Филип Керр - Dead Meat

‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. Thanks, Sasha.’

‘It’s just as well you’re wearing a flak-jacket,’ said Sasha. ‘Because your wife’s going to shoot you. According to Olga she thought it was your idea of a joke. But you were right. The meat was radioactive.’

There was not time for Grushko to react to this latest piece of information.

‘We’re turning off,’ said Nikolai.

Grushko waited a second and then said: ‘We’re now heading north west on Krasnoputilovskaya — towards Autovo.’

I heard Sasha tell his driver to head west, along Taskentskaya.

‘I think we’re being tailed,’ said Nikolai. That car’s been with us since the airport.’

I leaned towards the bus-driver.

‘I heard,’ he said negligently. ‘Krasnoputilovskaya.’

He twisted the wheel round to avoid a horse that had strayed on to the road.

‘Meat, is it?’ he said when we were back in lane. ‘There’s plenty around, if you know where to look. Believe me, a man who drives this road need never go hungry.’

I recalled my own car journey from Moscow to St Petersburg. In principle the M10 was the country’s most important arterial road and yet in places it was little more than a two-track highway upon which a wide variety of animals — pigs, goats, cattle and chickens — were allowed to stray. I wondered how a coachload of Americans would have reacted to the prospect of their bus-driver’s lethal opportunism.

‘Heading north on the MI 1 and Stacek Prospekt,’ said Grushko.

‘Heading up Trefoleva,’ said Sasha.

By now the coach was in the outskirts of the city and, as if to underline the fact, we hit a tramline standing proud of the road surface with a loud bang.

‘We have you in sight,’ said Sasha. ‘Passing the end of Trefoleva.’

‘He’s signalling left,’ said Nikolai.

‘Sasha, we’re turning left on to—’

‘—Oboronnaya,’ said Nikolai, prompting him.

‘Drive straight across Stacek,’ Sasha told his driver. And then to Grushko: ‘We’ll stay parallel with you on Trefoleva.’

‘This looks like it, sir,’ said Nikolai. ‘We’re slowing down.’

‘We’re here,’ said Grushko. ‘It’s between Gubina Street and Sevastopol Street.’

Sasha instructed the driver of the second OMON van to turn up Sevastopol Street and then his own driver to drive on to the end of Trefoleva.

‘We’ll turn right on to Barrikadnaya,’ he announced, ‘and then come at them from both ends of the street.’

‘This is it everyone,’ said Grushko. ‘Let’s get these bastards.’

Grushko told me later that his first thought on seeing the first truck back into the cold store was that the militia might be outgunned. It seemed that there were gangsters everywhere, some directing the trucks, some starting to take the cartons of meat out of the containers and some just holding guns and looking out for trouble. As the second and then the third truck reversed through the steel shutters a man whistled loudly and beckoned Nikolai to drive towards him.

Nikolai slipped the clutch and followed the man’s directions until he was best placed to reverse into the loading bay. Hearing another whistle from behind he glanced in his wing-mirror and saw a second man waving towards him.

‘Stall it,’ said Grushko. ‘They mustn’t bring that shutter down behind us or the squad won’t be able to get in.’

Nikolai engaged gear, took his foot off the gas and then released the clutch pedal. The big truck jerked spasmodically as the engine cut out.

He turned the key in the ignition and without touching the accelerator he made a show of trying to get started again. With a Russian-built truck he might have succeeded in flooding the engine. But the Foden had electronic ignition and started first time.

‘Isn’t that just great,’ said Nikolai. ‘A reliable truck.’

‘Where the hell’s Sasha?’ said Grushko.

Nikolai started to move the truck back into the cold store. When he was only half way through the door, he stalled it again and this time he removed the keys and pocketed them.

Behind them there were shouts and someone started to beat impatiently on the side of the truck’s container.

‘You’d better find your party invitation,’ said Grushko.

Nikolai took out his automatic and worked the slide.

‘Here comes our friend,’ he said, glancing in the mirror.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ said a voice outside the driver’s door. ‘C’mon. Move this thing.’

Grushko and Nikolai stayed put.

Through the armoured louvres Nikolai saw the man frown and then stand back as he began to realise that something was wrong.

‘The electronics have gone,’ Nikolai shouted. ‘Everything’s stuck. We can’t even get the door open.’

But the man was already drawing his own weapon. He shouted something to another man and then levelled his gun at the driver’s door.

‘What do we do now?’ said Nikolai.

‘Sit tight,’ said Grushko. ‘Let’s hope this thing is as tough as they said it was.’

Nikolai leaned across the seat, out of the line of fire.

They heard a burst of automatic gunfire but nothing hit the cab. Then there was another volley of shots and some shouting.

‘Either this thing is tougher than we thought, or that’s Sasha,’ said Grushko.

Gradually a voice began to make itself heard with a loud hailer.

‘This is the militia. You are surrounded. Put down your weapons. Walk into the open and lie down with your hands behind your heads. I repeat, you are surrounded...’

‘About time,’ said Grushko and reached for the door handle.

He opened the door a crack and peered out. Men were already dropping their weapons and raising their hands as, from every side of the cold store, came the men of the OMON squad.

Grushko jumped down from the cab and walked towards one of the trucks. The rear doors were open and inside the container he could see hundreds of cartons of meat, some of them still carrying the distinctive EC roundel of yellow stars on a blue background. Beside this same truck was a group of two or three men with their hands raised and among them, wearing a smart suit, his fingers studded with gold rings, was a face Grushko recognised from his own briefing. It was Viktor Bosenko. In his hand he was holding not a gun but a walletful of money.

‘Well, well,’ smiled Grushko, ‘not just the caviar. We got the whole rotten sturgeon.’

Behind him the OMON squad started to kick the feet away from under some of those Mafiosi who were not quick enough to lie down. Bosenko remained standing. He grinned and took a step towards Grushko and away from his own men.

‘I think there’s been some sort of mistake here,’ he said. ‘We thought you were the Mafia.’

‘That’s a good one.’ Grushko laughed. ‘You thought we were the Mafia.’

Sasha appeared at Grushko’s shoulder, scanning the gangway near the cold store’s ceiling for signs of further resistance.

Viktor Bosenko took another step forward.

‘But, thank God, you’re the militia,’ he said. ‘Look here, officer, I’m sure I can explain this to your satisfaction. We’re just businessmen trying to protect what’s ours, that’s all.’ He shrugged as if he was trying to seem accommodating.

‘Maybe we can come to some kind of an arrangement?’ He lowered his hands carefully and, opening the wallet, took out a whole fistful of dollars.

‘Some compensation for you and your men. For your time and trouble. And to thank you for your protection. You know, there’s nearly five thousand dollars here. What’s that to you and your men? Maybe two years’ salary for everyone?’

Grushko looked at Bosenko with growing incredulity. Then he snatched the dollars from his hand and threw them in the Ukrainian’s grinning mouth.