With his shaved head and his staring eyes and his grotesque tattoo and his bad teeth, the contractor knew he frightened people, and he surely enjoyed that. He viewed all others with contempt. He considered himself a more highly evolved species.
So he would never imagine that a washed-up old silovik, a former KGB agent, a lousy petty bureaucrat, could possibly attempt what Chuzhoi was about to do.
The element of surprise was Chuzhoi’s only advantage against this sociopathic monster.
An overgrown lawn came into view: wild, almost jungle-like. In the midst sat a small clapboard house. He parked his black Audi on the gravel driveway and approached the front door. It had started to rain.
Chuzhoi wore the same nailhead suit he’d worn in Boston, tailored to fit his broad physique. He moved with his accustomed air of authority. His long gray hair spilled over his shirt collar.
His trusty Makarov.380 was concealed in a holster at the small of his back.
The green-painted door swung open suddenly, and a face came out of the darkness. The shaved head, the intense stare, the deeply etched forehead: Chuzhoi had forgotten how fearsome the man was.
Something about his amber eyes: the eyes of a wolf, wild and feral and ruthless. Yet at the same time the eyes were cold and disciplined and ever calculating. They studied his acne-pitted cheeks.
“The rain has started,” Chuzhoi said. “It’s supposed to be a bad storm.”
The zek said nothing. He glared and turned around, and Chuzhoi followed him into the shadowed recesses. The house had the stale smell of a place long closed up.
Was the girl here?
“You have no electricity?” Chuzhoi said.
“Sit.” The zek pointed to an armchair with a high back. It was upholstered in little flowers and looked like something chosen by an old lady.
Of course, the zek had no right to speak to him this way, but Chuzhoi allowed him his impertinence. “The girl is here?” he said, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. It was so dark he could barely see the sociopath’s face.
“No.” The zek remained standing. “Why is this meeting necessary?”
Chuzhoi decided to meet brevity with brevity.
“The operation has been terminated,” he said. “The girl is to be released at once.”
“It’s too late,” the zek said.
Chuzhoi pulled a sheaf of papers from his breast pocket. “I will see to it that you are wired your completion fee immediately. All you have to do is sign these forms, as we’ve already discussed. Also, in consideration of your excellent service, you will receive a bonus of one hundred thousand dollars in cash as soon as the girl is handed over.”
“But ‘terminated’ is not the same as ‘concluded,’” the zek said. “Was the ransom not paid? Or were other arrangements made?”
Chuzhoi shrugged. “I am only a messenger. I pass along what the Client tells me. But I believe other arrangements have been reached.”
The zek stared at him, and Chuzhoi, hardly a delicate man, felt a sudden chill. “Do you need a pen?” he said.
The zek came near. Chuzhoi could smell the cigarettes on his breath.
The zek gave a hideous grimace. “You know, we can go into business for ourselves,” he said. “The girl’s father is a billionaire. We can demand a ransom that will set us up for life.”
“The father has nothing anymore.”
“Men like that are never without money.”
A sudden gust of wind lashed the small window with rain. There was a rumble of distant thunder.
But why not offer him whatever he asked? It was all irrelevant anyway. He’d never get a cent.
The zek put his arm around Chuzhoi’s shoulder in a comradely fashion. “We could be partners. Think of how much we can make, you and I.”
His hand ran smoothly down Chuzhoi’s back until it lightly grasped the butt of his pistol. As if he knew precisely what he would find and where.
“Last time you came unarmed.”
“The weapon is for my protection.”
“Do you know what this is?” the zek said.
Chuzhoi saw the wink of a steel blade, a thick black handle.
Of course he knew what the thing was.
In the calmest voice he could muster, he said, “I am always happy to discuss new business opportunities.”
He felt the nip of the blade against his side.
The zek’s left hand slid back up his spine to his left shoulder, the long fingers gripping the shoulder blade at the front. Suddenly he felt a deep twinge and his left arm went dead. Chuzhoi sensed the man’s hot breath on his neck.
“I know the Client’s ransom demands have still not been met,” the zek said. “I also know he has made a deal to give me up.”
Chuzhoi opened his mouth to deny it, but the blade penetrated a little more, then pulled back. The pain was so intense it made him gasp.
“If we are to do business together, we need to trust each other,” the monster said.
“Of course,” Chuzhoi whispered, eyes closed.
“You need to earn my trust.”
“Yes. Of course. Please.”
A tear rolled down his cheek. He wasn’t sure if it was from the physical pain of the zek’s pressure point or simple fear.
“I think you have some idea where the girl is located,” the zek said.
Chuzhoi hesitated, not wanting to admit he’d had the man followed after their last meeting. That would only enrage him.
Chuzhoi had ordered the follower to keep the surveillance discreet. In fact, he’d stayed back so far he’d lost him.
But… was it possible the zek had detected the surveillance?
Even so, Chuzhoi had only an approximate location of the burial site. He didn’t know the name of the town. The county, yes. Hundreds of square miles. So what? That was as good as nothing.
Before he could think how to reply, the zek spoke. “A man with your experience should hire better eyes.”
Chuzhoi felt the blade again, white hot, but this time the zek didn’t pull back, and the pain shot up to the top of his head and down to the very soles of his feet. Heat spread throughout his body, or so he thought, until he realized that in fact his sphincter had given way.
In desperation he cried, “Think of the money-!”
But the knife had gone in deep into his stomach. He struggled against the zek’s iron embrace, retched something hot, which burned his throat.
Outside the wind whistled. Rain spattered the clapboard sides of the house. It had become a downpour.
“I am,” the zek said.
“What do you want?” he screamed. “My God, what do you want from me?”
“May I borrow your mobile?” the zek said. “I’d like to make a phone call.”
79.
“Put it on speaker,” I told Navrozov.
This was it. The call that told us either that the kidnapping had been successfully called off, or…
Navrozov answered it abruptly: “Da?”
“Speaker,” I said again.
To me he said, “I don’t know how to do this.”
I took it from him and punched the speaker button, and I heard something strange, something unexpected.
A scream.
AND THEN a man’s voice, speaking in Russian.
I could make out only intonation and cadence, of course, but the man sounded calm and professional.
In the background was a continuous whimpering, a rush of words that sounded like pleading. I set the phone down on the desk, looked at Navrozov, whose face registered puzzlement.