Part 3 (1/2)
”Contract killers. Almost all. With one bullet, a man can earn half million dollars.” He looked at me and went on in a soft, menacing, ingratiating voice: ”Eemagine. You are manager of bank, big boss, yes? Somebody telephones.
”Look, Meester Sharp, you should pay us some marney.” You tell them, ”Get to h.e.l.l.”
”Another call.
”You know, Mr. Sharp, you are in danger. You need pratyection. We do not like you to be hurt. We can pratyect you. We can look after your family. But it will cost you: two percent. Two percent of bank takings a lot of money.”
”Again you say, ”Get lost.”
He paused, and when he went on, his voice was even more reasonable, more wheedling, more sinister.
”A week pa.s.ses. Another call.
”Now look, Meester Sharp. Are you not concerned for your safety, for your little children, for their lives?”
'”No,” you say.
'”All right, then. Wait. Wait. Just wait.”
”You think you are safe. Why? Because you have closed circuit TV on your block. You have modern security system.
You have former KGB on duty outside. But you are under terrible pressure from your bosses to resist the threat, from the criminals to pay.
”Then one morning you go out to your car. Sunny day. Very nice. Guards are sitting there. Only twenty-five metres to walk, but that is enough. BAs.h.!.+ Bang! The contract killer fires one shot from his car finish.”
”Nasty,” I said.
”Is very bad, and always getting worse. Now all politicians are in danger, even the President and the Prime Minister.”
”That's why we're coming over, I guess.”
”Konechno.”
He gave me such a long run-down on Mafia activities that we reached camp almost without noticing it.
”Here we are,” I said as we turned in towards the gate.
”Welcome to Stirling Lines.”
The police on security duty had been briefed to expect him, and I checked him through without difficulty. Then we headed for the officers' mess, where a room was booked. At that time of the afternoon the place was deserted except for Larry, the steward, who was busy cleaning the regimental silver, so I took Sasha through to show him his room, which was small but cheerful, with a shower and lavatory cubicle attached.
”Even own bathroom!” Sasha grinned. Then, pointing at the washbasin, he recited a little poem: ”Tolko pokoynik, Ne ssit v rukomoynik.”
”What's that?”
”It is joke about Russian hotels. Usually bathroom is a kilo metre away along pa.s.sage. It means, ”Only a dead man does not p.i.s.s in the basin.”
He was delighted with the accommodation; but when we got back into the anteroom, with its sofas and armchairs and little tables, and scenes from regimental history on the walls, he became nervous.
”Zheordie,” he said.
”I am shamed.”
”What's the matter?”
”This place...” He gestured round the room.
”My clothes...” He looked down at himself, pointing to his black jacket, his faded jeans, his ancient trainers.
”Not smart.”
”Don't worry. Everyone's very relaxed round here. No formality.”
”Perhaps...”
Still he looked anxious, so I said, ”Tell you what. I'll run you into town and we can buy you some new stuff at Marks and Sparks.” I saw him hesitate, and explained, ”That's a chain store.
Good cheap clothes. Have you got money?”
He produced his wallet, opened it and fished out some notes.
”This is enough?”
He had two flyers and two ten-dollar notes.
”Is that all you've got?”
He nodded.
Jesus! I thought.
”Zheordie, you must understand. In the army, now, we do not get paid. Five months, no marney.
I stared at him.
”In that case, we'll get you something.”
”No, please. You should not pay.”
”Not me the system. There's a fund for this sort of thing. I can square it away.
I dived into my room in the sergeants' mess to pick up a chequebook. Thus equipped, we drove into town and got Sasha kit ted out with a lightweight, dark-blue blazer, grey slacks, a pair of black moccasins, a couple of s.h.i.+rts and a tie. The bill came to nearly 200, but I knew I could recover the money from Bill Tadd, the quartermaster.
By 5:30 we were back in camp, and I realised that to Sasha it was already 8:30 so I suggested that he had a shower and got his head down for an hour before I came back and collected him for supper.
The meal went fine. There were one or two young ruperts about, but we two sat in a corner of the dining-room and no one bothered us. Sasha's new gear did him proud. He couldn't help preening himself a bit, shooting the cufTh of his pale-blue s.h.i.+rt and brus.h.i.+ng invisible bits of fluff off the sleeves of his blazer.
As we chatted it became apparent that he'd had quite a lot of fighting experience more than I had. One of the pictures on the wall was of the Jebel Akhdar in Oman, where the Regiment had won a famous victory in the fifties, and it set him reminiscing about Afghanistan, where he'd been posted for a year in h.e.l.lish conditions. The mountains, he said, looked very similar but in contrast with the heat of the Gulf, the winter cold in Afghanistan had been horrendous.
Towards the end of the meal, though, our conversation became rather stilted. Several times Sasha didn't understand something I'd said, and he seemed to be preoccupied with his behaviour, eating his cheese carefully and often glancing round.