The taxi took him deeper into the city. He saw St. Petersburg as a city of contrasts. The new modern skyscrapers of capitalism stood alongside the decrepit structures of the Soviet era and between them, somewhat out of place, stood the grand buildings of historic Russia that had survived the war. The weather was no different. At the height of summer it could be as hot as in Madrid, but in the dead of winter it was difficult to find a colder place on the planet.
The hotel was expensive compared with the St. Petersburg norm, which made it quite reasonable to Victor. He booked a room for a week but only intended to stay for a few days at the most. He always found it best if hotel employees knew as little about his plans as possible. Another taxi took him east, where he gave the driver directions to a bar lost in one of the city’s industrial districts. The name of the bar had changed since he’d last visited, but he hoped its patronage remained the same.
He ordered a vodka and sat at the end of the long bar sipping it quietly. When he had finished he waved the bartender over for a second drink. Victor spoke to him in fluent Russian with a hint of a Ukrainian accent.
“I’m looking for Aleksandr Norimov.”
He asked as though he was just curious, as if it didn’t matter what the answer was, but the young man behind the bar visibly tensed up. “I used to know him,” Victor added, pretending he didn’t notice the bartender’s reaction.
He shook his head. “I don’t know who you mean.”
“He still owns this bar, doesn’t he?”
The barkeep shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He gave Victor his drink and moved to the other end of the bar. He took out a rag and started wiping it down, his eyes occasionally twitching in Victor’s direction. Two minutes later the barkeeper walked over to the payphone and inserted some coins. Victor couldn’t hear what he was saying, and he couldn’t see his lips to read them. The call took no more than forty-five seconds, and the bartender then went back to cleaning the bar. This time he didn’t look Victor’s way once.
Good. He didn’t expect he’d have long to wait.
By the time Victor had finished savoring his third vodka two men entered the bar. Both were well over six feet and had the build of serious weightlifters. They had typically Russian pale skin, cheeks ruddy from the cold. Victor noticed their long overcoats did more than just protect them from St. Petersburg’s freezing weather.
Victor watched them out of the corner of his eye while he ate his potato chips. They walked over to the bar and exchanged a few whispered words with the bartender. He didn’t give them any drinks but gestured Victor’s way. The two men approached slowly, no trepidation, just an arrogance gained from both size and status. Clearly they had no idea who they were dealing with.
Their shadows fell over Victor as he turned in his seat, head tilting back to look at them.
“Who are you?” one asked.
There was a deep resonance to his voice and he spoke with a thick Siberian accent. In Victor’s experience Siberians were an especially tough breed even among the already-tough Russians.
“I’m a friend of Aleksandr Norimov.”
The Siberian paused a second before responding. “Who?”
“The owner of this bar.”
“He’s not the owner anymore.”
“So you do know who I’m talking about?”
The big muscles in the Siberian’s jaw flexed. “Norimov died last year.”
Victor let out a long breath. “Then I appreciate your coming all the way over here just to let me know that. You’re really too kind.”
The Siberian paused, mouth slightly open, unsure whether Victor was being serious or sarcastic.
“What do you want with Norimov?”
“What does it matter if he’s dead?”
The Siberian shook his head in disbelief, but there was menace in his eyes. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“I’m a friend of Aleksandr Norimov.”
“Are you deaf? I told you he’s dead. So you’re wasting your time here.”
“I’m finishing my drink.” Victor gestured to the empty glass of vodka.
“You’ve finished,” the Siberian said.
“I’m afraid we disagree on that.”
He moved surprisingly fast for a big guy, knocking the glass hard with the back of his hand. It shattered against the wall behind the bar. All other conversations immediately halted.
The Siberian wore a smug grin. “Now you’ve finished.”
“Are you going to take me to see Norimov or not?”
The Siberian laughed.
Victor sighed. “Shall I take that as a no?”
“If you like.”
“I suppose I’ll be leaving then.”
He stood. The Siberian was in front of him, the other man behind. The Siberian gave Victor a hard stare, from which Victor was quick to lower his eyes, causing the Siberian to exhale loudly, half-grinning, buying the sign of submission. He stepped aside to allow Victor past. The Siberian looked at his associate and raised his eyebrows. The other man nodded in agreement.
At that moment neither was watching Victor.
As he stepped past the Siberian, he brought his left arm up and threw it backward, slamming his elbow into the Siberian’s face. He felt the nose give way. The Siberian grunted, blood splashing from his nostrils. His eyes filled with water. He slumped backward against the bar, sensibilities knocked from him.
Continuing his motion, Victor spun around to see the second guy pull a heavy Baikal handgun from the pocket of his overcoat. The big Russian would have been more effective grabbing Victor from behind, but he hadn’t, electing to go for his gun instead. His mistake.
Victor stepped forward inside the man’s reach, negating the gun’s threat, knocked the weapon to one side, and punched the Russian with the heel of his right palm, in the side of the chest where there was little muscle for protection. Ribs cracked. The Russian fell, gasping. The Baikal clattered on the hard floor. Victor turned his attention back to the Siberian, who was struggling back to his feet. Even with his nose smashed he was quick, pulling a switchblade from a coat pocket.
The blade appeared and he lunged at Victor, who grabbed the Siberian’s wrist and elbow, locking the arm and twisting it. The Siberian screamed, knife falling from his fingers. Victor let go of the arm and punched him in the gut. He barely flinched.
Hands grabbed Victor by the jacket, lifted him from his feet and hurled him. He landed hard but rolled to absorb the impact. He sprang to his feet to see the Siberian already coming at him. Victor slipped the punch, and another, dodging sideways, clear of one of the big guy’s fists, letting the Siberian’s momentum put him off balance. Victor kicked him in the back of the knee, and he stumbled forward. Victor grabbed the Baikal from the floor just as the Siberian recovered and turned.
The two pounds of hard steel in Victor’s grip connected under the guy’s jaw and dropped him to his knees. A second blow to the temple made sure he stayed there.
Victor reached inside the Siberian’s overcoat and pulled the gun from an underarm holster. It was a Baikal as well. He dropped it on the other side of the bar and looked around. The rest of the bar’s patrons were dumbstruck, all silent, completely passive. He didn’t need to tell them not to cause any trouble.
Victor pushed the barrel of the Baikal into the Siberian’s face. “Get up.”
The Siberian spat out teeth and managed to pull himself to his feet, one hand under his nose draining blood, one palm against his temple.
“Turn around,” Victor ordered. “Put your face on the bar.”
The Siberian hesitated. He raised his hands. Victor grabbed him by the hair, forced his face down against the bar, making sure his broken nose took the brunt of it. He cried out. Victor pressed the gun against the base of the man’s skull.