“You think they have killed Harumbaki?” asked the tallest of the three men.
Of the three, Biko looked most like a leader. He was erect, decisive in his language, prepared for whatever was to be done. The problem was that he had only one solution for any problem that emerged. Kill. Biko was more than a little crazy, and Patrice well knew it. Patrice also knew that Biko had two wives and six children under the age of ten.
“I don’t think he is dead,” said Patrice, who had no idea if what he was saying was true.
“He is not dead.”
This came from the third man, short, bespectacled, and young, the youngest of the group, named Laurence. Laurence was seventeen. He looked fourteen. He was the most battle-experienced member of the group, having been a shirtless mercenary with a Kalashnikov when he was ten. Now he had an extended family of thirty people to support.
“That’s not the finger of a dead man,” said Laurence, adjusting his glasses. “I’ve removed fingers from the living.”
“You can’t be sure,” said Patrice.
“I can,” said Laurence.
“He is sure,” said Biko.
“If we don’t give them diamonds,” said Laurence, “they will send us a toe.”
“Or his penis,” added Biko.
“No, that might kill him,” said Laurence.
Biko and Laurence looked at Patrice, who stared at the finger and said, “Then we answer them by leaving a message. We set up an exchange location. We tell them they must bring James Harumbaki.”
“We don’t have the next shipment,” said Biko.
“No,” said Patrice.
“What do we give them?” asked Laurence, already knowing the answer.
“Bullets,” said Patrice.
“James might be killed,” said Biko.
“We might be killed,” said Patrice.
“That is true,” said Biko.
“We will give James’s share of everything for three years to his family,” said Patrice. “Agreed?”
“Agreed,” the other two said in near unison.
Patrice was afraid but not for his own safety. He was afraid he would be killed fighting the people who had James. Then who would look after his parents and grandfather?
“Where do we meet them?” asked Laurence.
“The park,” said Patrice.
“Which park?” asked Biko.
“East Gate Park on Kamiaken Street,” said Patrice.
“I do not know it,” said Biko.
“We had an exchange there under some statue when I first came to Moscow last year,” said Laurence.
Patrice nodded to show that this was true.
“The statue is a good place,” said Patrice. “It is quiet.”
“See,” said Kolokov, “it doesn’t hurt much.”
James Harumbaki saw little point in disputing the statement. In fact, the joint where his little finger had been removed really didn’t hurt very much. The crazy, parading Russian had given him two pills and a bottle of vodka. James accepted both with whatever dignity he could muster.
The bar, owned by a trio of brothers who were well established inside of one of Moscow’s most entrenched Mafias, was crowded. People were laughing, drinking, smoking. Music was blaring, causing a deep headache over James’s right eye. Two very large-screen television sets were on, one over each end of the long bar.
Kolokov was circling the table, balancing a drink in his hand, talking loudly over the pain, which was almost worse than the loss of a finger.
“Do not worry,” the Russian said, leaning over the table. “You can always grow another finger. Oh no, I forgot. People do not regrow toes and fingers, do they?”
Kolokov laughed.
James was flanked on either side by two of Kolokov’s gang, one of them was the bald man, Montez, who kept his hand upon the Botswanan’s leg.
“Do they?” Kolokov repeated leaning even closer.
“No,” said James.
“No, that’s right,” Kolokov repeated. “They do not, but they can reattach them. All we have to do is get you and your finger. . Oh, I forgot. I sent the finger to your friends. Pau, how long will a severed finger be usable?”
“A day or so,” said Montez. “More if it is iced.”
“Then,” said Kolokov, “we had better get you back to your friends quickly, or you may never be able to play the pipe organ again.”
“We should not be here,” said Montez.
“Why not?” asked Kolokov, looking around. “Our guest is not going to try to run. It would be useless and very painful. And he is not going to ask anyone here for help. Who here would help him? Do you see another single black face?”
Silence.
“Answer.”
“No,” said Montez.
“We are celebrating,” said Kolokov. “The friends of our guest have agreed to turn over to us a fortune in diamonds to get our guest back almost in one piece.”
“I don’t trust them,” said Igor.
“Of course not,” said Kolokov. “They mean to. . what do the Americans call it. . double crucifix us. I would. They will try. When they do, we remove another one of the fingers of our friend here. He gets weaker. We try again. Being a criminal is not an easy job.”
Some fresh music blared and a woman, pretty, in her forties, with large breasts, wearing a sleek black dress, climbed on a small stage and began to sing in Russian.
“What is that song?” asked Kolokov.
“ ‘Bad Moon Rising.’ ”
“I know it, but she is destroying it.”
Kolokov moved through the crowded tables and climbed onto the stage next to the singing woman. James tested the grip of the bald man. As soon as James moved no more than a twitch, the Spaniard’s fingers dug deeply into his thigh.
“No,” said Montez.
James went nearly limp. His bloody finger had been rinsed with alcohol and wiped with a towel of doubtful cleanliness. The tape over a small square of bandage was clinging without conviction to his finger.
Kolokov sang. The woman in the black dress sulked as he nudged in front of her at the microphone. When he had taken the microphone, the bar patrons who were listening had hooted for him to sit down, but they quickly discovered that Kolokov was more than adequate. He was good. He tapped his foot, held the microphone almost touching his lips, and belted out the music. Hoots turned to cheers.
The three men at the table with James tried to disassociate themselves from their leader. He was a clown, a buffoon. But he was also fearless and smart-at least smarter than they were.
And then James made a decision. His arms and legs were strong, very strong. The big man at his side could probably crush him, but James surprised him with his sudden strength. James pulled out of his grasp, threw his elbow into the mouth of the man on the other side of him, and dumped the table and its contents into the face and lap of the third Russian.
Then James ran for the door, leaping over a table.
The three Russians and the Spaniard were up, but behind in the chase. No one seemed to care or notice
