honking wildly.
The woman stares at the tiny figure with the hooded coat appearing behind the collapsed pimp.
“Shcho ty zrobyla? Chomu ty obrazyla yoho?”
Nooria steps over the body and cleans off her blade in his jacket. She signals the hooker to get into the SUV.
“Sorry but I don’t speak you language,” she says. “I only know Zona and Stalker. Drive me there.”
“Zona?” asks the hooker in bewilderement. “Ty zdurila?”
“Stalker,” Nooria calmly repeats, “Zona. Artifacts. Kalashnikov. Shooters.”
The blonde hooker stares at the blade. Then nods.
Twenty minutes later, she stops the car in front of a two-storey house that looks like a nineteenth century building reborn as a neon sign designer’s psychedelic dream. Blue, purple, yellow and red signs are blazing their light all over the façade. An arched electric sign flashes the word SHOOTERS above the entrance where a half-dozen bouncers, all looking like heavy-weight boxers dressed in tailor-made suits, try to keep order among the crowd of mostly young people waiting to be let in. The men are all dressed in their best and handsome but no matter how smart they look, the beauty of their women blows their appearance out of the water. It is as if the most gorgeous women of Ukraine had gathered here, but there’s still enough of them for the bouncers to refuse entry to a few. Those not judged pretty enough to deserve entering the hallowed night club shout abuses at the bouncers but quickly disappear to try their luck elsewhere.
The hooker takes Nooria’s hand and drags her right to the entrance.
“Zakryi svoye brudne lytse,” she whispers and pulls the hood over Nooria’s face.
She exchanges a few agitated sentences with the senior bouncer, who gives them a pass after she skillfully lets a bank note slip into his palm. Apart from Nooria no one else seems to have noticed it.
Once inside, the hooker ignores the wardrobe and the mass waiting for the attendants to take their leather jackets and fur coats. Making her way through the crowd that smells of alcohol, perfume and sweat, she leads Nooria into a hall where those lucky enough to have a place on the dance floor jerk their bodies to a groovy song, all hands in the air. The whole place seems to be drowning in red light and loud music. On the far end of the hall, flanked by an overcrowded bar counter, a staircase leads below. It is guarded by a particularly huge bouncer. The left side of his perfectly tailored black suit is bulging. He might have a pistol or even submachine gun hidden there.
The hooker takes another banknote from her purse but the man is not impressed. Only when she gives him two more banknotes does he step aside, giving the two women a glance of utter disdain.
“Nu ot,” the hooker says, nervously looking around and pointing to the stairs. “Tse Shooters i os’ tam zona, de zabavlyayutsya hloptsi zi zbroyeyu!”
Then she disappears in the crowd.
Slowly making her way down the marble stairs, Nooria looks around in the posh lounge where a dozen bossy-looking men have made themselves comfortable in oriental-fashioned sofas. The beats of the music played above give way to subdued chill-out. The aroma of exquisite cigars lingers in the air, mixing with the fruity flavor of hookah pipes and traces of marijuana. Low, round tables stand an arm’s length from the sofas, loaded with delicious food from all over the world, not lacking plates with small hills of black caviar. The sight and smell makes Nooria’s stomach rumble. It all appears like an oriental fairytale come true, and the veritable harem of gorgeous-looking, young women cuddling in to the patrons or already sitting in their laps is ready to deliver any pleasure that dishes and drinks can’t. Completely lost in this world of sinful glamour, Nooria feels like an ugly grey duckling among a flock of graceful black swans.
From a sofa in a dimly lit corner, a stout man is staring at her with his almond-shaped eyes narrowed under the arched eyebrows. He would be fearsome to look at even without his shaved skull and the long, carefully groomed moustache makes him appear even more like one of Genghis Khan’s fierce raiders. As if picked to match the color of his tie, a blue-eyed brunette is sitting next to him, wearing a black silk dress so short that it could pass as a napkin. She rests one of her improbably long legs in the man’s lap, nonchalantly flashing bare skin on her inner thigh. A brawny, tall Caucasian man, obviously a bodyguard, stands close by and keeps a watchful eye over the lounge.
Out of ideas about what to do, Nooria looks around. Suddenly, she feels a heavy hand on her shoulder.
“Nu, kurvo, shcho tobi potribno?”
Towering over her, the bouncer whom the hooker had bribed a minute ago gives Nooria a very unfriendly look.
“Zona,” she stammers.
The bouncer pulls the hood off her face to check if she is pretty enough to merit entry.
“Bozhe miy—idy het!”
Glass shatters on the floor. One of the glamor girls who had been watching the scene screams at the sight of Nooria’s face, putting her hand to her mouth that was holding a champagne flute until just a second ago.
Cussing under his breath and rudely grabbing Nooria’s arm, the bouncer drags her back to the stairs. She doesn’t try to resist and is about to be kicked out of the lounge when a slow-talking, deep voice comes from behind.
“Hrisho, ne chipai ii, day iy pity!”
The bouncer immediately releases Nooria and steps aside with a respectful bow.
“Divchyno, hodimo zi mnoy!”
It is the bald man’s bodyguard talking. Realizing that she doesn’t understand Ukrainian, he gives Nooria a signal with his index finger to follow.
“Listen up,” he says in slow, heavily accented English. “Sultan wants to see you.”
He walks back to his boss, who is waving a strand of the brunette’s hair from his face to better see Nooria. Nooria keeps standing there, not sure if this place could mean anything better than the SBU she has just escaped from.
49
VIP lounge, Shooters bar, Kiev
Heeding the bodyguard’s call, she follows him to the man called Sultan. He looks her up and down, his face resembling that of a shark that has had enough prey for the day and now gives the helpless little fish before him a jovial smile.
“I see you don’t speak our language,” Sultan says. His voice is rough but not unpleasant. “No problem, I do speak English. Sit down, little one.”
With a wave of his hand, he sends the long-legged brunette away. Reluctantly, Nooria takes her place at Sultan’s side where the leather is still warm. She pulls the hood up to hide her face.
“No need for that, little one. I’ve seen worse where I do business.”
His bodyguard seems less relaxed.
“Sultane, slukhaite…” he whispers into his boss’ ear.
“Shut up, Knuckles. Fresh meat is fresh meat wherever you find it.” Sultan turns to face Nooria. “Don’t worry, little one. I am Sultan and you’re my guest now. Do you want a drink?”
Nooria is unsure about what to reply. She can only name a few drinks in this world.
&
nbsp; “I want kvas,” she says recalling the beverage that Tarasov had once taught her to prepare.
“What? Asking here for that crap would put me in disgrace. This is Shooters, little one, not a filthy drinking den. How about a Margarita? Just because you look like a Margarita. Is that your name?” Nooria nods. Sultan gives her a shrewd smile. “Of course it is. So, what do you desire apart from kvas, malenkaya Margarita?”
“Dasani water,” she says, “or Dr. Pepper’s but not diet shit.”
“Come on, they only serve Evian here. And who is Doctor Peppers?”
Nooria sighs. “I want champagne. Dom Perignon.”
“That’s my girl!”
Sultan laughs as if he was wonderfully entertained and snaps his fingers. A waitress immediately appears to take his order.
“Dom Perignon, bystra! So, Margarita—”
Sultan is about to ask Nooria something when a soft ringtone sounds up from his pocket.
“Dancing on the ashes of the world, I behold the stars, Heavy gale is blowing to my face, Rising up the…”
“Alo,” Sultan says into his cell phone. What the caller at the other end of the line is telling him might be important, because Nooria sees Sultan narrow his eyes in a look of sudden concern. He barely replies to the caller save for occasionally grumbling da.
“Apologies but I had to answer this,” Sultan says putting the phone back to his pocket. “It came from a very important business partner.”
The waitress arrives with two crystal flutes and an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne inside. She skillfully opens it without popping the cork, maybe to save certain jumpy patrons a heart attack caused by a sound resembling a gun shot. Nooria eagerly empties her glass, unaware of Sultan giving her a long, inquisitive gaze.
“Slowly, slowly,” Sultan says, raising his own glass to her. “It has no legs to run away. Na zdarovye!”
After two more glasses of Dom Perignon have quenched her thirst, Nooria stares at the nearest table. Sultan’s brown eyes follow her look.
“Hungry? Have some zakuski. Sushi is good here but I’m no snork to eat raw fish. Are you? I guessed so. Try this instead.”
Sultan takes a plate from the table. Finding the pile of tiny, black, glassy balls disgusting, Nooria gives the dish a distrustful look.
“I could enjoy a good champagne even with some greasy ‘tourist’s breakfast’ but the Shooters is a snobby place,” he says. “When in a snobby place, do as the snobs do. Have some caviar… oh my God, not like that! Use a spoon, please. ”
No matter how politely Sultan treats her, Nooria now senses impatience in his voice. Thinking of the phone call he had received a few minutes ago, a feeling of nervousness creeps into her mind. She takes a few spoonfuls of caviar, which she finds tasting much better than it looks, then gulps down another glass of champagne.
“I do not want to keep you,” she says wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Still politely, Sultan offers her a napkin. “Thank you. Caviar is nice food.”
Sultan waves Knuckles over to him. “Viz’my mashynu! Zabyraemosya zvidsu.”
The bodyguard nods and hurries up the stairs.
Sultan offers Nooria a cigarette from an elegant, black and golden paper box.
“Sobranie. You don’t smoke, little Margarita? All the better for you.”
Sultan stays. In a moment a waitress appears with a brown leather wallet. She gives him a polite smile that might be even flirtatious if the rich patron wouldn’t be already accompanied by a woman. Sultan removes a few banknotes from a thick bundle held together with a silver clip, puts it in the wallet and signals Nooria to go ahead of him.
“I too need to go now,” Nooria says as they walk up the stairs. “Thank you again for champagne and caviar, but I—”
Sultan cuts into her words.
“Zona, da?”
Nooria understands. Even if walking ahead of Sultan, she feels as if she were led by an invisible chain. But knowing that this man, who has something fearful all over him despite his gentlemanlike manners, is her only hope to get back to the Zone, she decides to follow him despite the uneasy feeling in her heart.
On a spot where probably not even God himself would be allowed on Judgment Day to park his car, a black Hummer H2 is waiting. Knuckles opens the rear door, letting Sultan and Nooria climb inside. To Nooria this means climbing literally, but Sultan softly lifts her onto the leather seat. When the auto-lock on the heavy, bullet-proof doors engages with a loud click, Nooria feels herself reminded of the SBU’s holding cell. The Hummer’s compartment is much more comfortable but the feeling of being a prisoner appears all the same to her.
“Back to base,” Sultan instructs his bodyguard. The heavy vehicle accelerates with surprising swiftness and soon blends into the flow of vehicles on Moskovskaya Street. “I have to apologize for keeping our dinner so short, Margarita. I received bad news.”
“I hope everything is okay, Sultan.”
“That was a strange call actually, even if I sometimes do deliver my associate the kind of goods he’d asked me about. Usually such goods are difficult to find. However, I have a gut feeling that this time my life will be easier. Now open your coat and let me see what you’re hiding there.”
Sultan’s voice is hard and commanding now. He switches the search light above their seat on and gives Nooria an inquisitive gaze. Now he is looking like the fearsome gangster boss she suspected him to be. Slowly, Nooria moves her hand towards her blade but Sultan jolts his index finger as a sign of warning.
“No, no, little one. First, I don’t want to hurt you. Second, if I would be easy to hurt, people wouldn’t call me Sultan but something like Pansy or Sissy. Or Borov.” A self-satisfied smile appears on Sultan’s face but it doesn’t at all make him appear less threatening. “Third, should you by God’s miracle manage to hurt me nonetheless—the door locks are engaged and you couldn’t get out. Being stuck inside and having a pissed off Knuckles outside don’t mix well. He likes to set things on fire.”
Reluctantly, Nooria lets Sultan take her blade. He studies it carefully.
“Hm… nice one. Persian workmanship, I’d say from Shiraz or perhaps Tabriz, second half of the fourteenth century. The jewels on the scabbard are worth at least—hard to tell in this dim light, but I’d say that big ruby on the pommel is worth twenty thousand dollars alone. And the blade—artifact-alloyed Damascene steel! Amazing little toy. Suits you well.” Sultan gives the blade back to Nooria. She quickly puts it back behind her belt, relieved.
“Listen up, Margarita. See, my business partner is looking for a short female aged between twenty and twenty-five years, half face pretty, half face scarred, probably by sulphuric acid. I was told that she’d killed one of his associates using an old-fashioned blade and wounded another one in the neck while he tried to protect her.” Nooria doesn’t reply. “Strange coincidence, Margarita—the assassin’s description reminds me of you. Or have you seen anyone else like yourself? Because you could earn a lot of money if you did. My partner is a bit upset and asked all local businessmen like me for help. Of course, his own corporation is also hunting the assassin, not to mention the cops—useless clowns as they are.”
Nooria still prefers not to say anything. However, with Sultan pushing and no way to escape, her resolve to keep her secret begins to crumble.
“Is that story true, Margarita? Do you know or have heard something about it?”
“It is not true,” Nooria eventually says with a sigh. “Not entirely.”
“No surprise. Everything that my partner says should be taken with a grain of salt. What did he lie about this time?”
“I did not kill her with my blade.”
“You’re telling me it wasn’t you, or that you didn’t use that metallurgic masterpiece?”
“I used a nail file.”
“A nail file?” Sultan gives her again one of his bellowing, jovial laughs. He is again relaxed, just like before he started squeezing her. “Then your name should be
Nikita, not Margarita!”
“Nikita?”
“Never mind.”
Sultan lights up another Sobranie. Seeing that Nooria wrinkles her nose, he lets his window slide down a hand’s width.
“Sorry Margarita but I love smoking. One cigarette gives me a hundred ideas. Must be the relaxing effect the smoke has on my nerves.” He takes a deep draw on his cigarette. He tells something to Knuckles in Ukrainian and turns back to Nooria.
“You told me the truth about you—some of it, as it appears—and in exchange, I’ll share part of my story with you too. See, I don’t particularly like my partner. Not long ago, one of his associates screwed up a business venture that could have been very profitable for me. Baistryuk Degtyarev! Kurva yoho mama!” Sultan switches to Russian to hiss a nasty curse. “Tak i khotilosya b zlamaty yomu shyyu… Sorry little one, but thinking of it still makes me mad. This incident has forced me to move part of my activities to the New Zone. Logistics are more expensive, which means less profit, at least until I’ll have enough associates working for me there. But that’s none of your concern.”
Nooria keeps looking at her knees but this time to hide the surprise on her face. The name Sultan had mentioned sounds more than familiar to her. She has often heard Tarasov talking about his former comrade.
“Anyway, the price on your head is pretty high. Luckily for you, it’s more tempting to retaliate for the troubles my partner’s associate had caused me. Tit for tat. So, coming back to square one—it is the Zone where you want to go, yes?”
Nooria nods.
“I don’t know why a tiny little thing like you would want to go there, but I’ll bring you to the Zone. Zaton area, to be more specific. Bringing you there safe and sound will be my part of our deal. Your part will be twofold. First, you will entertain me.”
Nooria frowns. “How am I supposed to entertain you?” she asks with a hint of fear in her voice. Again, Sultan laughs.
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