by Tom Wood
Victor didn’t need to use just his fingernails to avoid leaving fingerprints on the paper, but he did so anyway. He didn’t want Norimov to know that he regularly coated his hands in a silicone solution that dried to leave a transparent waterproof barrier on his skin that prevented oil from his fingertips leaving prints behind on whatever he touched. Norimov knew more about Victor’s past than he liked anyone to know, and he didn’t want that knowledge updated.
The light caught the glossy surface as Victor flipped it over. It was a black-and-white print, shot from an elevated position looking down on the entrance to a restaurant on the opposite side of the street. Victor knew the establishment. It was one of Norimov’s businesses, or at least it had been in the days when Victor called Russia home—as much as anywhere would ever be known as such. It was a daytime shot of a car pulled up outside the restaurant’s entrance. A tall, heavy man was approaching the vehicle, coming from inside the restaurant: Norimov. Another, bigger man—his driver or bodyguard—was holding the car’s near-side rear door open for him.
It could have been a surveillance photograph taken by the St. Petersburg police or Russian domestic intelligence. But it wasn’t, because of the Cyrillic script that had been scrawled across it in red marker.
“Smert,” Norimov said. “Death.”
“I know what it means.” Victor put the photograph down. “Which of your rivals sent it?”
Norimov shrugged. “Any of them. All of them. I don’t know. But it doesn’t have to be another outfit. This could be personal. It could be anyone. Who knows how many people I’ve wronged? I’m talking to one of them right this moment.” Victor sat still. “Maybe ten years ago I had some dipshit dealer executed for ripping me off. Now his kid’s all grown up and he wants payback for his dead daddy.”
“It must have happened before. You’ve made more enemies than me. You’re still here, though, aren’t you?”
“This is different.”
“Why?”
Norimov hesitated. He opened his mouth to speak, but the waitress returning with Victor’s order interrupted him. She placed the steak down before Victor and then the tumbler of bourbon and the tea next to his plate. Cutlery and condiments followed. He thanked her.
Norimov stared at the steak for a moment. “I remember you preferred it more burned than bloody.” He met Victor’s gaze.
“You remember right.”
“Extra rare so you would get it quickly?”
“Correct,” Victor said and lifted his glass.
“Why the cheap liquor?”
“I hate to waste the good stuff.”
Norimov frowned. “Waste it?”
“That’s right.”
The frown lines deepened. “I don’t . . .” He looked at Sergei standing nearby, watching, but from a discreet distance. Then he looked at the back door through which Victor had entered.
For cheap whiskey it really wasn’t bad. Victor kept the tumbler in hand.
Norimov clicked his fingers to get Sergei’s attention and motioned to the bar’s rear entrance.
“Everything okay?” Victor asked.
Norimov ignored him. He spoke to Sergei. “Have Ivan come in here.”
Sergei stood to pass on the order to someone else so he could stay in close proximity to his boss. He shouted at the nearby man to be heard over the patrons.
Victor’s untouched steak cooled before him. He held the glass in a high grip, his thumb and index finger circling the circumference near the rim.
The back door opened. The bigger of the two men Victor had knocked out entered, hurrying but stumbling, his expression full of urgency and anger but his sense not quite returned.
“What did you do?” Norimov asked, head pivoting to look at Victor.
“What I had to.”
Sergei turned too as his hand slipped inside his coat. He made eye contact with Victor in time to see him hurl the tumbler.
The heavy bottom of the glass struck Sergei in the face. His head snapped back and blood splattered on the table next to him. He stumbled and fell into it.
Victor grabbed the steaming cup of black tea—served hotter than coffee—and tossed it into the path of one of Norimov’s men as he shot from his chair and rushed to intercept. He screeched and put his hands to his scalded face.
Patrons closest to the commotion sat frozen with shock or backed away. Those farther from the melee were slower to react, the volume of loud chatter and merriment disguising the sounds of violence.
In his time as a government agent Norimov had been fast for his size, but that had been some fifteen years ago. Now he was older, fatter, and slower. He was standing only after Victor had grabbed the steak knife from the tabletop, reaching for his own weapon only as Victor flipped over the table between them, gripping the gun in the underarm rig only as Victor sprang toward him.
With steroid-bloated thugs guarding him for the best part of a decade Norimov was so out of practice that he was powerless to stop Victor from disarming him of the pistol, locking his arm behind his back, and putting the sharp tip of the steak knife to his throat, directly over the carotid.
“Wait!” Norimov yelled to his uninjured men, up from their seats and powering forward to aid their boss.
The volume of Norimov’s voice commanded the attention of the whole bar. Shocked and horrified faces stared. Norimov’s men did as ordered, coming no closer but tensed and ready to charge.
“Are you going to kill me?” Norimov asked.
“That’s the only reason I’m here.”
A swallow. Heavy breathing. “Then why haven’t you yet?”
“I’m in no particular rush.”
The Russian was breathing fast because he was scared, but he was keeping his composure because he knew he would never see another dawn if he succumbed to panic. “If you kill me you’ll never get out of here alive.”
“I killed you just by ordering dinner. Now that I have a gun, I’m pretty sure I’ll be okay.”
“Pretty sure?”
“I was being modest.”
“Just hear me out,” Norimov said. “Afterward if you want me dead, I’ll make it easy for you.”
“I’m not sure you could make it any easier.”
Victor could feel Norimov’s pulse vibrating through the knife.
“Please, Vasily. Hear me out. Please.”
“You once told me that you’d rather die than beg.”
“I would. If the choice was to beg you for mercy or have that blade buried in my neck, I would gladly thrust myself upon it.”
Victor hesitated. He resisted asking the obvious question and Norimov swallowed, then answered it.
“But I’m not begging for my life. I’m begging for the life of my daughter.”
Chapter 12
Victor, gaze fixed on Norimov’s guards, said, “You don’t have a daughter.”
“She’s Eleanor’s daughter. From her first marriage. She had her long before she met me.”
Victor kept the knife point against Norimov’s pulsing carotid artery. “You mentioned no stepdaughter to me.”
“I never invited you into my home either. That didn’t mean I slept on the street.”
It was a good point. Victor’s eyes flicked between the Russian guys, telling each one he was watching and would give them no opportunity to act without him knowing.
“Do you mind taking this blade from my throat?” Norimov asked.
“It stays. You’re auditioning for your life, so keep talking.”
“Okay,” Norimov said. “Are you really surprised I didn’t tell you about Gisele? I always considered you a friend, Vasily, but that didn’t mean I forgot you were a paid murderer.”
Victor nodded. He understood. He would never trust anyone in this business with personal information, least of all about a loved one. But even so
, he didn’t like it that Norimov had not trusted him in return.
“Under no circumstances would I have hurt your family.”
Norimov didn’t respond to that. Whether he believed Victor or not was irrelevant now. Sergei and the other heavies were still braced and ready to attack should Victor thrust the knife into Norimov’s neck. People were filing out of the bar’s front and rear entrances. Some were too scared to move. Others were enjoying the show.
Victor said, “If you didn’t trust me enough to tell me about your daughter back then, when I had no reason to harm you, why tell me now when I have all the reason I could ever need?”
“Because this threat is not limited to me. You know how things work here. They aren’t just coming to kill me. They want to destroy me. If they have their way they will erase me from existence and anyone I care about too. They’ll kill my men. They’ll burn down my businesses. After I’m gone they’ll rip out the tongue of anyone who dares mention my name. I’ll be nothing but a memory. The best way to do that is to take Gisele and use her to get to me. Which will work, won’t it? If they have her I’ll do anything they want to save her. But that won’t work, will it? After they’ve used her to get to me, then they’ll kill her too. I could cut off my own head and they still wouldn’t show her mercy. That Gisele does not share my blood is irrelevant. She is my stepdaughter—my daughter—and she is marked for death because she had the misfortune of having a mother who married a criminal.”
Victor remained silent.
“Now do you understand why I asked you to come?”
“Yes,” Victor said, easing the knifepoint away from Norimov’s neck. “You’ve convinced me. I’m not going to kill you tonight. I can’t promise the same will be true tomorrow.”
The tension left Norimov’s muscles. He looked over the sparse crowd of remaining patrons and bar staff. “Maybe we should find somewhere else to continue this conversation.”
“Agreed.”
Norimov stepped away from the booth.
“What are you doing?” Victor asked. Before Norimov could respond, he added, “You said you’d pay for my meal.”
Norimov’s eyebrows rose and his lips parted, but he reached for his wallet.
“Leave a nice tip,” Victor said.
• • •
An alley lay off the street at the back of the bar. It was an uneven, twisting gap between two tall buildings. Bags of rubbish were strewn throughout. Victor stood with Norimov in the shadows at its center. Even in the darkness Norimov looked tired and scared. Victor wasn’t used to seeing him that way. He didn’t like it, but it reminded him why he had no one in his life. He would never look as Norimov did now.
“Whoever is out there thirsting for my blood can take it, for all I care. My whole life I’ve been a criminal. Whether I worked for the crooks who run this country or for myself. My list of offenses is too long to remember. I am, and always have been, a wicked man. When my death comes, however it comes, I will know with utmost certainty that I deserve it. But not Gisele. She has not committed a wrong in her entire life. When she was young, when I first knew her mother, I kept my business a secret from her. But children are curious and eventually she worked out how her stepfather could afford to buy her everything she desired. Then she hated me. She’s never stopped hating me.”
“If you don’t know who wants you dead, why contact me?”
“I want you to protect her.”
“How can I protect her if you don’t know where the threat is coming from?”
“Because you are a killer. Because every time you go to work you dance on Death’s scythe. Because your enemies are everywhere and your allies nonexistent, yet still you stand before me. True, I don’t know who will come for Gisele and me, but I do know that when they do you can kill them before they kill her.”
“You have plenty of men working for you. Why do you need me?”
“When you last worked for me I had more than thirty good men in this city and beyond. Men who would risk their lives for me, not just because I paid them, but out of respect. When you came to see me at my train yard there were no more than twenty who would still show me such loyalty. Now I have ten, just ten men whom I can rely on to follow my orders. Of those, only two I trust enough to be alone with. Once I was a general with an army. Now I’m a thug in a suit, trying to convince the other thugs that I’m still worth protecting. I have already been usurped by those with bigger balls and stronger stomachs. The Aleksandr Norimov you once knew would laugh at what I have become. Too old, too weak to rule. Now the vultures circling overhead are not patient enough to wait until I’m dead before they swoop down to feast on my remains.”
“You’re asking the wrong man to pity you.”
“Asking you for pity would be like asking a fox to guard the hens. I’m not asking for that. I’m asking for help.”
“Then sell everything you can, take Gisele, and go. Get out of St. Petersburg. Leave Russia far behind. They won’t find you if you know what you’re doing; I’ll tell you how. And they won’t try if you don’t give them a reason.”
Norimov was shaking his head even before Victor had finished. “No. I have to stay here. I must learn who has initiated this vendetta; otherwise Gisele will never be safe. I’m not like you. I can’t live the life of a fugitive and I won’t ask Gisele to either. And if I did opt to run, she would never come with me. She would not see past her hatred of me to be convinced of the need until she was staring into the barrel of the gun pointed at her head.”
“Then you put both your lives at risk.”
“Not if you do as I ask.” Norimov stared at Victor. “Not if you protect her while I do what I have to do. I have been a bastard all of my life. When I first fell in love with Eleanor, I did so despite her daughter. I never cared for Gisele. I never cared that she grew to hate me. But if I could change anything, I would be a better father to her. I would . . .” He took a breath to compose himself. “I can’t change the past. But I can try to change the future. Once this threat has been dealt with, then I’m getting out of this life for good. I’ll go somewhere far away and never put Gisele at risk again.”
“There’s no guarantee you’ll find out who is coming after you, nor that you can neutralize the threat even if you do.”
“Do you think I don’t already know that, Vasily? But I have to try. My organization may be a crippled shadow of its former power, but I still have eyes and ears spread throughout this city. Given enough time and enough expenditure I can uncover any secret. But I can’t do that and protect Gisele at the same time.”
“And what happens when you learn who your enemies are? How do you defeat them when by your own admission you have only a fraction of your former strength?”
Norimov said nothing, but his eyes answered.
“I can’t fight a war for you,” Victor said. “Even if I wanted to.”
“Then don’t. Just keep Gisele safe until it ends. Whatever that end is.”
Victor looked away. “You’re asking me to risk my life for someone I’ve never met, on the request of someone who conspired to have me killed.”
“No,” Norimov said, reaching out a hand to grip Victor’s shoulder but stopping himself—whether through fear of what Victor would do should contact be made or simple hesitation, Victor didn’t know. “No,” Norimov said again. That’s not what I’m asking. At least, that’s not how I’m asking.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“I know you won’t help me after what I did to you, even if the distaste of an innocent’s death could pierce that black heart of yours.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because my dead wife can’t ask you instead.”
Victor stood as still as he could. He knew what was coming.
Norimov continued: “You have no loyalty to me any longer, I get that. I understand it. I don’t blame you. I
always told you to never forgive a betrayal. No doubt that lesson has kept you alive more than once. But what did Eleanor ever do to warrant you turning your back on her daughter?”
Victor didn’t answer. Eleanor’s beautiful face flashed in his mind’s eye. Smiling, as always.
“She was kind to you, was she not?”
“That’s because she didn’t know who I was—who I am.”
“And she died still believing you were the good man you pretended to be. I did not tell her otherwise.”
“Thank you for that.”
Norimov was silent for a moment. The soles of his shoes scraped on the ground as he paced. When he turned back, he said, “She talked about you from time to time.”
Victor waited. It took all of his will to keep his thoughts on the present exchange to stop doors opening in his mind that he had shut and locked long ago. He didn’t want Norimov to see any more than he wanted himself to feel.
“She didn’t understand why you had to leave the way you did. Just like she didn’t understand why you never came back.”
Norimov stepped a little closer. The instinct to back away was strong. Victor managed to fight it. “From time to time in the first couple of years after you’d gone, although she always denied it, I would catch her crying. I worked out why only once she’d died. At least, I didn’t allow myself to before then.”
Victor did everything in his power not to blink. In a way, it didn’t matter. Norimov knew. Whatever Victor did or said made no difference now.
The Russian stood close enough for Victor to feel the warmth of his breath. “Tell me, Vasily, if Eleanor was alive and standing before you as I am now, would you turn down her request for help? If she stared into your eyes and begged you to save her daughter’s life, would you even pause long enough to take a single breath?”
“I . . . I need time to think about this.”
“No,” Norimov hissed, poking Victor in the chest with a finger he should have snapped but could not bring himself to. “There is no time for fucking deliberation. You answer me now, you piece of shit, or you walk away from here and condemn my daughter—Eleanor’s daughter—to death.”