And whatever gave you the crooked idea that you have a say in anything that happens here? His face was red, almost swollen. -Mischa, get this motherless fuck out of my sight before I rip him apart with my bare hands!
Tarkanian dragged Arkadin out of the Pasha Room and took him over to the long bar on one side of the main room. A stage, lit up like it was New Year‘s Eve, featured a tall nubile tyolka with very little on, who spread her milelong legs to a beat-heavy song.
— Let‘s have a drink, Tarkanian said with forced joviality.
— I don‘t want a drink.
— It‘s on me. Tarkanian caught the bartender‘s eye. -Come on, my friend, a drink is just what you need.
— Don‘t tell me what I need, Arkadin said, his voice suddenly raised.
The absurd argument carried on from there, escalating enough so that a bouncer was summoned.
— What seems to be the trouble? He might have been addressing both of them but, because he knew Tarkanian by sight, his eyes were firmly fixed on Arkadin.
With a venomous glare, Arkadin reacted. He grabbed the bouncer and slammed his forehead against the edge of the bar with so much force that nearby drinks trembled and the closest ones tipped over. Then he kept slamming it until Tarkanian managed to pull him off.
— I don‘t have a problem, Arkadin said to the stunned and bleeding bouncer. -But it‘s clear you do.
Tarkanian hustled him out into the night before he could do any more damage.
— If you think I‘m ever going to work for that pile of dogshit, Arkadin said, — you‘re sorely mistaken.
Tarkanian held up his hands. -Okay, okay. Don‘t work for him. He guided Arkadin down the street, away from the club‘s entrance. -However, I don‘t know how you‘re going to make a living. Moscow is a different-
— I‘m not staying in Moscow. Breath, condensing in the chill, was shooting out of Arkadin‘s nostrils like steam. -I‘m going to take Joškar and the girls and-
— And what? Where will you go? You have no money, no prospects, nothing. How will you feed yourselves, let alone the kids? Tarkanian shook his head.
— Take my advice, forget about those people, they belong to your past, to another life. You‘ve left Nizhny Tagil behind. He peered into Arkadin‘s eyes. -That‘s what you‘ve wanted all your life, isn‘t it?
— I‘m not letting Maslov‘s people take them back. You don‘t know what Lev Antonin‘s like.
— Maslov doesn‘t care what Lev Antonin‘s like.
— Fuck Maslov!
Tarkanian rounded on him. -You really don‘t get it, do you? Dimitri Maslov and his kind own Moscow lock, stock, and vodka. That means they own Joškar and her girls.
— Joškar and the girls aren‘t part of his world.
— They are now, Tarkanian said. -You dragged them into it.
— I didn‘t know what I was doing.
— Well, that‘s clear enough, but you have to face facts: What‘s done is done.
— There must be a way out of this.
— Really? Even if you had money-say, if I were stupid enough to give you some-what would it accomplish? Maslov would send his people after you. Worse, considering how you provoked him, he might come after you himself. Trust me when I tell you that‘s not what you want for them.
Arkadin felt like pulling his hair out by the roots. -Don‘t you understand? I don‘t want them going back to that fucker.
— Have you considered that it might be the best outcome?
— Are you out of your mind?
— Look, you yourself said that Joškar told you Lev Antonin promised to protect her and her children. You know what she is, and the girls have her blood. If her secret gets out she‘ll never be able to have a normal life among ethnic Russians. Face it, you can‘t protect them from Maslov, but they‘ll be safe enough back in Nizhny Tagil, where no one is going to say a word against her for fear of her husband. And listen, she‘s smart enough to tell him that she and the kids were abducted to ensure your safe passage. Chances are he won‘t lift a hand to her.
— Until the next time he‘s drunk or depressed or just in the mood for a little fun.
— That‘s her life, not yours. Leonid Danilovich, I‘m talking to you as one friend to another. This is the only way. You managed to escape Nizhny Tagil; not everyone can be so fortunate.
The fact that Tarkanian was telling the truth only made Arkadin angrier. The problem was he didn‘t know what to do with that anger, so he began to turn it inward. More than anything, he wanted to see Joškar again, he wanted to hold her youngest girl in his arms again, to feel her warmth, her heartbeat. But he knew that it was impossible. If he met with her again, he‘d never be able to let her go. Maslov‘s people would surely kill him and the family would be shipped back to Lev Antonin anyway. He felt like a rat in a maze with no beginning and no end, only an eternal race chasing his own tail.
This was Dimitri Maslov‘s doing. At that moment he vowed that no matter how long it took he‘d make Maslov pay: Death would come to him only when he‘d been systematically stripped of everything he held dear.
Two days later he watched from the shadows across the street-Tarkanian at his elbow, either for moral support or to drag him back if he got any ideas at the last minute-as Joškar and the three girls were led into a large black Zil. Two of Maslov‘s muscle were with them, plus the driver. The girls, bewildered, allowed themselves to be stowed in the car as docilely as lambs to the slaughter.
For her part, Joškar, with hands on the car‘s roof, one foot already inside, paused and looked around for him. As she did so, Arkadin saw not the look of despair he had been expecting, but rather an expression of infinite sadness, which tore through him like phosphorus, burning his insides as black as Yasha‘s flesh. He‘d deceived her, broken his promise.
In his mind he heard her voice as if she were calling to him now: “Don’t make me go back to him.”
She‘d believed in him, trusted him, and now she had nothing.
She ducked down, and he lost sight of her. The car door slammed, the Zil drove off, and he had nothing as well. This was brought home to him in an even more vicious fashion when, six weeks later, Tarkanian informed him that Joškar had shot her husband to death, then turned the gun on her children and herself.
32
SHAHRAKE NASIRI-ASTARA at last! Noah Perlis had been to many exotic destinations in his time, but this area of northwestern Iran wasn‘t one of them. In fact, apart from the stark towers of the oil wells and the attendant petroleum particulates, it was so ordinary looking it could have been somewhere in rural Arkansas. However, Noah had no time to be bored. An hour ago, he‘d received a call from Black River informing him that Dondie Parker, the man he‘d sent to kill Humphry Bamber, had failed to check in as he should have following the completion of his assignment. To Noah, this meant two things: One, Bamber was still alive, and, two, he‘d lied about getting away from Moira, because there was no way he could have survived Dondie Parker on his own. Extrapolating from these hypotheses brought him to another hypothesis of vital and immediate importance to him: the possibility that the newest version of Bardem was poisoned in some way he‘d never be able to discover.