The Petrovitch Trilogy

by Simon Morden

  “That might be true.” The object left his skin and Petrovitch saw Sorenson pale. “But your friend, on the other hand, has no such protection. Get in the car.”

  Petrovitch looked up at the gray sky and gave a small strangled cry.

  11

  The inside of the car smelled of stale vodka and sweat, and Petrovitch immediately thought of home. The Ukrainian gunman sat next to Sorenson, automatic jammed against his ribs.

  “You know, it doesn’t get much better than this,” said Petrovitch.

  “Shut up, Petrovitch,” said Sorenson.

  “Yeah, well. Hey, Yuri.”

  The Ukrainian leaned forward. “It’s Grigori.”

  “To be fair, I’m not that bothered what you’re called. Marchenkho’s chancing his arm, and by extension, yours. Feel free to let us out any time.”

  “Your American friend has got the right idea; shut up.”

  “Why don’t you bite me, zhirniy pidaras?”

  The foot soldier stiffened, and Sorenson winced as the barrel of the gun drove deeper.

  “Well, excuse my mouth.” Petrovitch put his feet up against the back of the front seat. “It doesn’t give me much confidence in your boss if his underlings lose it when I’ve called them a rude name.”

  “Petrovitch…”

  He dismissed Marchenkho’s whole gang with a gesture. “Yeah, I’m done talking to the monkeys. Get me the organ grinder.”

  The driver took them north and east, eventually crossing the Thames at Southwark. The old East End was a vast building site, with property demolished as fast as it was being erected—the curious consequence being that there was nothing finished and all that existed were streets of scaffolding and cranes.

  The car pulled into one of the construction yards, busy with laborers and machines, and came to a halt outside a pile of domik containers. External steps bolted onto the outside serviced the doors cut into the steel sides. At the very top of the staircase stood a man in a heavy coat and a fur hat.

  When he saw Petrovitch get out and look up, he stared for a moment before disappearing into the domik behind him.

  Sorenson clambered out, and Petrovitch seized the brief opportunity: he bent forward on the pretext of helping the American, and whispered: “Say nothing.”

  “Noth… ow.” Sorenson was left rubbing his shin.

  The Ukrainian looked up from inside the car, no longer bothering to hide his gun—home turf for him. “What?”

  “Nothing,” said Petrovitch pointedly, and jerked his head in the direction of the domiks. “Up there?”

  “No funny business.” Grigori shepherded them to the foot of the stairs and indicated that Petrovitch should go first.

  Petrovitch sarcastically mouthed “no funny business” to himself. “You’ve watched too many Hollywood films, tovarisch, unless Marchenkho’s hiring straight from central casting. Let’s get this over with.”

  He clanged his way up the steps and, despite himself, was tired and sweaty when he reached the top. He entered without knocking and found himself in a passable replica of a seventies-style Soviet apartment.

  An ancient three-bar electric fire sat in the ersatz hearth, and a framed picture of the great bear, Josef Stalin, hung above the mantelpiece.

  Marchenkho sat at the dark wood desk, stroking his luxurious mustache. He’d lost the hat and the coat, and revealed a commissar’s uniform, an enamel red star pinned to his olive-green lapel.

  “Sit,” said Marchenkho.

  There was one chair, and Petrovitch took it. They sat in silence as Sorenson and Grigori came in, and the door banged hollowly closed.

  After an age, Marchenkho pulled a drawer open, and pulled out a bottle of vodka. He went back for three shot glasses, then unscrewed the bottle and dashed out a measure for him and his guests. Spilled spirit started to etch the varnish away and evaporate into the air.

  “Nice set-up,” said Petrovitch. “Not quite Oshicora’s standard, but at least you’ve only fallen this far.”

  Marchenkho dipped his hand in the drawer a third time and laid a Glock on the rectangle of leather set into the desk top. He took one of the vodka glasses for himself, and pushed the other two on cushions of liquid toward Petrovitch and Sorenson.

  Petrovitch passed Sorenson his, and looked Marchenkho square in the eye as they both flipped their wrists and swallowed hard. They slammed the empty glasses down on the desk within moments of each other.

  “ ‘s’okay.”

  Marchenkho sloshed more vodka into their glasses. “Your American friend seems less sure.”

  “Reconstruction has made him soft.”

  “We have to look elsewhere for worthy adversaries.” Marchenkho ran his fingers across his mustache again. “And elsewhere for loyal partners.”

  “Yeah. About that.” Petrovitch glanced round at Sorenson, who was still trying to brace himself to drink, the brimming glass hovering at his lips. He shook his head in disgust. “The Oshicora girl was an accident.”

  “A very fortunate accident for her. Less fortunate for me. And I am still very unhappy with you.” Marchenkho pointedly looked at the Glock rather than Petrovitch. “You cost me, boy. Cost me dear.”

  “Maybe you should have had a better plan.”

  “You need to be careful how you speak to me.”

  “Bite me.” Petrovitch leaned forward for his vodka, then crossed his ankles and propped his feet up on the edge of the desk. “Any plan that could be thwarted by a kid just wandering past was govno. If that was the height of your capabilities, you’re screwed.”

  Marchenkho blushed red with fury and snatched his Glock off the table. He pointed it in Petrovitch’s face. Sorenson took a step forward, but Grigori was already there, gun at the American’s neck.

  “You little…” said Marchenkho.

  “A huy li?” Petrovitch slugged back the vodka and threw the glass onto the table. “You’re the past. Oshicora’s the future. How do I know this? Because even you won’t kill me. Pull the trigger and Oshicora will destroy you,” he said. “What little you have left will be taken from you.”

  “Why did you do it? Why? My one opportunity to beat him and you ruined it.” Marchenkho was raving, spittle flying through the air from the foam at the corners of his mouth. “What’s he paying you? I’ll double it. I’ll triple it. Just tell me why!”

  “Fine.” Petrovitch dragged his legs aside and slapped both his palms down on the tabletop. The vodka bottle jumped. “You want to know why I did it? Kindness. That’s why I did it. Because I was being kind. Just once. Just to show the world that a complete bastard like me still has a shred of human decency left inside.”

  The gangster’s jaw worked as if he was trying to gag down something so wholly unpalatable that it stuck in his throat.

  “You don’t like that, do you?” crowed Petrovitch. “You don’t understand it. It doesn’t compute. Maybe you’ll understand this: eede vhad e sgadie kak malinkey suka!”

  Marchenkho swept the tabletop clean with one movement. Everything crashed to the floor—desk set, photo frame, paperweight, bottle, shot glasses. The air thickened with alcohol fumes.

  “I should kill you now, and to hell with the consequences.”

  “All half a million euros of consequences? You haven’t got the yajtza.” Petrovitch sat back and folded his arms.

  Marchenkho started to smile, his mustache twitching. Eventually, he was helpless, roaring with laughter, tears streaming down his face. The gun slapped back down on the table, and Marchenkho fell wheezing and gasping into his chair.

  “Are we done now?” asked Petrovitch.

  Marchenkho wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “You: a few more like you and the Soviet Union would never have fallen.” He looked past him to Sorenson. “Kill the American instead,” he told Grigori.

  A foot in Sorenson’s back sent him sprawling. He made it to all fours, quickly for a big man, before he felt the gun at the back of his head. He froze, staring up at Petrovitch, who adjusted h
is glasses and leaned back even further.

  “Yeah, you could do that. But what you should get through your radiation-addled skull is that if you hurt Sorenson in any way, he can’t fit me with my new heart. I’d die, and you’d be back to worrying about those little laser dots bouncing all over your chest. What do you reckon, Yuri? Shall we see how keen you are to follow your boss’s orders?”

  They all waited on Marchenkho, who eventually said in a quiet voice. “Get out.”

  “Good call.” Petrovitch reached down to help Sorenson back to his feet, then levered himself upright. “I’d like to say it was a pleasure meeting you—but I can’t. I had loads of important stuff to do this morning and you’ve gone and ruined it all.”

  “Get out now.”

  Sorenson took hold of Petrovitch’s arm and steered him irresistibly to the door. He almost wrenched the handle off in his haste to leave. When he’d finally got him outside, he turned on him.

  “Say nothing, you said! You nearly got both of us killed, you lunatic.”

  “I nearly got you killed? I saved your life, farmboy, and don’t you forget it.” Petrovitch started down the staircase. “And we wouldn’t have been in this position if you hadn’t come banging on my door this morning.”

  “I could have bargained with him. We could have got Oshicora together.”

  “You want to work with Marchenkho? Be my guest. He ordered you dead on a whim not sixty seconds ago.” He was a whole landing away. “Go on. Go back. See how long you last, you zhopa.”

  “Is it true about your heart?” called Sorenson.

  “Yeah. Now, come on. I’m taking you back to Oshicora, then I’m going to wash my hands of this whole stupid pizdets.” He waited for him to catch up, then negotiated his way around the pallets of building materials lying between him and the front gate.

  Sorenson fell in beside him. “So it was just a coincidence: my business, your heart?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Lucky. Lucky for me.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you really need a new heart?”

  “What is this? Twenty questions?” Petrovitch scowled up at Sorenson. “Give me an ulcer as well, why don’t you?”

  Sorenson dug his hands in his back pockets. “I can get you a new heart.”

  “I don’t need your help. I’m not owing you anything.”

  “New hearts are pricey. I can do it for cost.” Petrovitch didn’t respond. “Discount, then.”

  “I don’t need your help,” he repeated.

  “Where are you going to get that sort of money?” Sorenson suddenly threw his head back and gave a cry of triumph. “That’s why! Oshicora’s daughter for a new, top-of-the-range heart. Tell you what—I’ll do it for nothing. Donate the heart, pay for the surgery.”

  “Perestan bit dabayobom.”

  “I wish I knew what you were saying.”

  “No you don’t. Really, you don’t. Your ears would melt.” Petrovitch stood on the curb and tried to orient himself. He turned north. “This way.”

  “I’m just saying it was smart thinking. I can trump that, though.”

  “You will not buy me, Sorenson, just in the same way that Oshicora won’t buy me either. Now, please, just shut up and walk.”

  “But where are you going to find that sort of money?”

  “You know, I should have let Marchenkho shoot you. It would have been quieter.” Petrovitch walked away, and after a few moments of indignation, Sorenson followed.

  As they walked away from the empty East End toward the heights of Stepney, the pavements slowly filled up until it was as dense with people as it was in the center of the city. Petrovitch slipped between the bodies with practiced ease, leaving Sorenson to crash into everyone and spend his entire journey apologizing.

  Whitechapel was the closest tube station: when Petrovitch turned around at the entrance, he found that Sorenson was still dogging his steps.

  “Where are we going?” He was breathless, sore, and looked ridiculous in his shirt and shorts.

  “Your hotel,” said Petrovitch. “What’s it called?”

  “The Waldorf Hilton. You know it?”

  “Yeah, I go to the tea dances every week. District Line to Temple. Go and get a ticket and meet me on the other side of the screen.”

  Sorenson stepped closer as people streamed by, in and out of the station. They were in the lee of one of the pillars, a tiny island of stillness.

  “I’m sorry,” he started to say.

  “Good. You should be. Thank whichever god you pray to that Marchenkho is a skatina who wouldn’t know the truth if it gave him a minyet.” Petrovitch sighed, and let his shoulders sag. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I really did just want to help her. Do the right thing for once. And now look: I could die any moment, and it’s either an assassin or my heart. I’ve got things to do, things that I can only do alive. The mysteries of creation don’t discover themselves.”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “And I said I won’t help you. I won’t help you, or Chain, or Marchenkho, or any combination of you, do anything to the Oshicoras. Got it?”

  “I get it.” Sorenson felt in his pocket for his credit chip. “But I don’t buy your story about the Oshicora girl. Where else would someone like you get the money for an implant?”

  “Yeah, well. I’m going organic.” Petrovitch assumed his usual shrug.

  Sorenson breathed in sharply. “How the hell…?”

  “None of your business,” said Petrovitch, and stepped out into the concourse where he let himself be swept away.

  12

  They were walking down the street in front of the Oshicora Tower. Sorenson had showered, changed, and set his face hard.

  “I’ll find some way to get me out of this.”

  “Whatever pizdets you’re in is only going to get worse if you fight against Oshicora. He’ll flay you alive if you cross him.” Petrovitch looked up to the pinnacle of the glass dome; the park was lost behind the reflection of the sky. “If you serve loyally, he’ll be more merciful than if you get antsy about it. You’re nearly done, right?”

  “Another day, or two. Debugging the beta version. I’ve never run it on a quantum platform before.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “The hardware? It’s a box a yard square on each side.” He looked across at Petrovitch. “That’s not what you mean, is it?”

  “No,” said Petrovitch. They were at the start of the wide-open concourse, and he deliberately slowed down to stay in the crowd. “How does it feel?”

  “Reality is imperfect compared to VirtualJapan. It flows, whatever the loading. I haven’t found an upper limit to its bandwidth yet. I don’t know if it even has a limit.” Sorenson gazed at the tower, and was distracted for a moment. “Now, that’s something I could do.” He left without explanation, and Petrovitch watched him make the long walk to the revolving doors. He disappeared from view.

  “Hello.”

  He spun around. Sonja Oshicora stood in front of him, slightly away from the edge of the pavement. She was almost alone, but was protected by a loose circle of men that now surrounded him, too. The people who walked by on their way to the towers or along the side of the road moved around the circumference: inside was empty but for the two of them.

  Most of the Oshicora guards were looking out, but two of them were watching Petrovitch, and they both had their hands inside their jackets. Petrovitch moved his own hands very slowly, so that they were always in view. He made certain that they went nowhere near his bag.

  “Hello,” he replied, uncertain of what else to say. Certainly nothing that would prolong the conversation.

  She, however, had other ideas. “You do remember me, don’t you?”

  “I… I’m not likely to forget.” He watched her tuck her exquisitely cut hair behind her ears and smile with impossibly white teeth.

  “It’s good to see you well again,” she said, as if suffering multiple heart attacks was a minor inconveni
ence. “You are well, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. Fine.” He wanted to run again; away, as fast as he could.

  “Good,” she repeated. She talked like she was fey, otherworldly. Compared to Petrovitch, she was. “I understand my father has already thanked you for your actions.”

  Again, actions: fleeing through the Metrozone while Ukrainian gangsters tried to kill him. The word didn’t do it justice at all.

  “Everything’s settled. No honor debt, no favors owing, nothing. It’s all fine.”

  If she noticed his discomfort, she ignored it. “I wanted to thank you myself,” she said. In one step, she was pressing her lips against his. Her breath was warm, tasting of spice, smelling of flowers.

  In return, he was rigid with fear. What lasted only a moment seemed to go on forever. He thought he might have another seizure there on the concourse.

  She released him, and looked out from under her fringe. Her brown eyes seemed impossibly, animé large.

  “Sam,” she said. “I can call you Sam, can’t I?”

  “Yeah,” he squeaked. Someone had stolen all his oxygen, and he had a good idea who the culprit was.

  “Thank you, Sam.” She smiled again, and that was it; his audience was over. She walked toward the Oshicora Tower, trailing her scent along with her bodyguards, leaving him pale and trembling in the humid, stinking air that blew across the city.

  He stood motionless as the bubble of isolation that had surrounded him pricked. Again, he was shoulder to shoulder with the Metrozone. He wondered what Old Man Oshicora would make of it, and hoped that if he was watching, he’d make nothing of it at all.

  It was a short walk to the lab. Time, finally, to do some work.

  He opened the door slowly, so as not to disturb Pif. She was precisely where he’d left her, crouched over her desk, staring at sheets of minutely detailed equations. If she knew he was there, she made no sign of it.

  He threw his bag on his chair, collected her empty mug and rinsed it out using bottled water and his fingers, pouring the brown-stained contents into a pot plant. Then he busied himself making coffee: spooning the granules, boiling the water, stirring and breathing the steam in.