be futile, given the time scale. The rest of the kit I would get myself to make sure it was exactly right; I hated depending on other people, but when in Chad? The cold was getting to me and I was starting to freeze. I had seen all I was going to see tonight. Being careful not to disturb the snow on either side of the tire ruts, I got up, checking with my hands that I hadn't dropped anything. It was just habit, but a good one. Then I slowly checked the snow on either side of the rut as I moved back to the road, getting ready to play repair man. If any sign did need covering up I would have to collect snow from the area around the car and carry it over. Detail counts: There would be no point in picking up snow from near the repair and just creating more sign.
I had warmed up quite a bit by the time I got back to the Lada.
Unfortunately, the first thing I had to do after lifting the hood was take off my jacket and ram it down onto the starter motor. I didn't want Tom's new friends to hear me when I battered it with the hammer.
Ripping the newspaper from behind the windshield wipers I got into the driver's seat quicker than last time, now knowing how to play the door lock. The engine fired third time. Keeping the revs low I drove away, not going past the target this time, but taking a few lefts instead to try and box round and get back on the main road to Narva. I got lost a couple of times, but eventually found it and rejoined the death race.
34
I parked once more in the border-crossing parking lot. It was 9:24, according to Lion King. There was no way I was going to drive straight to Eight's place; I wanted to check out the area first, just in case Carpenter had returned. If so, I would have to spend the night hanging around, waiting for him to leave again.
I locked the car and headed back to the baar, hands in pockets, head down. Approaching from the direction of the burned-out shed, I could see the BM hadn't returned, and only two of the other vehicles were still there, both now covered in thick ice.
It was one of the Cherokee jeeps that was missing. What did that mean?
Fuck it, I had no time to mess about. When would be the right time to enter the house? I'd just take my chances and go for it. All I wanted was to get the kit together and make some money as soon as possible.
I pressed the intercom button and waited, but got no answer. I pressed it again. A crackling male voice answered, not the same one as before, but just as rough. I knew the routine now and even a little Russian.
'Vorsim. Vorsim.'
The static stopped, but I knew to wait, even moving out of the way after a minute or two for the main door to open. Soon bolts were being pulled on the inside.
The door swung open and there stood Eight, still in his red sweatshirt.
As he unlocked the grill, he peered anxiously out into the parking lot.
'My wheels?'
I walked in and waited as he locked up behind, still frantically scanning the parking lot.
'The car's fine. Is the guy with the BMW coming back?'
He shrugged his shoulders as I started to climb the stairs behind him.
'You'll need a pen and paper, Vorsim.'
'But what about my wheels?'
I still hadn't answered when we entered the third-floor room. With no natural light the TV room was much darker, but it still smelled the same, heavy with cigarette smoke. No one was here. Nothing had changed apart from the fact that next to the plastic coated playing cards on the table, there was now a lamp, dimly glinting on the Johnnie Walker bottle, which was three-quarters empty. Three ashtrays were full and spilling butts on the once highly polished table. The TV was still on, throwing bursts of light around the other side of the room.
Through a snow lens I could see Kirk Douglas playing a cowboy with the volume down low; I could just hear the dialogue.
'Yo, Nick. The table.'
He pointed at several cheap pens and sheets of lined paper scattered amongst the crap. Some had tally marks on.
I sat down and started to write a list, wondering if the marks were card-game scores or a record of today's deals.
Eight pulled up a chair opposite me. 'Come on, you play. Where's the car, man?'
'Down the road.'
He searched my face. 'It's okay?'
'Yeah, yeah. Just let me finish this.' I wanted this kit organized and to get the fuck out of there as quickly as I could. 'Where is everybody?'
He moved his arms around like a break dancer on fast forward.
'Business. You know, my man, business.'
I finished writing and pushed the sheet of paper over to him. He looked at it and didn't appear fazed. I was expecting lots of sucking through teeth, but the only question I got was, 'Eight kilos?'
'Yeah, eight kilos.' They certainly weren't the sort of kilos he normally dealt with.
'Eight kilos of what, Nikolai?' His shoulders went up and his face went down. It was obvious he didn't understand anything I'd written apart from 8kg. He'd learned to speak English from the TV, but he couldn't read it. Maybe he should have spent more time watching Sesame Street and a bit less watching NYPD Blue.
'Shall I just say what I need and you write it down?' I didn't want to embarrass him, and besides, anything to speed this up.
He smiled now there was a way out. 'Telling me would be cool, yeah.'
Halfway through dictating the list I had to explain what a detonator was. A few minutes later, when he'd stopped holding the pen in his fist like a child and his tongue was back in his mouth, he looked very pleased with himself.
'Okay. Cool.' He jumped out of his seat, studying his handiwork and feeling very important. 'Wait here, Nikolai, my man.' He disappeared through the door near the fireplace.
A few seconds later I heard a much older voice roaring with laughter. I wasn't sure if that was good or bad. I didn't try to see who it was; if it was the older voice who decided whether I could have it, then spying on him while he made that decision wasn't going to change anything, apart from pissing him off and making my life more difficult than it already was.
The sound of footsteps echoed from the stairwell, accompanied by volleys of quick, aggressive talking, slowly getting louder as people came up the stairs. I told myself not to worry, even though my heartbeat quickened as I listened for Carpenter.
As the voices got louder I still couldn't work out whether they were angry or that was just the way they talked.
The door burst open and I watched as the Good Fellas came in one by one, ready to grip Johnnie Walker and use him over someone's head.
There was no Carpenter. It was the same four card players, taking off their leather jackets and hats. The old one, shopping bag in hand, kept on his silver-gray fur Cossack-style number.
I stayed put, my heart beating even quicker with relief as I crumbled up the first list and put it in my pocket.
They crossed the room toward me without any acknowledgment, except from the fur-hatted older one, who shouted and waved the back of his hand at me to get the fuck out of his chair and away from the table. I got up and moved; no skin off my nose, I was there for other things, not to get macho.
From the window I watched the traffic lining up at the checkpoint. It looked even more like a movie scene now that floodlights were soaking the area in a brilliant white glow. The same couldn't be said for the lighting this side of the river.
All four now sat at the table, pouring the last of the whiskey and lighting up. There was a lot of talk from them, which drowned out the low-volume gunfight Kirk was winning on the opposite side of the room.
The old guy pulled packets of sausage and dark rye bread from the shopping bag and threw them onto the table, while the others tore open the plastic protection around the sliced meat and ripped off lumps of bread.
