Leatherman, I cut the original plasticuffs so that his left arm was free. He wasn't going anywhere unless he did a Samson and took the pillar with him.
Returning to the other side of the table, I pushed the plunger down on the coffeemaker and filled two big mugs with steaming coffee. I threw a handful of sugar lumps into each and gave them a stir with my knife.
I didn't know how he took his, but I doubted he was going to complain.
I didn't normally take sugar myself, but today was an exception.
I walked over to him and put his mug on the floor. He gave me a brisk nod of thanks. I couldn't tell him, but I knew what it felt like to entertain all three of Mr. and Mrs. Death's little boys-wet, cold, and hunger-and wouldn't wish them on anyone. Anyway, it was my job to keep him alive, not add to his misery.
The scanner was still giving the odd burst as I settled down at the table facing Val. I took a couple of sips and then it was time to get out of my costume. I felt uncomfortable in it, and if I had to start performing, the last thing I wanted to be wearing was a suit and a pair of lace-up shoes. Lugging my duffel bag over to the table, I dug out jeans, Timberland boots, T-shirt, sweatshirt, and a green Helly Hansen fleece.
The Chechen watched me intently as he drank coffee and I got changed. I got the sense he was enjoying my failure to interpret the scanner traffic.
I felt much more my old self as I tucked my weapon into the front of my jeans.
I went back to my coffee. Valentin had finished his and the empty mug was at his feet. I brought him the coffee pot and package of crackers.
He nodded as I poured new cups for both of us.
I sat at the table and ate the last of the bananas Jesse and Frank had left behind. The scanner continued to crackle away, and in the silences between bursts from the operating stations, all I could hear was the crunching of crackers.
I couldn't stop thinking about Sergei. What if he didn't turn up? I hadn't worked that one out yet. I hadn't even wanted him to come on the lift. It would have been better if he'd just stayed with the truck; we'd all have RV'd with him, then been chauffeured across the border, but he insisted on being there in case there was any shady dealing. I would probably have done the same myself. But now what?
I had another thought. What would happen if one of Sergei's boys was still alive? It probably wouldn't take too long for the police to get him to talk. I stopped munching and put down my mug. Shit, we had to get out of here.
Getting to my feet, I grabbed Carpenter's and Nightmare's bags and took a red ski jacket and bottoms from mine. I put the 88 and the mags in the front pockets and threw Carpenter's cold-weather gear to Val.
Carpenter was a big boy, so the fit wasn't going to be a problem.
Leaving him to figure out how he was going to put it on with his arm still secured, I ran upstairs to get two double comforters. Once back downstairs I pulled my weapon, cut him free, and stepped back. 'Get dressed!' I shouted, miming putting on a jacket.
He got the hint and started removing his overcoat and tuxedo. I watched him, ready to react to any wrong move. Everything he was wearing stank of money. His shoes were so smart I looked at the label.
English, Patrick Cox. A few pairs of those would have paid for my roof repair.
I let him keep his wallet, having checked through it and seen old pictures of children dressed in snowsuits. I'd always avoided getting lumbered with stuff like that myself, but understood that these things were important to people.
Val was soon dressed in a pair of yellow snow pants a green ski jacket, an orange ski hat with big dangling pom-poms, gloves, a scarf, and a pair of cold-weather boots-all of which must have been at least three sizes too big. He looked ready for a stint as a children's entertainer.
I pointed the pistol up and back toward the pillar. He went over obediently. I showed him that I wanted him to hug it, an arm either side. Then it was just a matter of making up another set of extra long plasticuffs, doing up two ratchets so it was like a lasso, looping it over his wrists and pulling tight.
I left him to adjust himself as I took my flashlight and went outside into the garage for a couple of shovels, one a big trough-type one, used for clearing pathways of snow, the other a normal building-site job. I dumped them on the table and the flashlight went into my snow pants pocket.
Val was trying to work out what I was up to. He was looking at me in the same way as his woman had done in the hotel, as if there was no danger and nothing was happening that might affect him. He appeared to think he was just a neutral observer.
I started ransacking the cupboards, looking for thermoses and food. I was out of luck. It looked as if we'd both had our last hot drink and cracker for a while.
I picked up my mug and downed the last of the coffee as I walked over to him. I put his mug in his hand and indicated that he should do the same. He was soon busy maneuvering his head around the post to meet his hands while I took candles and matches from the cupboard under the sink and threw them into one of the bags.
Once I'd stuffed the comforters on top and done up the zip, I cut him free, motioning him to put the bag on his back. He knew what I meant and used the two handles as if they were straps on a knapsack.
I put on my black woolen hat and ski gloves, then picked up the shovels from the table and used them to guide him out of the door. I walked behind, hitting the light switch. I left the scanner on the table. It would give our position away to use it out there.
I held him as I got the keys from the Volvo. It was my only transport out of here and I wanted to make sure it stayed that way. Once through the garage door we followed the well-worn track in the snow toward the lakeshore. It was pitch-black out here and bitterly cold. The wind was much stronger now, swirling snow stung my cheeks as we moved forward. The helis wouldn't be up around here in this wind.
5
A small Wooden hut housing the wood-burning sauna stood about one hundred feet away along the frozen lakeshore. Beyond it was a wooden jetty, which stood about three feet above the ice.
The Chechen was still ahead of me, leaning into the wind and half turning from the waist to protect his face from the driving snow. He stopped when he got to the sauna, perhaps expecting me to motion him inside. Instead, I sent him round to the right. He obediently stepped out a few feet or so along the jetty.
'Whoa. Stop there,' I shouted. 'Stop, stop, stop.'
He turned round, and I pointed with my pistol down at the frozen lake.
He looked at me quizzically.
'Down there. On the ice, on the ice.'
Very slowly, he got down and sat in the snow, then rolled over, tentatively prodding the ice to make sure it would take his weight. I knew it would. I'd been messing about on it for the last two weeks.
Once he was standing I got him to move out of reach while I clambered down, in case he decided he'd had enough of this game and wanted to play stealing cars and driving home.
Prodding him along the ice with the shovels I paralleled the lakeshore.
By taking this route we wouldn't leave any sign from the house, but it meant we were more exposed to the wind. It was just a matter of leaning into it until we'd covered the five hundred feet to the treeline. Once there, we carried on for a bit before I gave him another shout.
He turned again, awaiting new instructions, his head tilted against the wind screaming across the lake. I could hear his labored breathing and just make out the shape of his face as I pointed at the trees to our right. He turned toward them and started to move as the wind buffeted the backs of our jackets.
The snow was no problem at first, no more than about two feet deep, but soon it was up to our waists. He did all the work plowing through it; I just followed in his wake as his boots crunched down until they met compacted surface, lifted up and did the same thing all over again.
We moved another hundred and fifty feet about thirty feet inside the treeline and that was enough. We were in direct line of sight of the house.
Having spent my childhood in South London projects, to me the countryside had always been just a green place full of animals that hadn't yet been frozen or cooked. I hadn't been into all the trapping stuff I was taught while in the Regiment. In fact, I'd forgotten most of it. I'd never felt the need to run around in a hat made out of freshly skinned rabbit. Building shelters, however, was a skill I did keep tucked away somewhere in the back of my head. I vaguely remembered that there would be spaces beneath the spreading boughs of the evergreens at snow
