a thin layer of ice forming on the windows and top surfaces. One or two people were walking around, but just from block to block, some accompanied by little dogs with knitted coats on.
It was dark and cold enough for me not to be noticed as I stood inside what was left of one of the sheds, leaning against the wall with my head down, my hands in my jacket pockets, the right one grasping the hammer. I felt no apprehension, no emotion at all about what was coming. Some kill because they have a good reason. Others, like Carpenter, because they just like it. For me it wasn't that deep. I did it only when I had to.
Flexing my toes in my boots to keep the circulation going, I tried to think of other options, but still couldn't come up with any. There were more important things at stake than this maniac's life; I thought back to the sobs from the man in the elevator in Helsinki as he held his dying wife. Carpenter could fuck everything up if he discovered I was here. I was still pissed with myself for not switching on with Eight and asking for a change of meeting place; because of that fuckup I'd got myself into a position where I could end up dead myself if I messed this up.
One or two more dull yellow lights came on in the apartments. The noise of a TV hung in the air as a car rattled along the road, then I heard a baby screaming. I continued with my trigger on the door, listening to the occasional bang of pots and pans from behind steamed-up kitchen windows and their sagging, dirty net curtains.
Somewhere in the neighborhood, dogs barked at each other, probably just out of boredom.
No sign of movement or light came from the house. Lion King said it was 3:12.
Still I watched and waited, feeling the cold attacking my ears and nose, wishing I'd made the effort and bought a replacement hat and gloves. I got another four aspirin down me as my body started reminding me that it had taken a good kicking the night before. I spent long minutes trying to get enough saliva in my mouth to swallow them.
Another check of Lion King 3:58.1 hadn't even been here an hour yet, but it felt like six. I always hated the waiting. Another thirty minutes crawled by, then there was movement at the door, a dull, yellowish glow at the grill.
Slowly I took my hands from my pockets. Taking a firm hold of the hammerhead in my right hand, I laid the handle along my forearm, on the outside of my jacket.
Two men were standing there smoking, waiting to come out once they'd opened the grill. In the glow from the cigarettes and the hall light, their breath vapor was indistinguishable from the smoke as it rose above them. I couldn't make out if either of them was Carpenter. I hoped not. Taking on two with a hammer would not make for a good night out, and Carpenter was bound to be armed.
They continued to talk as the grill squeaked open and one of them came out onto the ice. The grill was then closed, leaving one of them on each side. Maybe it was going to be okay. Whoever was leaving had a quick laugh with his friend, who now looked like a prisoner behind bars. Then, as he walked away, he pushed the wooden door closed, rubbing his hands together against the cold. From this distance I couldn't hear the bolts being thrown.
I could make out the shape of a baseball cap as he moved to the vehicles. I still couldn't tell if it was Carpenter.
The man moved toward the 5 Series that was parked side-on to me, facing the house, then there was a jangle of keys.
I still couldn't identify him. I would have to get closer. He'd be there a while, scraping the ice from the windshield.
My legs were feeling rubbery after standing still so long. Stretching, I moved out of the darkness, trying to pump a bit of blood around.
There were only about sixty feet separating us, but as he neared the BM I still couldn't be sure it was him.
The car door opened and the interior light shone across his back as he leaned in and started up the engine. Exhaust fumes filled the air as he shoved one leg inside and hit the gas. Then he turned the headlights on. They shone brightly away from both of us, but silhouetted his profile. I recognized Carpenter at once.
I took one last look around me to make sure the area was clear. From this moment on I'd be concentrating solely on the target, who was now ten meters away, hopefully with the engine noise hiding my movement.
He was focusing on the windshield, his back to me still as he leaned over to clear the ice.
My eyes never left his head as it moved back and forth in a cloud of breath.
He must have heard me, and started to turn. I was no more than fifteen feet away but too far to react quickly. I just had to keep walking, but now veering slightly left, as if I was heading for the road. I got my head down, not wanting to look at him as I approached the rear of the car, my hands under my armpits, concealing my weapon. I had to assume that he was checking out the dickhead who thought he could saunter around in this weather without a hat and gloves.
The focus of my whole world was on this man, waiting to hear the noise of the scraper again. I was nearly past him, just approaching the BM's trunk, when it finally began again.
Scrape scrape scrape.
It was time to look up and find his head once again as it bobbed up and down in time with the noise.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
Supporting the hammerhead in my left hand I ran my hand down the handle and gripped it hard.
At that moment he looked up again, toward the road.
I, too, saw the four white DTTS Vitaras screech to a halt outside an apartment buildings on the other side of the road. I had no choice but to keep walking past him as black-clad bodies jumped out of the vehicles and ran into the building, leaving the drivers standing outside, nightsticks in hand.
I got to the road and turned left toward the traffic circle, not once looking behind me. I could hear screams and the sound of smashing glass as the DTTS team did whatever they did in apartment buildings in an afternoon.
I was cursing to myself, but at the same time feeling lucky they hadn't turned up a few seconds later. What concerned me now was that he could be there when I returned to the house for any kit I might need.
I took the first opportunity to turn left again, off the road and back into the apartment building as the BM drove past me, heading for the traffic circle.
I drove cut of town, heading west and following signs along the Tallinn road to a place called Kohtla-Jarve, about twenty miles away. The road didn't hold any surprises for me. The car bumped all over the place, slithering over the different levels of pavement under the ice and slush. I couldn't complain; I was just happy to have got the thing started again.
I went through a couple of small towns, trying to avoid the bus and truck drivers who wanted me to join their death race. This was supposed to be a two-lane road, but it didn't work out like that; everyone took the center of the road because that was where there was less ice and more pavement. Seeing signs for Voka, I made a mental note of the time since leaving Narva. I'd be wanting that road later.
The wipers were slapping away ineffectually against the shit that was being sprayed up by trucks and dumped on us smaller vehicles. I had to keep stopping, using the newspaper from the back seat to wipe the windows. At one stage, I even had to piss over the windshield to clear the icy grime, trying to avoid the splash as the wipers did their stuff before it froze once again.
Kohtla-Jarve, it appeared, was the home of the giant, brooding slag heaps and long conveyor belts I'd seen from the train. Bright white light spilled from factories on either side of the road as I dueled with my trucker friends. They eventually dwindled with the industry, and soon there was complete darkness, apart from kamikaze trucks and bus lights on full beam, mixed with cars with only one light trying to overtake the lot of us.
I followed the road west for about another twelve miles then turned left, heading south for a place called Pussi. I was in no mood for gags, otherwise I might have passed the time composing a limerick or two.
In the Lada's headlights I could see that the road was single lane and hadn't been used or cleared for quite a while. There were just two tire rutt worn into the snow. It was going be like riding on rails.
It was another twelve miles further south to the target. There had to be a quicker way of doing it than driving a right-angled box, west and then south, but I didn't know how accurate the maps were. Besides, I wanted to stay on the main roads as long as possible, and then I could at least be sure of getting there. I was feeling quite pleased with myself, considering I had no map; one of the muggers in Tallinn was probably wiping his ass with it right now.
