Josh Roseman - The Clockwork Russian and Other Stories

Irina Iosovna told me what room Ivanov was registered to — on the fifth floor, what had once been open space was converted into single-person single-room apartments. I have the key to Ivanov’s, but I don’t need to use it; the door’s unlocked. It’s there that I wait for Ivanov.

“You are John Bach.”

I look up from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea — Alexandra left it for me months ago, and I never got around to reading it — and see Karol Ivanov in the doorway, wearing the same black hat and blue coat I saw him in earlier. Now that I can get a closer look, I understand what Irina Iosovna meant about his appearance; Karol Ivanov is not a nice-looking man. His nose has been broken more than once, and there are other scars on his face, including one that bisects his lower lip and goes down and under his chin. Probably a broken-bottle scar from a bar fight; I saw enough of those in my days with the police.

“Well?”

I slip a bookmark between the pages and set the novel aside. “That’s me,” I say, standing up. Ivanov steps into the one-room apartment, and two others come in behind him. They both have guns drawn — real ones, with bullets — but they’re not pointed at me. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“It is not.” Ivanov’s voice is gruff and clipped. He was military once, so that makes sense. “You found something that is mine, yes?”

“What, this?” I slip the envelope with the property deed in it just a little out of my inside pocket. “It was given to me, if that’s what you mean.”

“It is mine,” he says, and takes another step forward. “You will give it to me. Or we will have harsh words.”

I fold my arms — more than an empty gesture, because it means I can get closer to the guns under my coat. “I’ll give it to you,” I say. “But first, I want to know something.”

Ivanov gestures. One of the men with him holds up his gun, but the other seems unwilling. “It’s Bach!” he whispers. “We can’t! Frieze’ll ice us!”

I have to shake my head and grin. “You definitely don’t want him hearing you say it quite like that.”

The man’s face goes white. “Hell, Ivanov. I’m not doing this. Tell Frieze if you want; I don’t care. I ain’t killing John Bach.”

Ivanov turns. There’s a crunch, and the man crumples to the ground. I didn’t even see Ivanov’s arm move, and that worries me.

“You,” he says to the man pointing the gun at me. “You will shoot this man John Bach?”

“You bet.”

“You will shoot him in the knee, and then he and I will talk again.”

The gun dips and I jump aside as he fires. The bullet splinters the wooden floor, but before he can point at me again, I’ve yanked out my electric gun and the lead is smacking into his forehead. He goes stiff as the wire crackles and the gears wind down, and when the gun runs out of charge, he drops to the floor with a wet thump.

But now Ivanov’s smiling — one of his front teeth is cracked, and many of them are crooked — and he has a long knife in his hand. I put my hands in my pockets. “You do not have another gun.”

Good. He’s cocky. I pull out the batons and flip them open. “No. I don’t. And I didn’t have to shoot him, either. I just wanted to know how you’re still alive if you really were stealing from Mr. Frieze.” We start circling each other — the room’s actually rather large, and there’s not much furniture to get in the way. “Just tell me, Karol Antonovich.”

That pulls him up short for a moment, but in the next he’s swinging his knife hand and I barely manage to get the batons up, crossed, blocking him. I kick downward, the heel of my boot cracking on his knee; he yelps, hopping back. But he’s right there again, and he’s so fast, and the knife cuts through my coat and slices across my left arm. My hand spasms and I drop that baton, but with the other I deflect the knife once more.

That’s all the grace period I get before the pain from the knife-wound kicks in. I try to get his knee again, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been in a fight with someone who really wants to kill me. Ivanov gets out of the way and my boot hits the floor. I bring my right knee up and he takes it on the hip, but it’s enough for me to get behind him and slam the haft of the baton on the back of his head. He stumbles forward and trips over the man he punched, catching himself on the wall. He flips the knife and flings it, but he’s off-balance too and it clatters to the floor.

“Well,” I say, wanting to clamp my hand to the wound on my arm but knowing that means I’ll have to give up the baton, “it appears we have an impasse.”

Ivanov reaches down and takes the pistol from the man he tripped over. I curse; I should’ve thought of that, but I was too busy trying not to get stabbed. He cocks the gun and points it at me. “You are mu’dak , John Bach. But you fight well.”

I drop the baton. No point in holding it now. I can’t stop a bullet with it. “So tell me, before I give you the deed and you kill me anyway: how?”

“I steal from Frieze. He threatens to kill me, I tell him I can get Vasily Leonovich to give him the property. I have heard of the disagreement they had.”

“So when he came to rescue you…?”

“I need no rescuing. A trick. Vasily Leonovich, he did not bring the deed. He did not come to the gate or announce himself. He tried to be a hero.” Ivanov snorts. “There are no heroes. Especially not him, and not a clockwork Russian like his brother.”

Blood is dripping off my fingertips. The cut must be deeper than I thought. I grit my teeth against the pain. “You killed Pyotr,” I say. “You and that one.”

Ivanov looks down at the man I shot. “Pyotr Leonovich would not tell me where the deed was. Now I know who had it.” He looks sidelong at me. “Tell me, how do you know?”

I shake my head. “It’s not important.” But the two of them are the right height. It was a guess; apparently a correct one. “So Mr. Frieze promises you… what? I can’t imagine not killing you is enough.”

He steps toward me. “More power. More importance. What they would not do in Russian Army.”

“I can see why,” I whisper. I shouldn’t have said it, but pain does strange things to a person.

And now Ivanov’s close enough that I can smell him, vodka and sweat. The gun looks a lot bigger this close up. “The deed is in your coat. Move your arms.”

“Let me just give it—”

“ Nyet! ” He gestures at my hands with the barrel of the gun, and I do what he says, spreading my arms. He reaches in, but misses the deed. His fingers find the stock of my other gun and he tugs at it. It gets stuck on the holster — it does that sometimes — and I grab my opportunity, grab Ivanov in a bear hug and slam him to the floor. He grunts and squeezes the gun in my holster; I feel a burn but the bullet cracks the window behind me and I know I’m not shot. He tries to fire again, distracted, and I punch, hard as I can with what strength is in my injured arm. It shocks Ivanov and he drops the other gun, which I slap away.

It’s enough time for Ivanov to roll us so he’s on top, and he puts his big forearm on my throat, holding me down against the rough wood floor. I kick out, but he’s too heavy and too strong and I know he’s going to choke me to death, take the deed, and all these people will be out of their homes.

I try to punch him, try to swing my right arm around at hit his kidneys, his face, but he catches it with his left and slams my hand down, hard enough to make it go cold. I feel the impact all the way up to my shoulder.

I need to breathe. Ivanov’s ugly, scarred face is starting to blur as my eyes tear up. I need to get away. I need… I need…