“Do you have Promedol with you?”
“As usual. Why?”
“Wait. I’ll be right there.
“
The Cayenne was parked in the same place by the business center fence. Using his gun to press the plug to his wound, Veltsev climbed into the backseat. Kirila half-turned and looked silently at his bloody clothes. When Veltsev held out his hand between the seats, Kirila quickly opened the army first aid kit in front of him.
Removing the cap with his teeth, Veltsev jabbed a needle into his belly through his pants, slowly pressed on the plunger, and spat the cap on the floor.
“Where’d you get that?” Kirila asked.
Panting, Veltsev set the empty syringe aside. “It’s nothing. I’ll live to see my wedding day.”
“The butcher’s going to weep over you.” Half-rising, Kirila picked up the syringe and put it back in the kit. The handle of a Walther flashed between the lapels of his jacket. “Let’s go, eh?”
“Not just yet.” Veltsev shook his head. “I have something else … I thought you wanted to help.”
“Yeah.” Kirila straightened up. “Sure. What?”
“I shot a guy here on the Yauza. I have to go clean it up. Will you help?”
“Let’s go, Batya. You should’ve said so first.”
“Godspeed then.” Veltsev nodded.
The current had not taken the Uzbek’s body far at all, a couple of meters, to a bend in the river where it must have caught on an underwater snag. Whistling, the Kalmyk stood on the bank and tested the ice with the tips of his boots. Veltsev pressed the plug over his coat with his left hand and cautiously freed his gun.
“We need something to retrieve him with,” Kirila said without turning around.
“No we don’t,” Veltsev answered, firing twice.
The bullets struck the Kalmyk with a
Scooting behind the wheel of the Cayenne, he changed the sodden towels on his groin, wiped his fingers, and, looking at the dirty gun lying between the seats, remembered who he could go to for help. All his old working options connected with Mityai were obviously out. That left only two: head to the Sklif, or to the guy who was kicked out of the Sklif for drugs—Oksana’s classmate—who lived on Trubnaya.
On the ice-packed road, the powerful SUV swerved from shoulder to shoulder; right in front of the exit onto Menzhinsky it took a turn that swung him around onto the median. Veltsev lifted his hand over the wheel and a tremendous shudder ran through it. His belly and left hip were numb, and a fever was rising from his groin to his chest that made his head swim. Veltsev tapped the SUV’s wheel with his nail. “Okay. Correction …”
Driving up to the apartment building at a snail’s pace, at the last minute he confused the gas pedal and brakes and slammed into the Gelandewagen’s rear fender. Halfway between the front garden and the piled up cars, at the end of a bloodied rut, lay one of the trio’s gunmen, facedown. Veltsev had to step over him. He ran right into Lana by the lobby door. Gasping from fright, she backed off with her key extended like a weapon. Veltsev reached out his trembling open palm to her.
“It’s me.”
In the apartment she carefully sat him down on the bed, squatted next to him, peeked under his coat, buried her head in the sleeve of her pea coat, and started crying bitterly. “God, I … you … me …”
“I’m asking you for the last time,” Veltsev said, smiling in pain, “will you go away with me?” He freed his gun from under his coat and set it on the rug. “Or rather, will you drive?”
Lana looked at him skeptically. “Where? In what?”
“To see Dr. Doolittle. Can you drive?”
“Listen …” Swallowing her tears, she hugged him below the knees and gave him a gentle shake. “A medic lives right here in the next courtyard. He did an abortion at our house for Baba Agafia’s niece. Should we go see him?”
“Are you serious?” Veltsev frowned.
“Wait.” Jumping lightly to her feet, Lana kissed him on the lips and hurried into the kitchen, where Veltsev immediately heard the clicking of telephone buttons.
He took out his lighter and flicked it idly. Lana hung up with a clatter, came back, and sat down by him again.
“No answer.” Worried, she blew hard on the fist she’d brought to her mouth. “Let’s do this then. I’ll run over to his place, and if he’s home I’ll set it all up. If he’s not, we’ll go see your Doolittle. Can you hold on for a couple of minutes?”
Veltsev kept flicking the lighter and watching her silently. He heard but wasn’t listening to her. He was listening to himself, to the sensation that for some reason felt like a memory: right now he wanted to be with her more than any other women he’d ever been with. It seemed strange and at the same time simple, like the strawberry flavor of her lipstick.
She was saying something else, then she kissed him again, turned off the light, and ran into the front hall.
“Where are you going?” he asked with difficulty.
Lana spun around and turned the key over in her fist. “I told you.”
“Wait.” Veltsev tried to stand. “I’ll tag along.”
“Right,” she hedged, opening the door. “And if you check out, should I call an EMT? Or a hearse? Wait.” The door banged shut behind her and the lock clicked twice.
Veltsev lit up, leaned back on his elbows, put a cushion under his head, and lay down across the full length of the bed. The little man hanging from the chandelier swung in the smoke streams.
He woke himself up coughing.
A cobweb danced on the ceiling. Smoke from burning wool ate into his eyes and singed his throat. The cigarette had fallen from his fingers and set the rug pile on fire. Rubbing out the smoldering fibers with his sleeve, Veltsev glanced at his watch and shook his wrist, perplexed. He’d slept more than fifteen minutes. The plug had pulled away from the wound so that blood was seeping through not only his sweater but also the rug under his spread-out coat. Veltsev rose cautiously from the bed.
“Lana,” he called.
The reply was a ringing, rugged silence. Thinking his ears might be stopped up, he opened and closed his mouth. The floor rose and fell under his feet in big even waves. Propping himself up on the wall with one hand, Veltsev made his way out into the front hall. The door was still locked. He looked through the peephole, tugged at the bolt, opened and closed his mouth again, and listened. Somewhere far away, almost out of hearing range, in that rugged silence, he heard the gasping siren of an ambulance or the police. Suddenly the phone rang in the kitchen. Veltsev pushed away from the door but stopped half a step away. There was no second ring; the rugged silence had swallowed that up too.
He returned to the room and was about to lie down when the phone started wailing again, and again broke off after the first ring. Veltsev smeared the wallpaper with his blood as he hobbled to the kitchen. He could barely feel anything between his chest and knees, and it seemed like his legs were moving independently of his body, first lagging behind, then rushing ahead, which made it quite a trick to maintain his balance. The light was off in the kitchen, but the small room was illuminated by garlands of colored lights framing the window on the inside. The red light on the old telephone, below the dial, was shining. Sitting at the table, Veltsev picked up the receiver, brought it to his right ear, and held it with his shoulder. His left hand, stretching toward the dial, rested on the table. In the receiver he heard the nervous voices of Lana and Baba Agafia interrupting each other—the telephone was on an extension.
“… when I saw him I nearly pissed myself,” Lana rattled on, short of breath. “I thought, that’s it, he’s going
