‘Let’s go inside,’ Craig said with a handsome toothy smile and nice-as-pie voice. ‘Shall we?’ His arm was around the waist of Nadia Mazurova. Kirov had so far paid no attention to her because Craig was claiming it all for himself with his piece of theatricality. Now that Kirov was looking at her he thought how calm she was, how assured. And it disturbed him: there was too much martyred calmness in that steady gaze, so that for a moment he had the idea that she and the American were complementing each other, finding meaning for themselves in the posture of the other. It chilled him because it meant that she was adopting the madness of Craig as representing something wider, and, if that was so, then she was as crazy as the American.
Recognising a hesitation Craig said pleasantly, ‘I’ve got a knife to Nadia’s back. Does that shock you? Don’t think that I wouldn’t use it. I know this place and you don’t. I could kill her now and walk away and no one would stop me. You’ve seen the way they treat animals here — and we gweilos, we’re just animals. Ask Harry.’
‘He’s right,’ Harry Korn said cautiously. ‘I’ve seen it before. The Chinks don’t get too excited when the Round-Eyes start killing each other.’
‘So we’re not going to start any trouble, right?’ said Craig. ‘We’re going to sit down and talk all of this through like adults.’
‘You’d be wise to agree,’ said the fat man. ‘Definitely a good idea.’
Craig snapped his fingers at the skinny kid and threw some banknotes on the table. The kid picked up the tray and took it to one of the tables at the back of the shop and beckoned them through. ‘You first,’ said the American, and he followed with the girl. They took positions at the table, Kirov and Harry Korn on one side, Craig with the woman to his right on the other. The kid came up with more cutlery and a paper napkin; he addressed a few words to Harry Korn. Harry asked, ‘Want a beer? If you don’t want to eat the goodies, the boy will get you a beer.’
‘No beer,’ said Kirov.
‘Well, I need one. And you, whatsyourname — Nadia — for you a beer, a Coke? One beer, one Coke, nothing for you, Pete, not even a Coke? And, Bill, you want something to take the taste away? Beer? Mao tai? No?’ Harry placed the order and then sat forward and looked pleased that something was accomplished. ‘OK — fire away,’ he said.
Craig studied the other men in a leisurely, relishing fashion and then examined the tray in front of him. With his free left hand he picked up the porcelain spoon and tasted the soup and pronounced it good. He looked away and Kirov followed his eyes beyond the confines of the eating-house into the mild night. The lanterns strung across the lane gave a sea-green cast to the deep blue of the sky. In the booth directly across, four men, ranged like a tug-of-war team, — were skinning a python. Craig seemed satisfied by this and returned to his meal.
‘Have you been to the Orient before?’ he asked. ‘I don’t recall anything in your record that said you have — but records can be incomplete.’
‘I haven’t been to the East.’
‘No, thought not. No doubt Harry has given you some local colour on this place. And I could probably give you more; I spent a longish time here in the seventies — but I guess you know about that.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes,’ Craig repeated thoughtfully. He picked up the glass containing the snake’s blood and took a small sip.
‘Christ!’ groaned Harry Korn. ‘Do you have to, Bill? It fair makes me want to heave.’
‘Shut up,’ Craig retorted. He faced Kirov and dabbed away the rim of blood from around his lips. ‘Am I disturbing you, Peter?’
‘No.’
‘Do you want to try some? Whatever Harry may feel, it really isn’t disgusting; his feelings have more to do with culture shock than with taste, as to which he is entirely ignorant. I recommend you to try. The purpose of this concoction is to enhance virility, masculinity. I can vouch for its powerful effect.’
Kirov could see the powerful effect too, and wondered what stimulant the other man was using. He suspected cocaine or amphetamine. Cocaine was associated with flashes of paranoia. Cocaine, probably. Where did the knowledge get him?
‘Why have you come after me?’ Craig said sorrowfully. He pulled Nadia closer to him as though he could derive some comfort from her. Kirov caught the glint of light from the knife blade that he had pressed against her. ‘Is it because of your Great Jewish — what’s the name?’ He seemed distracted; he passed a hand across his eyes to screen out the light, and took another drink of the blood. ‘Why Jewish?’ he asked, this time wiping his lips imperfectly so that a circle of blood remained to emphasise the redness of his lips.
‘A sort of joke — a piece of irony.’
‘And is that why you came after me?’ Craig turned to Harry Korn and said with amusement, ‘Listen to this, Harry. Peter is going to tell you of a conspiracy I’m supposed to be involved in.’
‘This Jewish thing?’ Harry asked in some confusion.
‘It’s their invention, not mine,’ Craig explained. ‘As far as I’m concerned, I didn’t regard it in those terms at all. Conspiracy is a pretty big word for something that was just a little piece of business. What do you think, Peter? Did George Gvishiani and me get together with the rest of the bad guys and work out a plan to sell antibiotics in the Soviet Union? I like the idea. Where did we meet? What were we wearing — black cloaks and big black hats?’ Craig paused and considered Kirov with a cold hostility, then, abruptly, he picked up the glass of gall and threw it back in one gulp. He said, ‘Did you know you’re a goddamn joke, Peter? A pathetic small-time operator!’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Starting where? You’re so damned ignorant you couldn’t understand the explanation.’
‘Tell me about Viktor Gusev,’ Kirov answered.
The American remained silent. The silence lasted long enough for Harry Korn to start looking concerned, as if Craig had died on him. Kirov knew the truth that the silence arose from the conflict between the other man’s massive arrogance and his uncertainty and self-doubt. He turned his eyes away to avoid the threat posed to Craig’s dangerous mood by a direct gaze. Instead he looked beyond the other man’s shoulder into a small room where an old couple were dining placidly with the skinny kid. They seemed to sense him: the old man placed his chopsticks by his bowl and stared blankly back.
Then Craig was saying, ‘Viktor? Would you believe I met Viktor three times in my life? The first time, I was with George Gvishiani in Moscow and we ran into Viktor in a restaurant. George tells Viktor that I’m called Smirnov, but Viktor has this thing about names and he calls me Zagranichny because he figures I’m a foreigner. We talk about this and that … you wouldn’t think we had any business together. Only afterwards does George tell me that Viktor is his Moscow distributor.’
‘And?’
‘And? Nothing! Viktor Gusev was an insignificant little faggot and the antibiotics game was just something played for peanuts. You want to know how it started? I was helping the guys in Tbilisi to build their pharmaceuticals plant, and some of the soldier-boys said that there was a market for antibiotics and why don’t we all make some money out of it. And that was it. George arranged transport and distribution and I organised production. And then, when demand outstripped supply, I brought in stuff from this place with the co-operation of a couple of generals who don’t mind taking a bribe. The pay-out was all arranged in diamonds from some jeweller in Moscow.’