“The question now is, my Finnish friend,” Aleks began, his face just a few inches from Vanska’s, “do you know who I am?”
A tic in the man’s lower lip betrayed his fear. He remained silent as he caught his breath.
“I am Koschei,” Aleks said.
The man smirked, then realized that Aleks was serious, and probably insane. This made him twice as dangerous.
“This is a myth,” Vanska said. “Koschei the Deathless. A tale for children and old women.”
Aleks lifted the SIG, chambered a round. He handed it back to Vanska. Vanska took it in a snap, leveled it at Aleks, his hands shaking. “Fuck you, vittu! You do not come to Tallinn and talk this way to me. You do not lay your fucking hands on me.”
Aleks shrugged, took a backward step. “Then you have no choice but to shoot me. I understand.”
“What?”
Aleks slapped Vanska across the face. Hard. So hard the man stumbled back a few steps. His lower lip began to bleed. Hands trembling violently now, Vanska cocked the weapon.
Again Aleks slapped the man; this time a rotted tooth flew from Vanska’s mouth. Vanska put the gun to Aleks’s forehead and pulled the trigger.
Instead of a loud report, there was only the small, impotent echo of metal on metal. The weapon had jammed.
For a moment, Tallinn fell silent. No traffic, no airplanes. Just the sound of the water lapping onto the shore of Lake Ulemiste.
With lightning speed, Aleks lashed out with his left hand, striking the man just beneath the solar plexus. Vanska dropped the weapon, clutched his heaving stomach. A gush of yellow vomit flew from his mouth. Aleks picked up the SIG and threw it into the lake.
When Vanska caught his breath, Aleks slipped the Barhydt out of its sheath, opened it to its fearsome length. Vanska’s eyes bulged at the sight. Aleks touched a finger to the perfect steel. It seemed to disappear in the blackness of the night.
“You should know this about me, Mikko Vanska. I am a man who asks a question just one time. I will ask you a question. You will tell me the truth. Then we will part company.”
Vanska tried to stand tall. His shaking knees prevented this. He remained silent.
“Four years ago, just before Easter, you brokered the illegal adoption of two newborn Estonian girls,” Aleks said. “The girls were stolen from their mother’s bed in Ida-Viru County. All this I know to be true. Who was your contact on the other end?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Aleks brought the knife up with a movement so fast it seemed a mere distortion of air. At first, Vanska did not know what happened. A second later, it was all too clear. The man in front of him had slit open his left eye. Vanska fell to his knees, blood gushing between his fingers, his shrieks echoing across the ancient hills. Aleks knelt, covered the man’s mouth. The snarl of another jet soon covered the screams.
“A man can live with just one eye, yes?” Aleks asked when the roar had trailed to silence. “He cannot live without his heart.” Aleks held the tip of the blade over the man’s chest.
“A man,” he said. His breath came in small, wet gasps. His face was spider-webbed with blood. “His name is Harkov. Viktor Harkov.”
“A Russian?”
Vanska nodded.
“He is in Russia?”
The man shook his head. Blood flicked from the open wound. “He is in New York City.”
The United States, Aleks thought. He had never imagined this. Anna and Marya were now American children. It would take a lot to undo this. And getting them out presented a whole new set of problems. “New York City is a big place,” Aleks said. “Where is he in this city?”
For a moment it appeared as if Vanska was going to go into shock. Aleks cracked an ammonia capsule beneath his nose. The man choked, took a deep breath. “He is in a place called Queens, New York City.”
Queens, Aleks thought. He knew someone in New York City, a man named Konstantine Udenko, a man with whom he had served in the federal army. Konstantine would help him find this Viktor Harkov.
For a moment Aleks studied Vanska’s face, or what was visible beneath the gloss of fresh blood. He believed him. He had little choice. He put his gloved hands under the man’s chin, stared into his remaining eye. “You told me what I needed to know, and I now consider you to be a wise and honorable man. I am going to let you live.” Aleks brought his face close. “But I want you to tell your associates of me, of this man from Kolossova who is to be taken seriously, a man who cannot be killed. You will do this?”
Another slow nod.
“Good.” Aleks helped the man to his feet. The man was heavy, and offered no aid, but Aleks’s arms and back were powerful. He handled him with ease. “Which is the nearest hospital?”
Vanska hesitated. He had not expected this. “West Tallinn Central. On Ravi Street.”
“I have a car,” Aleks said. He pointed to the crest of the hill. “Just around the bend. I will take you. Do you know the way?”
“Yes.”
“Can you walk?”
The man took a few moments, found his center. “I… I think so.”
Aleks glanced over Vanska’s shoulder. He saw the moon reflecting off the glassy surface of Lake ulemiste. He recalled the way the Narva River shimmered on warm summer nights in his youth, glimpsed from the window of his stifling stone room in the orphanage, how he had always wondered what lay at either end.
He thought about his little girls, about this man in front of him. The wrath ignited within him as…
… the acrid smell of burning flesh hangs over Grozny, a damp, red blanket of death. In this hellish moment, as death rattles around him, he feels his destiny, the centuries he has lived, the centuries yet to come. He sees the farmhouse at the top of the hill. He hears the cries of the dying animals and…
… the man’s arrogant words.
You have something to sell?
Aleks turned. In one nimble motion, he spun 360 degrees, the torque of the movement, combined with his strong legs and back muscles – as well as the exquisite steel of the Barhydt – caught Mikko Vanska just below his jaw, nearly severing his head from his body. The arterial spray launched nearly ten feet as the man chicken- stepped. Aleks then plunged the knife deep into the man’s groin, bringing it up with great strength. He pulled it out and finished with a lateral slash forming a T. Vanska’s bowels spilled into the night, pink and black and foul as the man himself. He was dead before he hit the ground. Steam rose from the ropy entrails.
Aleks took a moment, closed his eyes, sensing the man’s soul on its journey. He always gave this moment its due. In the distance, in the silent canopies of the forest, a murder of crows stirred, awaiting its moment.
Ten minutes later Aleks walked to his car, and drove back to the center of the city. Tallinn was coming alive, and he would take full advantage of its charms.
Harkov, he thought. Viktor Harkov of Queens, New York City.
I will meet you very soon.
The next morning Aleks awoke early, showered, dressed casually. He had rolled Mikko Vanska into a large canvas tarpaulin, weighted his body with stones, and sank him in Lake ulemiste. It would only be days before the man floated to the surface, but by then Aleks would be long gone.
Over breakfast, he logged onto the Internet and began to plan his week. He purchased an e-ticket to New York. He made arrangements for lodging in New York, and arranged to ship what he could not bring with him – including the Barhydt, and more than one hundred thousand US dollars in cash – via International FedEx. He returned to his room, packed everything into a FedEx box, and dropped it off with the concierge.
He may not have been at home in the city, but he availed himself of every progress, every advancement. Laptops, cellphones, wi-fi, online banking.
Over his final cup of coffee he searched the web for Viktor Harkov. He found him with ease. Viktor Harkov, Esq., was the owner of a firm called People’s Legal Services. He printed off the information at the hotel’s business center, making sure he erased all files and the cache from the hotel’s computer. He slipped the data into his carry-
