caught his drift, though: 'Tell the Brit to fuck off ski I wondered if I should produce the insurance policy but decided not to. Better to save it until it really mattered.
Another one of the three sparked up with an idea, pointing first at Eight, then at me, and made out he was hitting something with a hammer. The other two really liked that one. Even the TV addict joined in as they all had a good laugh. It was Merlin's laugh: King Arthur used to get frustrated when he made a kingly decision and his wizard just laughed, because Merlin knew the future and the king didn't. I felt the same sort of thing was happening here. Liv was right: Don't trust them an inch.
Eight's shoulders slumped. He walked back over to me. 'I'll have to give you my car.'
'Is it one of the ones outside?' I'd already guessed, but was hoping I was wrong.
'Yes. But hey, man, I need it for bitches. Will I get it back soon?
How long do you need it for? A couple of hours?'
I shrugged. 'Maybe a couple of days.' Before he could react I added, 'I also want to see you later tonight. Will you be here?'
'Cool, I'm always here. I live here, my man.'
He pointed up at the loft. Rather him than me.
'OK, I'll be back later. Will your friends be here?'
'Oh sure, Nikolai, they'll hang for a while. Business to do, people to see.'
I put my forefinger and thumb together and shook my hand. 'Keys?'
'Keys? Oh sure, sure. I'll have to come with you, my man. Show you something cool.' He ran through to the other room. The Good Fellas ignored me completely as I waited, concentrating instead on throwing more liquid nasty down their throats.
Eight reappeared, pulling on his bomber jacket and zipping it up as he took the keys off the table. We went downstairs and out into the cold.
After locking the door and grill behind us, it turned out that the cool thing he wanted to show me was that I'd have to hit the starter motor with a hammer before it would turn over. He said he liked it busted like this because no one could steal it.
While he was busying himself showing me what to do, it was pointless talking about licenses or whatever if I got stopped. I just wanted to get away from here and do my job. I didn't have time to fuck about.
The Maliskia knew the NSA were out and about and would be moving location any day now.
But Eight wanted to remove his speakers and music first. I looked at the cassettes as he piled them on the passenger seat. There was an array of American rap bands I'd never heard of, all following Eight's lead in the gold- chain department, plus some really hip Russian artistes who looked as though they were on the way to a reunion of the Liberace fan club. It was the white tuxedos that really gave them class.
I was waiting for him to disconnect the speakers when a 5 Series BMW, with a hint of silver beneath the dirt, cruised down the road from the direction I had walked. I noticed the plates first because they were British, and it was right-hand drive, then I looked at the driver.
The subconscious never forgets, especially when it comes to trouble.
Carpenter. I couldn't believe it. As if he hadn't fucked up my life enough these past couple of weeks.
He was slowing down as a van approached from the opposite direction, but it wasn't to let him pass; he was heading over to where we were, and if he saw me I bet I wouldn't be getting the Russian for, 'Hello, nice to meet you.'
I jumped into the back of the car with Eight and made as if to help him pull out the speakers, my knees badly creasing up his newspapers.
The BMW pulled into the parking lot, its tires crunching louder and louder on the ice the closer it got. I suddenly found the speakers very interesting indeed, and made sure my ass faced very definitely toward the BMW. I was feeling extremely vulnerable, but not as much as I would if he saw me.
The engine shut down and the driver's door opened.
Eight was the other side of me and glanced over my shoulder as Carpenter's door slammed, then turned back to his beloved speakers.
After hearing the wooden door close, I was still pulling out some very risky wiring as I asked, 'Who's the English guy?'
'He's not England, you crazy guy!' He tutted into the air.
'So why has he got an England car?'
I'd obviously said something very funny. 'Because he can, my man! Some England guy isn't going to St. Petersburgjust to get his car back; that would be crazy, man.'
'Oh, I see.'
In this part of the world it obviously didn't matter if you drove around with a hot car's plates on display. After all, if you had the money to have a BMW stolen to order, why not flaunt it? I could see the dealer's sticker in the rear window; it was a firm in Hanover, Germany, which probably meant that some British grunt had been saving up for ages to buy his tax-free bargain, only to get it lifted so it could rumble around Narva in the snow.
The first speaker came free. I had no idea how he was going to wire it up again; it looked like a telephone junction box in there. The chain around his neck made a curiously tinny noise as he moved around. The rap bands probably had the real thing, but I was sure his bitches never knew the difference.
'Who is he, then?'
'Oh, just one of the guys. Business, you know.'
He must do a lot of business here to have his own set of house keys.
'Don't say anything about me to anyone, Vorsim,' I said. 'Especially guys like him. I don't want people to know I'm here, okay?'
'Oh sure, my man.' The way he said it was too blase for my liking, but I didn't want to push the point.
Once the speakers were out I virtually threw the cassettes at him, wanting to get away before Carpenter reappeared. The hood was still open and I gave the starter motor a crack with thS hammer.
Eight stood by the door holding an armful of cassettes, with the speakers on the doorstep. 'Be careful with the bitch machine, Nikolai.'
Before he'd even turned to unlock the door I had the hood down, the engine in gear and was away, heading back the way I'd come.
My head was churning over about Carpenter. What if he was still there when I came back to see Eight after I'd done the recce? Or if he arrived while I was in the house? I had fucked up in my attempt to get out of the way so quickly. I should have told Eight I wanted to meet elsewhere.
I had to control a rage that was brewing inside me as I thought about Carpenter's drugged-up, fucked-up work that night. It had not only cost me money, but nearly got me killed.
Should I even go back and see Eight again? I had no choice: I was going to need help obtaining explosives or whatever else I needed.
I drove past the 'komfort baars' thinking of my professional options and what I would unprofessionally really like to do about him. Fuck it; I pulled into the border-crossing parking lot. It took about a minute to work out how to secure the Lada, as the driver's door lock was busted.
With the starter motor persuader in my pocket I turned and began to walk back to the house. As the saying so rightly goes, there's not much you can't sort out with a two-pound ball hammer.
32
I would have to luck it nut and wait for him to leave the house, setting myself a cut-off of two o'clock the following morning. I still needed time to get on with the recce; lifting Carpenter and keeping him tied up somewhere until the job was finished wasn't an option. There was no time for that.
Now I'd got my bearings in this part of town I cut between apartment buildings and saw some of the worst conditions yet, sheds burned out to match the cars and buildings that should have fallen down years ago.
There was still an hour and a half to go before last light at about three thirty, but the overcast sky was making everything darker than it should have been.
Following the ice tracks in the snow, I turned corners and walked around car wrecks and rusty strollers until the house came into view.
Carpenter's BMW was no more than ninety feet away. The other three vehicles were also still there, all with
