Natalia Smirnova - Moscow Noir

A transparent sticker with Arabic lettering bubbled up in the corner of the mirror. Veltsev was about to scratch it off when the phone rang. He picked up.

“Hello.”

The acute, spacious silence of the ether pulsed in the receiver. Veltsev called the incoming number—they were calling from a cell phone. Calling the Uzbek, that is.

“Hell on the line,” Veltsev said and he waited a little, ended the call, and looked in the mirror again. “Warm already.”

When Kirila called, his voice was cracking from strain. “Everyone got blown away. What were you thinking? The committee’s mopping up both the crooks and the cops. You know who Mityai was working for. They’ve got three mil on you.”

“Already know how you’ll spend it?” Veltsev asked.

Kirila said nothing, breathing loudly through his nose.

“Sorry,” Veltsev sighed. “Here’s what’s up. I need a couple of clips for my Beretta—bad. Forty minutes tops. Bring them?”

“Where?”

“Babushkinskaya. When you turn off Menzhinsky onto Olonetsky, there’s this business center. Right behind the cemetery. Can you make it?”

“I’ll try.”

Veltsev tossed the phone on the seat, turned the wheel from side to side, and, without putting the vehicle in gear, hit the pedal a few times, so abruptly and hard that the heavy vehicle rocked.

Half an hour later, Kirila’s Cayenne, plastered with snow, rolled into the vacant parking lot in front of the business center fence. Veltsev, who had left the Land Cruiser in back of the apartment building, was waiting behind the trees between the road and the river. Once he was convinced that Kirila had come alone and hadn’t brought a tail, he got in the car with him. The smell of alcohol struck him immediately.

“Batya”—the Kalmyk called him “Father” even though he was just ten years younger—“I respect you!” The man broke out in a smile, holding out his right hand to Veltsev and three full magazines in his left.

Veltsev shook the fighter’s rock-hard hand, took the magazines, and reloaded his gun. “What do you respect me for, Kila-Kirila?”

“Oh, just in general.” Kalmyk shook his shoulders. “If Mityai had done the same to me, with my Svetka… I don’t know. I wouldn’t have had the nerve. Maybe if I was high.”

Veltsev holstered his gun, distributed the extra magazines in his pockets, straightened his clothes, and stared into Kirila’s eyes. “Well, how’s it going? Many gunning for the three mil?”

“I don’t know.” Kirila sobered up instantly. “I haven’t seen anybody today. Everyone’s crazy angry, of course—at you and at Mityai. The committee’s after him for treason. You know all about it.”

“Right.” Veltsev glanced at his watch and reached for the door. “Gotta go.”

“Listen!” Kalmyk barked. “Maybe I should come along.”

“No, Kila.” Veltsev jumped down into the snow. “You’ve helped enough as it is.” Slamming the door, he headed for the alley behind the parking lot.

“Well, I’ll hang out here another five minutes anyway!” Kirila shouted after him.

Veltsev waved him off in silence.

The storm was picking up. Snow was eddying in the lane and from time to time the wind gusted so hard it made his ears ring. A few meters before the corner, between the rear and front façades of the apartment building, Veltsev heard a woman’s anguished cries coming from the courtyard. He could make out the blue glow of a flashing light. His gun at the ready, Veltsev peeked around the wall. Where the Uzbek’s Land Cruiser had recently been parked, Mityai’s empty Geländewagen sat idling in exhaust. The flashing light was poking up off the top of the armored car’s roof. Next to the car, on the narrow patch of ground between the alley and the door of the scorched lobby, Baba Agafia was trying to beat off Kostik, Mityai’s chief bodyguard, who was attempting to strong-arm her. “I’m not letting you in! I’m not letting you the hell in! Get out! Get out!” Baba Agafia rasped as if it were her last breath, and she tried to hit Kostik, windmilling like a swimmer. Mishanya Ryazanets was marking time behind Kostik. A little farther off, in a side alley, wiping his frozen mustache with his wrist, a thug Veltsev didn’t know wearing a cashmere coat and a tall fur cap was pacing back and forth, a lit cigarette in one hand and a walkie-talkie crackling in the other. Veltsev stepped back behind the corner and pressed himself to the wall.

Thank you so much, Kila-Kirila.

He had to make a decision, but before he could think of anything he saw Double Dima—the identical twin of Jack, who had died yesterday with Mityai—coming around the opposite corner of the building, from around back. Cursing, Dima was zipping his fly as he walked and stamping his feet from the cold. A walkie-talkie antenna was poking out of the pocket of his sport coat, and his legs were caked with snow up to the knees. Veltsev ran toward him with his gun in his outstretched arm, so that by the time Dima finished with his fly and looked up, his forehead nearly ran into the Beretta’s silencer.

“Back,” Veltsev commanded, advancing. “Nice and easy.”

Dima, dumbstruck, started backing up submissively. Around the corner, in the front garden, Veltsev made him kneel in the snow and noticed a line of tracks near the wall.

“Have you been peeking in windows, you bad boy?”

Dima vaguely waved his raised hands. His bulletproof vest bulged out between the lapels of his open jacket.

“Give me the walkie-talkie,” Veltsev said.

Dima fumbled in his pocket and handed it over.

“Easy,” Veltsev said, “nice and easy. Tell them you see me and can take me out through the window. Repeat it.”

“I can see… him through the window, I can take him out.”

“Do it.”

Dima spoke the words into the walkie-talkie, and as soon as he heard the reply—“One sec, we’re there”—Veltsev shot him right between the eyes. Shuddering as if gripped by a powerful chill, Dima collapsed onto his side and stretched out his legs. The snow under his head sank quickly and turned dark. Riveted by the sight of blood, Veltsev recalled how he’d shot Jack yesterday the same way, in the head; he spat and made a cross over his numb chest. Double Jack, who you could only distinguish from his brother by the mole over his eyebrow, was lying in front of him. Dima had been guarding Mityai yesterday. “If he twitches, whack him, don’t wait,” cooed the walkie-talkie, which had fallen into the snow. Veltsev picked it up and was about to say something but turned it off instead and dropped it by the body. Kneading his numb fingers, he stole a glance around the corner. First to appear on the path along the rear wall was Kostik, followed by Mishanya wielding his gun, and then the guy in the cashmere coat, hanging back like a coward. “Bang bang bang,” Veltsev whispered.

They dropped, one after the other, no sound, just like that, all three, like a row of dominoes. Kostik and Mishanya died before they hit the ground—the former got a bullet in the eye and the latter bcv fb’s nose was obliterated—but the thug in the coat, after he crashed forward, suddenly answered fire. Stumbling, Veltsev dropped back around the corner. He tried to count the shots, but immediately realized that was impossible. He probably wasn’t firing an ordinary silenced piece but a gun with noiseless ammo, which meant you could only distinguish a shot after the bullets had ricocheted off something. Regardless, there was no time to waste. The thug could call in reinforcements over his walkie-talkie at any second. Veltsev caught his breath, emerged from his cover again, and, moving along the wall, started shooting at the mustached man’s twitching back. He held the trigger down until he’d emptied what was left in his magazine, all eleven cartridges.