“There’s something else,” Alix added.
“Yes?”
“I want you to understand the man he was… before all this.”
She paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. Then she remembered that night in Paris again, and looked away from Geisel, her eyes unfocused, her concentration turned inward.
“When I first met Samuel Carver, I was trying to kill him. An hour later, I followed him into an apartment. We both knew that it had been booby-trapped. The explosives were set to detonate within thirty seconds. But I followed him into that apartment, I chose to do that, because I trusted him completely to keep me safe, and I wanted to be next to him…”
Alix turned her eyes back on the psychiatrist, then glanced away again. She was almost talking to herself when she said, “I just want to be next to him again.”
“I understand,” Geisel replied. “And thank you, Miss Petrova. I know how hard it must have been, summoning up such painful memories.”
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.”
9
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.
