Tarasov himself has to smile when he watches the brawny sergeant major carry Nooria’s tax-free bags to an empty set of chairs. London Heathrow is even more crowded than the lounge in Los Angeles was, and it appears a miracle to find free seats not yet unoccupied by travelers who appear to talk in all the world’s languages to him, and many of them even looking as exotic as the words that hit his ears.
The champagne Nooria had had during the long flight has apparently put her in a mood beyond ordinary bliss. The words of song she is singing aloud don’t stand out in the mix of languages around them. It still makes Tarasov wary. The last thing they need is unwanted attention.
“Damn,” the Top says looking at the electric board listing departures. “Our flight has a one hour delay.”
“What shall we do until then?”
“I’ll have one of those roast beef sandwiches,” says the Top jerking his thumb at a café with delicious-looking sandwiches piled up in big glass cases below the counter. “Maybe more.”
“Is there a smokers’ room here?”
“Don’t think so, Pete.”
Shaking his head, Pete plugs the earphones back. Tarasov gives a long sigh.
“I need a drink. Nooria?”
“I don’t want more champagne. I will stay here with Pete.”
Tarasov moves to a crowded bar. He has barely gotten to the counter when the Top appears beside him and yells over to the waiter manning the bar. “Wild Turkey! Two shots in one glass, neat! What’s your poison?”
“Stolichnaya will do. I’m thirsty. Fill up a whiskey glass.”
Suddenly, the patron sitting on Tarasov’s right pokes his side with his elbow. He is wearing an outfit that looks as if he were preparing for a long stay in the wilderness and a hat with the brim turned upwards. He gives Tarasov the friendly grin of a man who the more he drinks, the merrier he gets.
“G’day mate! Sorry about that, it’s awfully stuffy in here! I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“Watch out, man…”
“Mate, that’s exactly what I was talkin’ about to this Frenchie here! He says, one of you blokes could hit a razorback with a slug round from around a ninety yards as nicely as Tendulkar can bat a throw by a bloody beginner. You know what was the last words of the hunter who wanted hittin’ a razorback from ninety yards with a slug round? ‘Watch out!’”
“What’s a razorback and who is Tendulkar?”
“Bloody hell, you don’t know a thing ’bout hunting and cricket, do you? Noblest things in the world! If it weren’t for my plane being delayed, I’d be already on my way to hunt razorbacks in Ukraine! Speaking of which, I wonder if they play cricket in Ukraine.”
“You do what in Ukraine?”
“Mate, your accent is wicked. You’re Russian, yeah?”
“Ukrainian, actually.”
Tarasov regrets his words as soon as he has spoken them, but hopes that no one in the loud crowd would pay attention.
“Christ, guess that means you’ve got no cricket.”
“What are you up to in Ukraine, anyway?”
“As told you, I go hunting for razorbacks. That’d be boars to you, mate.”
“You’re into hog hunting?” the Top asks with his eyes kindled. “How? By making them look at your hat and fall dead from laughing?”
“I got four rifles in my checked-in luggage. And as to my hat, mate—have a little more respect of my trusty old squashy, will you?”
An idea comes to Tarasov’s mind.
“Top,” he whispers, “a solution for our weapon problem might have just come up.” He turns to face the traveler with a wide smile. ”So, mate, where do you go hunting?”
“Crimea.”
“There’s better hunting grounds elsewhere.”
“But the thing is, I’ve already booked my trip and I paid the advance. It’s a good company, found ’em on the net. They organize hunting trips and all that.”
“And what did they say about the ninety yards slug shot issue?”
“Aw, you know, I’m to meet the local hunters only in Odessa. But really, Odessa? I don’t know mate, it kinda sounds like a girl’s name. Maybe it is. Heck, I’ve got the names of a few girls… Ukrainian-bride dot com or whatever was that site… is Odessa a town or a girl?”
“Instead of Odessa or an Anastasia, would you be interested in meeting such a fellow?”
Tarasov opens his PDA and shows the file photograph of a Zone boar. Thick-hided, enormously sized ferals with tusks protruding from the mouth as long as a strong man’s hand span, boars are probably the Zone creatures most resembling the animals from which they had once mutated.
“You’re kiddin’ me, right? That damn thing’s a hogzilla!”
“I assure you it’s for real, and quite common where we are heading.” Tarasov notes growing interest on the patron’s face. Satisfied over him being about to get hooked, Tarasov continues. “No shot will stop it from ninety yards. Its hide and skull are too thick. I mean, if you have an automatic shotgun like a SPAS 12 or an Armsel Protecta, your chances are a bit better but…”
“Jesus Christ! The way you’re going you might as well use a Kalashnikov? Who the hell are you to use such gear on animals? Fascists?”
The Top intervenes gently pushes Tarasov away. “Ninety yards is a good range if you use a good old Triple Deuce and score a headshot.”
The outlandish patron turns his attention to Hartman. “Yeah, but what about close brush hunting? It’s almost impossible to get a clear shot. You need a cartridge taking a real big punch like the 44-40 Winchester. With that, it doesn’t matter where you hit’em, be it head or arse!”
“Agree to disagree. It all depends on where you place the round. When hunting in Tennessee back in my days, I’ve used simple .308 rounds on hogs. All six went down within fifty yards with just one shot. If broadside, lower shoulder. If quartering at you, vitals. Anyway, first and last thing a hunter needs is good luck.”
Tarasov suppresses a smile, seeing that the Top has by now got the hunter’s full attention. At last their drinks arrive. The hunter—if he is what he seems—raises his beer glass.
“To good luck, mates!” They toast. “I see you blokes know a thing or two about hunting.”
“Contrary to your hunt organizers, it seems,” Tarasov cautiously says. Just like any other soldier serving in the Zone, he had never handled anything else but assault rifles. To him, hunting boars means mowing them down with assault rifles or machine guns. Even worse, all he knows about hunting weapons is that an enemy with a hunting rifle is no match for anyone armed with an assault rifle — at least if fighting on equal ground. He decides to let the Top do the hunter’s talk, who has just proven himself surprisingly knowledgeable on such matters. “Myself, I am just a tour guide but my friend here is a real hunter.”
“What’s his choice?”
“Uhm… really big, nasty beasts.”
“Like what?”
“I mean, like desert boars.”
“There are no boars in the desert, mate. At least not in the Tanami where I come from. Then there’s the Simpson, the Gibson and of course the Great Victoria but I’ve never met any boar there either.”
“I meant as a manner of speaking…”
Seeing that Tarasov is about to make a fool out of himself, the Top once more intervenes. “You’re an Aussie, ain’t you? I heard that a good kangaroo steak is even better than a Kobe!”
“Not sure about that—”
An announcement calling passengers of British Airways flight 0882 to Kiev interrupts the conversation.
“Sorry fellas, that’s my flight. The drinks are on me,” the hunter says. “Have a good hunt! Oh, and how rude of me, name’s Sawyer. Don’t be strangers, should you ever come down under.”
“My name is Jack, and my friend’s Joe. Easy to remember, thanks goodness,” the Top says and winks an eye to Tarasov. “Actually, we’re on the same flight. I’d love to carry our conversation on.”
“Really, mate? That’s great news, I hate ’em boring flights!”
They exchange a quick glance behind the Australian’s back.
“He’s in for the hunting trip of his life,” Tarasov whispers with a grin. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”