Саймон Морден - Equations of Life

They washed it down with more of Wong’s oil-black brew.

“Ready to talk?” said Petrovitch.

“Guess so.” Sorenson covered his mouth to stifle a burp.

“Right. So let’s get the story so far: you’re a regular straight up sort of guy, look after your sister and your mother, done nothing illegal so far.”

Sorenson’s eyes twitched briefly. “That’s right,” he said.

“You wouldn’t be holding out on me, would you?” Petrovitch pushed his glasses up his nose. “Think very carefully before answering.”

“There’s nothing.”

“I can find out for myself.” He sighed. “I could probably find out right now if I had my rat. Forget it. Why do you think I can do something about this?”

“I saw you with Oshicora. You’ve got leverage with him. You can use that.”

“I’m not crossing him. No way, never.”

“You’re the only one I’ve ever seen him with who he actually respects. He puts his guard down with you.”

“Even if that was true…” Petrovitch chewed his lip. “No. Absolutely not. I already had one gang trying to kill me this week. Why would I want another?”

Sorenson picked his knife up and stared at the grease-stained end. “Is that your final answer?”

“Look, I already tried, okay? I talked to him. I told him that he was treating you badly.”

“And what did he say?”

“That it was no more than you deserved because you’re a stinking Yankee technocrat who did nothing while Japan drowned.” Petrovitch glanced up at the American’s flushed face and decided not to mention that Oshicora knew what it was he was hiding. “I chose not to push it. The only thing you can do is go back to work. Back to the Oshicora Tower and pray to whatever god you believe in that when you’re done, you get shown some mercy.”

“Chain will ruin me.”

“Trust me, Oshicora will ruin you a whole lot faster. Buy yourself some time to come up with a better plan.”

Sorenson leaped up and closed his hands on the tabletop, threatening to snap it in two. “I came to you for help.”

“Chain told you to. He’s using you as much as Oshicora is. All I am is a kid who knows a lot about maths and physics. How the chyort did anyone think I could help?” Petrovitch finished his coffee standing.

Sorenson kicked his own chair away in frustration.

“Hey,” shouted Wong. “You stop that now.”

Petrovitch bent down and picked the chair up. “He’s leaving. So am I.”

Wong threw Sorenson’s credit chip toward them. Petrovitch snatched at it and missed. Sorenson’s catch was more certain.

“Come on, before you get me barred.” Petrovitch squeezed out onto the busy street, and Sorenson joined him, shivering slightly in the damp morning air. Despite the American’s size, he looked small and pathetic at that moment. “Go back to your hotel. Get a shower, change your clothes. Then go to work. Go, Sorenson, just go.”

A black car with darkened windows pulled up by the curb; a door opened but no one emerged. Immediately Petrovitch was looking for a way out, but it was too late.

“Comrade Marchenkho would like a word.” The man had stepped from behind him and pressed something hard into his back, pushing him toward the open door.

Sorenson looked ready for a fight. Petrovitch put a hand out and covered his fist, then gave a little sigh.

“Stop stroking your yielda, ” he told the gunman. “You’re not going to use it on me. Unless you want a half-a-million-euro contract on you.”

“That might be true.” The object left his skin and Petrovitch saw Sorenson pale. “But your friend, on the other hand, has no such protection. Get in the car.”

Petrovitch looked up at the gray sky and gave a small strangled cry.

The inside of the car smelled of stale vodka and sweat, and Petrovitch immediately thought of home. The Ukrainian gunman sat next to Sorenson, automatic jammed against his ribs.

“You know, it doesn’t get much better than this,” said Petrovitch.

“Shut up, Petrovitch,” said Sorenson.

“Yeah, well. Hey, Yuri.”

The Ukrainian leaned forward. “It’s Grigori.”

“To be fair, I’m not that bothered what you’re called. Marchenkho’s chancing his arm, and by extension, yours. Feel free to let us out any time.”

“Your American friend has got the right idea; shut up.”

“Why don’t you bite me, zhirniy pidaras? ”

The foot soldier stiffened, and Sorenson winced as the barrel of the gun drove deeper.

“Well, excuse my mouth.” Petrovitch put his feet up against the back of the front seat. “It doesn’t give me much confidence in your boss if his underlings lose it when I’ve called them a rude name.”

“Petrovitch…”

He dismissed Marchenkho’s whole gang with a gesture. “Yeah, I’m done talking to the monkeys. Get me the organ grinder.”

The driver took them north and east, eventually crossing the Thames at Southwark. The old East End was a vast building site, with property demolished as fast as it was being erected—the curious consequence being that there was nothing finished and all that existed were streets of scaffolding and cranes.

The car pulled into one of the construction yards, busy with laborers and machines, and came to a halt outside a pile of domik containers. External steps bolted onto the outside serviced the doors cut into the steel sides. At the very top of the staircase stood a man in a heavy coat and a fur hat.

When he saw Petrovitch get out and look up, he stared for a moment before disappearing into the domik behind him.

Sorenson clambered out, and Petrovitch seized the brief opportunity: he bent forward on the pretext of helping the American, and whispered: “Say nothing.”

“Noth… ow.” Sorenson was left rubbing his shin.

The Ukrainian looked up from inside the car, no longer bothering to hide his gun—home turf for him. “What?”

“Nothing,” said Petrovitch pointedly, and jerked his head in the direction of the domiks. “Up there?”

“No funny business.” Grigori shepherded them to the foot of the stairs and indicated that Petrovitch should go first.

Petrovitch sarcastically mouthed “no funny business” to himself. “You’ve watched too many Hollywood films, tovarisch, unless Marchenkho’s hiring straight from central casting. Let’s get this over with.”

He clanged his way up the steps and, despite himself, was tired and sweaty when he reached the top. He entered without knocking and found himself in a passable replica of a seventies-style Soviet apartment.

An ancient three-bar electric fire sat in the ersatz hearth, and a framed picture of the great bear, Josef Stalin, hung above the mantelpiece.

Marchenkho sat at the dark wood desk, stroking his luxurious mustache. He’d lost the hat and the coat, and revealed a commissar’s uniform, an enamel red star pinned to his olive-green lapel.

“Sit,” said Marchenkho.

There was one chair, and Petrovitch took it. They sat in silence as Sorenson and Grigori came in, and the door banged hollowly closed.

After an age, Marchenkho pulled a drawer open, and pulled out a bottle of vodka. He went back for three shot glasses, then unscrewed the bottle and dashed out a measure for him and his guests. Spilled spirit started to etch the varnish away and evaporate into the air.

“Nice set-up,” said Petrovitch. “Not quite Oshicora’s standard, but at least you’ve only fallen this far.”

Marchenkho dipped his hand in the drawer a third time and laid a Glock on the rectangle of leather set into the desk top. He took one of the vodka glasses for himself, and pushed the other two on cushions of liquid toward Petrovitch and Sorenson.