Part 20 (1/2)
The table was covered with papers, evidently the subject of the meeting, and expensive-looking briefcases sat on the floor beside the chairs. The fire had started in a waste bin containing more paper, and I had no problem stamping it out. But I'd hardly finished when there was a commotion outside the door and in strode Ivan the Bear, with Sasha at his heels.
Ivan advanced towards me, grinning, and said something which Sasha translated as, ”Breelliant! He congratulates you very much.”
”Your guys did it.” I gestured round.
”They were first cla.s.s.
Ochen khorosho.”
Ivan accepted the praise with a nod and turned his attention to the bodies. Almost at once he gave an exclamation and began to talk at speed into a mobile phone.
”It is Keet the Whale,” Sasha translated, pointing at the corpse of a huge man with close-cropped grey hair that lay on its back almost under the table. As he was speaking, Ivan bent down and unceremoniously ripped open the perforated, bloodstained s.h.i.+rt to reveal a foot-long tattoo of a whale's head and open jaws, tilted upwards towards the man's left shoulder. From the half open mouth the feet of a human being were protruding. By a horrible fluke one round had gone in almost exactly through the whale's eye, leaving a b.l.o.o.d.y hole.
With a jerk on one arm Ivan rolled the body over and kicked the s.h.i.+rt up round its head. There, between the shoulder blades, was a tattooed portrait of Stalin.
”Old Uncle Joe didn't save that b.u.g.g.e.r, did he?” Whinger was staring at the effigy, fascinated. Then, as he surveyed the scene, he added, ”I like the delicate way they handle things round here, I must say.
Ivan brought out a pocket knife, slipped the blade inside one leg of Whale's trousers, at the ankle and slit the grey material open to half-way up the thigh. Then he pointed contemptuously and gave a short laugh.
”He has stars on the knees,” Sasha translated.
”Like I told you.
The sign he would never kneel.”
It seemed that all the villains bar one were known to Ivan. By any standards it was a terrific coup for the security forces: five G.o.dfathers at one hit, plus four bodyguards and a haul of incriminating papers. Nor was that all. The two most fancy briefcases crocodile leather by Gucci, no less were closed with gold combination locks. Ivan picked one up, laid it on the table and started trying to open it. Frustrated, he called to Igor, who produced a small jemmy.
”Hey, wait!” I said, thinking of Toad and Pavarotti.
”That thing's worth a few grand. One of our guys will open it without wrecking it.”
But Ivan wasn't in a mood to wait, and in a few seconds he'd burst both locks. When he lifted the lid, everybody who could see gave a gasp, because the case was packed solid with fifty dollar bills done up in little paper sleeves holding bunches of twenty notes: a thousand bucks a throw.
When you see cash in that kind of quant.i.ty, you realise how little s.p.a.ce it takes up: I could have put ten grand in my hip pocket, no bother.
As if reading my thoughts Ivan plunged a hand into the case and brought out a fistful of bundles, holding them in my direction.
”Take,” said Sasha.
”He wants you to have it.”
”No, no.” I waved it away.
”Yes, please. He inseest. He thinks like Russian soldiers you not being paid well. You need more.”
Looking round under the table, Ivan spotted a far cheaper briefcase made of imitation black leather, with a flap closure and no locks. Having tipped the papers it contained on to the table, he proceeded to stuff it with handfuls of fifty-dollar bills and thrust it at me.
From this point things became more and more surreal.
Somebody discovered bottles of special, high-octane vodka in the freezer compartment of the fridge, brought them out and began pouring slugs into short, squat gla.s.ses. Whinger and I declined, but as the icy spirit went down other people's throats in repeated doses, the volume of voices rose. While a minion collected up the papers from the table and stowed them away, Ivan himself carefully removed gold watches from three dead wrists and a couple of crocodile wallets from the jackets still on the chairs.
”Present to English friends!” he beamed, holding a watch out in my direction.
”No, for f.u.c.k's sake!” I exclaimed.
”Spasibo but keep them.”
Then some of his guys arrived with body bags, and at last bundled the corpses out of sight.
Outside, in the corridor, there was a great commotion as other inhabitants of the block argued with the guards on the door, trying to get in and find out what had happened.
”Let's get the h.e.l.l out of here,” Whinger muttered.
”There's going to be a monster p.i.s.s-up.”
”We'd better sign off with Ivan.”
”He's busy. Another day.”
”OK.”.
I looked round for Sasha and beckoned him over.
”We need to get back to Balas.h.i.+ka,” I told him.
”Can someone give us a lift?”
”Konechno. I drive you.”
”How many vodka shave you had?”
”Vodka? Nothing! Two only.”
So it was that we pushed our way past the new guards on the door, through the crowd outside and into the lift. Downstairs there was a heavy military presence on the entrance to the block, but Sasha spirited us through it, found the car he'd been driving, and set off I felt plagued by guilt first by the thought that we should all have been in a formal debriefing session, recalling and recording every move of the raid; second by the knowledge that we had lost a man; and third by the fact that I was carrying a small fortune of ill-gotten gains in a Mafia briefcase.
”Misha,” I said.
”He was dead?”
Sasha nodded.
”Absolutely. We found his body. How did he fall?”
”Just lost his nerve.”
”It is a pity. But nichevo!” He smiled broadly.
”We have beeg victory. Like in football a.r.s.enal nine, Tottenham Hotspot one!”