“Where’s Norimov?”
No answer.
He smashed the Siberian’s face into the bar again, making him cry out a second time. “Where is he?”
Again no answer.
Victor ordered, “You behind the bar, get me a bottle of your strongest vodka.”
The bartender looked no older than twenty, probably had never seen a gun before. This was clearly all too much for him. He was too terrified to move.
Victor pointed the Baikal at him. “Do it, or I paint the wall with your brains and get it myself.”
He needed no further encouragement.
Victor pushed the Baikal harder against the Siberian’s skull. “Your gun holds ten bullets, if you move I will empty every one into your face. Do you understand?”
Victor took the silence as a yes. He stepped back, glanced back at the big Russian on the floor, saw him writhing, hands clutched to his chest, each breath an exercise in agony. He wasn’t in a position to try anything. Victor knelt down, never taking his eyes off the Siberian, and picked up the switchblade with his left hand. He stood back up, spun the knife around in his palm so the blade was pointing downward, and drove the point through the Siberian’s ear, pinning him to the bar.
Ignoring his cries, Victor took the bottle of vodka from the barman, checked that it was strong enough, and walked to the other end of the bar. He pulled the top off the bottle with his with his teeth and walked back toward the Siberian, dribbling vodka along the bar’s surface. When he reached him, Victor emptied the rest of the bottle over his head. The Siberian gasped but didn’t move; even the slightest struggle tore more of his ear on the knife’s blade.
Victor looked at the bartender. “Get a lighter.”
The Siberian found his voice. “No.”
Victor grabbed the knife and twisted it, making the Siberian yell. “Shut up.”
The bartender offered Victor a disposable lighter.
“No,” Victor said. “Take it to the other end of the bar.”
The bartender reluctantly moved to the far end.
“NO,” the Siberian cried again. “Please.”
“You had your chance to do this the easy way.” Victor kept the Baikal against the man’s skull and wrapped the fingers of his left hand in the Siberian’s hair, pushing him harder into the bar. “Now we do it my way.”
The big Siberian grunted and struggled, his huge hands braced on the edge of the bar. Blood mixed with vodka on the bar’s surface.
“You’re going to tell me exactly where I can find Norimov and you’d better hope I believe you.” He looked at the bartender. “Light it,” then back at to the Siberian. “You’ve got about ten seconds until you go up like a Roman candle.”
From the corner of his eye the Siberian watched the bartender strike the lighter and lower the small flame to the bar. The vodka ignited, burning with a blue flame. It raced along the bar toward the Siberian’s wide eye.
“Nine seconds.” Victor stated flatly.
“OKAY, OKAY,” the Siberian screamed. “I’ll tell you.”
“Tell me now. Seven seconds.”
“The Kalari train yard.”
“Will you take me there? Four seconds.”
“YES.”
Victor let go of the Siberian’s hair and pulled the knife from his ear. The Siberian lurched backward, his face leaving the bar a second before the flame reached him. The big man stumbled, lost his footing, and fell into a table, breaking it under his considerable weight.
He lay stunned for a moment, breathing heavily among the wreckage. When he looked up he saw Victor standing over him.
“Well,” Victor said. “What are we waiting for?”
THIRTY-SIX
Zürich, Switzerland
Saturday
13:11 CET
Rebecca found the chill invigorating as she boarded the electric streetcar. She sat at the back so she could watch who else got on, taking the precautions that her new partner or associate or whatever the hell he was had stressed. The streetcar took her into Zürich’s financial district, and she kept her anxiety locked up deep inside as she passed through the clean streets of the city. Rebecca liked Zürich, liked the quiet efficient way the Swiss went about their business. It was a city bathed in history, but it hadn’t yet been ruined by tourists. People came to Switzerland to work or to ski, not to sightsee.
She could have rode the quiet streetcar the whole way, but paranoia made her get off and circle back on herself, stopping to window-shop intermittently so she could watch the reflections of people passing by. Again, as he had told her to do. She didn’t see anyone she’d seen before, but she was painfully aware she wasn’t trained for this kind of thing. Someone could have followed her all the way from Paris with a funny hat on and she probably wouldn’t have noticed. When she had taken control of her fear she caught another streetcar and took the last available seat.
She gave it up for an elderly man with a sad face who boarded on Bahnhofstrasse and she was off three stops later in downtown Zürich. Here every person seemed to be dressed like her, and she relaxed in the crowd. She walked a little more easily.
Rebecca walked past boutiques and cafés that catered for the horde of bankers who called Zürich home. There were banks everywhere, and where there were no banks there were financial institutions of other sorts, some openly advertising their services, others hidden from passersby.
The chill air tightened the skin on her face as she thought about him, the killer whose name she didn’t even know. She looked at her watch. It had been several hours since they’d gone their separate ways. Already she was having doubts about what she was doing. And even if she was doing the right thing, she couldn’t trust him. How could she? He killed people for money. He was about as dishonorable as a person could get.
But she hoped his own desire to survive was as strong as hers. He was clearly smart too, and a smart man in his position would know that he was going to have to work with her. Neither of them could do it on their own. That was of course unless he managed to decrypt the drive for himself. Maybe then he would try something else, without her. Then she’d be on her own, defenseless.
She took a deep breath, tried to think rationally. She’d seen his face, seen the unflinching self-belief in his eyes and the absolute displeasure at needing someone else’s help. He wouldn’t have come to her in the first place if he’d had even the slightest confidence he could do it alone. She hoped.
Rebecca bought some chocolate shortcake from a shop on the Paradeplatz. It had a great placebo effect and helped settle her stomach before she headed off the main plaza and into a less-busy side street. She took the steps casually and smiled politely to the doorman as she pushed through the revolving entrance.
It didn’t look like a typical bank and that was the point. The lobby would have seemed more at home in a grand hotel. She made for the information desk and gave her details to the meticulously groomed man behind it. He picked up the phone with a smooth, practiced action and whispered into the receiver.
“Someone will be with you momentarily, madam.”
“Thank you.”
She waited in one of the fine but uncomfortable chairs, her chin resting in her palm. She made sure to appear hurried but not restless. She kept her coat on even though it was warm inside the bank.
After a few minutes, Rebecca was aware of a slim man in a stone-brown suit walking toward her and stood up to greet him. They took a wood-paneled elevator to the second floor, and she followed him into another room, where Rebecca entered her ten-digit account number into a small hand-held device.
The man checked the screen for verification and said, “This way please.”
They passed two security guards, and, at the door to the office of a senior banker, she declined coffee and was taken inside and left to wait again. The office was classically furnished and designed to ooze wealth and power. To Rebecca it was old-fashioned and uninspiring. She was a contemporary woman through and through. Making her wait was also becoming tiresome, especially considering she had told them she was coming.