boss.’
Timofayev’s eyes drilled into his, seemingly unfazed by the hold Dima had on his wrist. Had Dima wanted to kill him he would have by now but it was information he had come for. All the same, revenge was running a close second and catching up fast.
But with a superhuman force that took Dima completely by surprise, Timofayev wrenched his arm out of his grip and kicked him hard in his naked groin. There was nothing Dima could do but double up on the floor, the pain blotting out any coherent thought except for cursing himself for thinking up this ridiculous stunt.
‘See what I mean? You’ve been running around Iran these last few days, chasing your tail, getting tired, going without food and fluids. You overestimate yourself. It’s the same with all you two-dimensional comic book heroes. And then you pay the price.’
Through the fog of agony produced by his traumatised testicles Dima could sense Timofayev preparing to dispatch him. He had to postpone it.
‘Solomon’s going to make Russia very unpopular. The Americans already know where the WMDs come from.’
‘Your information is both inaccurate and out of date,’ said Timofayev. ‘The Americans have a man in custody who’s told them all about you, and they’ve drawn their own useful though rather unimaginative conclusions. In fact your blundering into them has provided Solomon with a very useful cover.’
‘Now you’re going to tell me you
Dima was not only in physical pain, his whole worldview was crumbling. Would nothing stay still?
‘You just don’t get it do you, Mayakovsky? The world has moved on. The geopolitical ice is melting. The tectonic plates of power and influence are shifting. America and the West have had their day. They’ve had it far too good for far too long. New forces in the world are poised to take their place —
Dima tried hard to focus on what Timofayev was saying. Concentrating on this pompous speech would help to distract him from the pain while he worked out his next move, if he had one. He was on the freezing floor, naked and unarmed, his head slammed against the wheel of the trolley.
‘Paliov warned me about you. He said you didn’t know when to stop. I was relying on you screwing up — which you seem to have done rather well.’
Timofayev was getting into his stride. The best Dima could hope for was that he’d relax his concentration, though he didn’t come across as the sort who would.
‘Were you hoping to wring some information out of me about that orphan boy in Paris?’
Dima didn’t feel like dignifying him with an answer, but his silence spoke for itself. He couldn’t bear the contempt with which Timofayev spoke about his son, and felt the balance tip towards vengeance.
‘Well I don’t have any and I never did. I expect some minion in my Ministry may have logged a name and address but we’re not obsessive collectors of trivia like our socialist forefathers. It just clogs up the servers. Besides, what would a bright young man do after finding out his father’s a failed Soviet agent? Hardly going to do much for his prospects is it? I should leave the boy alone if I were you, to get on with his life.’
Dima struggled to lift himself by grabbing a leg of the trolley, nearly pulling off the cover that was draped over it. He managed to get a grip on the edge of the shelf.
‘Go on, pick yourself up. Your story’s so sad I might even take pity on you and send you to one of the remaining gulags. You’d like that. It’s full of your generation. You can eat boiled onions and reminisce about the good old Soviet days of your youth.’
My generation? thought Dima. The two of them were only a few years apart in age. But they they were worlds apart: at least Dima had some morals, some sense of justice. The sterile android in the suit in front of him, who was sounding off about a new world order, had no belief in anything, no loyalty to any cause other than his own.
He put the flat of his hand on the trolley shelf, felt the instrument under his palm. It would have to do. But a new pain shot up his leg as he tried to lift himself again. He slithered back to the ground and doubled over, closing his hand over the instrument he had grabbed off the shelf, hoping Timofayev hadn’t noticed.
He was only dimly aware of what Timofayev was saying now. Evidently the man had quite a lot to get off his chest. Dima was now focused entirely on where Timofayev was standing, how long it would take him to get there from his current position, curled up against the trolley, and whether it was enough. Timofayev had good reflexes, that was apparent. As to whether his aim was as good, Dima would just have to take the risk.
The first part of his strategy was to kick the gurney so the sudden movement caused a microsecond’s diversion — enough to get him part of the way.
The first shot from Timofayev’s Beretta came almost simultaneously — but by then Dima, having stabilised himself, had sprung up from his crouching position and swiped the gurney, so it pinned Timofayev against the wall as three more shots rang out, hitting the ceiling. With his adversary in position, Dima stabbed the scissors hard into his gun hand. The Beretta spun to the ground.
He pushed him up.
‘Sure you haven’t just suddenly remembered any information that’s unexpectedly come back to you? Want to have another think?’
The scissors caught some of the sinews in Timofayev’s palm as Dima extracted them and plunged them into his wrist, severing the radial artery and spraying them both with blood. Timofayev’s eyes bulged with shock and a sharp smell of shit cut through the aftershave and disinfectant: a bully. And like all bullies, fatally weak beneath the bluster.
‘I. . I. . can help. .’
‘We both know that’s not going to happen. Last chance now: does anything come to mind. .?’
Timofayev found some last vestige of force and pushed Dima away. As he fell to the ground, he grabbed the gun in his still intact left hand and aimed. Dima was still clutching the scissors. He put all his speed and force into one swing and the points of both blades pierced Timofayev’s right eye. Dima thrust them right in, and kept on, forcing them through the back of the socket, until only the handles protruded from the mess.
71
Scooping up the Beretta just as Timofayev’s security detail appeared, he took out the first two as they came through the door. He twisted a machine pistol out of the grip of one of the dying guards just as he heard the sound of running men. They came round the corner straight into a hail of bullets from Dima. Leaping over them, he made for the stairs, running into three more. Their momentary hesitation, as they found themselves confronted by a naked man wielding a gun, gave him enough time to down them too. And then he was in the street, naked, covered in Timofayev’s blood with just the night, the freezing rain, and — three blocks away — the sirens and blue lights of the police.
He flung himself at a cab dropping off a couple who looked like they were on their first date. At the sight of a naked, rain- and blood-splattered man holding a gun the girl held out her bag like a steak to a rabid dog, averting her eyes and bringing the evening traffic almost to a standstill.
‘There’s five hundred cash in there! Don’t hurt me!’
The boyfriend, Dima noticed, did not leap in front to shield her. First date and last, he thought. He reached inside the bag, pulled out a pack of tissues, pushed past the stunned boyfriend, shooed the taxi driver out of his seat and took off.
It was an old Volga with the usual terrible brakes. The wipers, also well past their prime, made slow and slimy progress across the windscreen, leaving a film that was almost as opaque as the half-frozen rain.
He crossed into the opposite lane, which alerted the drivers of the police cars now on his tail, so he swept back into the left lane and tried to camouflage himself amongst some other cabs. But they weren’t going fast enough. He took a right and found himself close to the Paveletsky Station, but a cop car cut him off. He flung the column shift into reverse and backed up a few feet, then rammed the cop car just as its two occupants were getting out. Then he shot up the street he had come out of and into a space between two office blocks. Two drunks were huddled over a bottle. He pulled up beside them, got out and pulled one of them to his feet.
‘Your clothes — for this taxi.’
