Tom Cain: No Survivors aka The Survivor

He stood up and held out his hand to her as she rose. They shook. He did not move away, though, but kept looking at her, as if she were his patient.

“You have been through a deeply traumatic experience, too,” he said. “You will need to talk to someone. Please, if you wish to arrange a consultation, do not hesitate to ask.”

He smiled. “Then you will be my patient, and you can speak as openly as you like.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I’ll bear that in mind. Now, if you will excuse me, Samuel will be waking soon. And he needs to see me there when he does.”

Far away in Russia, Lev Yusov was sitting in a dingy bar called Club Kabul trying to explain the significance of an apparently worthless strip of computer paper covered in numbers to Bagrat Baladze, a swarthy, mustachioed, shiny-suited psychopath in his early thirties. What with the noise in the club and the significant quantities of vodka that both men were consuming, it was not easy to convey the value of this document, particularly since Yusov was not willing to reveal its physical whereabouts until Bagrat committed to the deal.

“How can I agree to pay without seeing what I am paying for?” asked Bagrat.

“If the document is real, what will you pay me?”

“Five thousand, U.S. ”

Yusov had hoped for more. He knew the list would be worth millions by the time it reached its final destination. But in a land where American currency held far more value than local rubles, five thousand dollars was more than he would earn in ten years.

“Ten thousand,” he said.

“Don’t waste my time, old man,” said Bagrat, getting to his feet. “You asked what I would pay. I told you. Go screw yourself if you’re not interested.”

“All right, all right!” yelped Yusov, watching his jackpot leave the table. “Five thousand.”

Bagrat turned to one of his henchmen. “You see? He has the wisdom of the old.” He sat back down and pulled a wad of cash from his jacket. He placed it on the table between them.

“Here is the money. Now where is the list?”

Yusov reached a hand behind his back and pulled the envelope out of his trousers. He opened it and took out the list.

“Look,” he said. “First the latitude, then longitude, then arming code. You could fight a world war with the weapons on this paper.”

Bagrat considered this proposition, then nodded. “Okay, we have a deal. Take your money.”

He pushed the wad of cash toward Yusov, who grabbed at it with an eagerness that betrayed his desperation. He looked as if he wanted to make a run for it before the gangster could change his mind. But Bagrat put a hand on his shoulder.

“No need to rush,” he said. “I have more business to do, but you should stay and celebrate. Enjoy yourself… on the house.”

Bagrat picked up the envelope and left. On his way from the table, he shouted at the barman. “Bring vodka for my friend… the special vodka, got that? The best!”

Moonshine vodka, or samogon, is a noxious spirit, brewed in illegal stills all across Russia. Its ingredients include (but are not limited to) medical disinfectant, brake fluid, lighter fuel, cheap aftershave, and even sulfuric acid. Thousands of Russians have died over the years from drinking it, and many more have suffered blindness and chronic liver disease, so that doctors and coroners are not in the least surprised when they come across another case.

Bagrat Baladze had therefore thought twice before throwing away a particularly evil batch of samogon, acquired from a local bootlegger, even though its excessive toxicity had made it unsalable, even to the most desperate drunk. It occurred to him that he had stumbled on an ideal murder weapon.

When Yusov collapsed, an empty bottle at his side, he was carried to a waiting car, which drove to a quiet back street near his block of flats. The American currency was recovered, then he was dragged from the car and deposited on the pavement. The following morning, when his dead body was reported to the police, Yusov was carted off to the morgue. The postmortem was barely even cursory. No police investigation was made. The death of another insignificant drunk was not exactly a priority.

At the 12th GUMO offices, Yusov’s passing was celebrated, rather than mourned. A new, younger, more cooperative clerk took over his duties.

The clerk had no idea that the missing file had ever existed, let alone been sold to an ambitious gangster who was, even now, trying to work out how he could use it to leapfrog several rungs up the criminal ladder. There were, Bagrat knew, middlemen who specialized in setting up deals between Russians in possession of weapons-conventional, chemical, biological, and nuclear-and the wealthy customers who craved them. It was his task now to find one of these traders without alerting other, more powerful criminals to the item he was trying to sell. If the word got out, they would dispose of him as swiftly as he had dealt with Yusov.

So Bagrat Baladze began making inquiries. And the world took a first, blind step on the road to Armageddon.

Alix took the bus back into Geneva after another long day at the clinic, then walked across the Rhone River and uphill, through the narrow, cobbled streets of the Old Town, lined with centuries-old houses as tall and thin as books on a shelf. The windows of the chocolate shops were filled with heart-shaped boxes. The boutiques and designer stores were given over to lingerie and seductive dresses. The banks watched over them all, knowing, as always, that everything, including love, had its price.

She stopped for a moment to look at a mannequin in a short black party frock and shoes that were little more than a pair of teetering heels and a couple of slim leather straps.

She had once dressed like that, choosing her clothes with the confidence that came from being sure of their effect. She wanted to be that woman again, with a drink in one hand and her handsome man in the other. But the reflection in the shop window showed a sorry creature, wearing a charity-shop coat and cheap, unflattering denims. Somehow, in the next hour or so, she had to paint on a facsimile of what had been her natural beauty, a fake that would be good enough to fool the bierkeller customers, drunken men with groping fingers who expected a visual treat to accompany their overpriced drinks.

She got back to Carver’s flat. The rooms were emptying fast as the furniture was sold to meet the sanatorium’s endless demands. She missed the huge Chesterfield sofa and the antique leather armchairs that had been all the more inviting for being softened and worn by decades of use. His beloved widescreen TV and hi-fi system were gone, too, along with all the paintings, save one. It hung above the fireplace in the living room, a bright, impressionistic depiction of a Victorian day out at the beach, the women lifting their skirts and the men rolling up their trousers, a tableau of innocent pleasures.

Alix only had to look at the picture to remember the afternoon when she had first seen it. She’d been wearing one of his old T-shirts and had curled up in an armchair as cozily as a sleepy cat, watching Carver as he walked through the dusty beams of afternoon light that angled in through the windows of his top-floor flat. He’d walked with an easy, animal grace, then leaned across her chair. She’d felt his eyes skimming over her before he handed over one of the cups of coffee he’d been holding. He’d seen her looking at the picture.

“It’s Lulworth Cove,” he said, “on the Dorset coast, west of my old base.”

“It’s very beautiful. What was this base?”

Carver had laughed. “I can’t tell you that. You might be a dangerous Russian spy.”

She’d smiled and said, “Oh, no, I’m not a spy. Not anymore.” She was telling the truth. That afternoon in Carver’s flat, for once in her life, she’d been a normal woman, surrendering to the blissful indulgence of falling in love.