Locked On

the bottom of the story. Ruul’s people found Kro?d tmm in Cologne, Ruul and his men had the old German lock picker come to a meet, and soon Kromm was telling the story that he had never told a soul, even identifying John Clark from a photo.

It wasn’t a big deal for Ruul. The Estonian passed the intel on to Valentin Kovalenko, then went home to Tallinn after a long weekend in Germany with his girlfriend, and now he sat in his regular seat in his regular nightclub, watching the lights flash and too few Western tourists bounce up and down on the dance floor.

Ruul owned Klub Hypnotek, a stylish lounge and techno dance room on Vana Turg in Tallinn’s Old Town. He came in most nights around eleven, and rarely strayed far from his throne, a corner wrap-around sofa flanked by two armed bodyguards, unless it was to head up to his office alone to count receipts or surf the Internet.

Around midnight he felt nature’s call, and he took a circular staircase up to his second-floor lair, waved his bodyguard back downstairs, and stepped into the tiny private bathroom attached to his office.

He pissed, flushed, zipped, turned around, and found himself facing the barrel of a handgun.

“What the fuck?” He said it in Estonian.

“Do you recognize me?” These words were English.

Ruul just stared at the silencer.

“I asked you a question.”

“Lower gun please so I can see you,” Ruul said with a quake in his voice.

John Clark lowered the pistol to the man’s heart. “How’bout now?”

“Yes. You are American John Clark that everyone in your country looks for.”

“I am surprised you did not expect me.” Clark glanced quickly back to the door to the circular stairs. “You didn’t expect me, did you?”

Ruul shrugged. “Why would I expect you?”

“It’s all over the news I was in Cologne. That didn’t tip you off that I was looking for Kromm?”

“Kromm is dead.”

This Clark did not know. “You killed him?”

Ruul shook his head in a way that made Clark believe him. “They told me he die before you spoke to him.”

“Who told you that?”

“People who scare me more than you, American.”

“Then you do not know me.” Clark thumbed the hammer back on his.45.

Ruul’s eyebrows rose, but he asked, “Are we standing in bathroom much longer?”

Clark backed up, letting the man into his office, but Clark’s gun remained trained on Ruul’s chest. Ruul kept his hands up slightly, though he ran them through his spiky blond hair as he looked toward the window to the fire escape. “You came in through my window? It’s two stories up? You need to find rocking chair, old man. You behave like child.”

“If they told you I got nothing from Kromm, they probably did that because they are using you as bait. My guess is they have been watching you, waiting for me to show up.”

Ruul had not thought of this. John saw a sense of hope in the man’s eyes, as if he expected someone to come to his rescue.

“And if they killed Kromm, they won’t have any ?m Krproblem killing you.”

Now John saw this realization register in the Estonian mobster’s eyes. Still, he did not break easily.

“So… Who sent you to Kromm?”

“Kepi oma ema, old man,” Ruul said.

“That sounded like some sort of a curse. Was that a curse?”

“It means… ‘Fuck your mother.’”

“Very nice.” Clark raised his weapon back to the Estonian’s forehead.

“If you shoot me, you have no chance. I have ten armed men in building. One bang from your gun and they come kill you. And if you are right about more men coming, then you should think about your own…” He stopped talking and watched Clark holster the pistol.

The older American stepped forward, took Ardo Ruul by his arm, spun him around, and shoved him hard against the wall.

“I’m going to do something that will hurt. You will want to scream bloody murder, but I promise you, if you make a sound, I will do it to your other arm.”

“What? No!”

Clark bent Ruul’s left arm back violently, then drove his elbow into the back of the Estonian’s hyperextended elbow.

Ardo Ruul started a shriek, but Clark took him by his hair and slammed his face into the wall.

Close in his ear, John said, “Another pound of pressure and your joint snaps. You can still save it if you don’t scream.”

“I… I tell you who sent me for Manfred Kromm.” Ruul said with a gasp, and Clark let up the pressure. “A Russian fuck, Kovalenko is name. He is FSB or SVR, I do not know which. He sent me to see what Kromm knows about you in Berlin.”

“Why?”

Ardo’s knees went slack and he slid down the side of the wall. Clark helped him to the floor. There the man sat, his face pale, his eyes wide with pain as he held his elbow.

“Why, Ruul?”

“He did not say me why.”

“How do I find him?”

“How do I know? His name Kovalenko. He is Russian agent. He pay me money. This is all I know.”

From downstairs at Klub Hypnotek, the crack of a gunshot, then screams from women and men.

Clark stood quickly and headed toward the window.

“Where you going?”

Clark raised the windowpane and looked outside, then turned back to the Estonian gangster. “Before they kill you, remember to tell them I am coming after Kovalenko.”

Ardo Ruul pulled himself up to his feet with his one good arm and the corner of his desk. “Don’t leave, American! We fight them together!”

Clark climbed out onto the fire escape. “Those guys downstairs are your concern. I’ve got my own problems.” And with that he disappeared into the cold darkness.

Both men, American and Estonian, were roughly the same age. They were within an inch of the same height. Not more than ten pounds separated them in their weight. They both wore their salt-and- pepper hair short; both men had lean faces lined with age and hardened by lif?ith thate.

There the similarities ended. The Estonian was a drunk, a bum, prone on the cold concrete with his head propped against the wall and a see-through plastic crate holding his life’s possessions.

Clark was the same build, the same age. But not the same man.

He’d been standing here in the dark under the train tracks, watching the bum. He regarded the man a moment more, with only a brief hint of sadness. He did not waste much energy feeling sorry for the guy, but that was not because John Clark was coldhearted. No, it was because John Clark was on the job. He had no time for sentimentality.

He walked over, knelt down, and said in Russian, “Fifty euros for your clothes.” He was offering the destitute man seventy bucks in local currency.

The Estonian blinked over jaundiced and bloodshot eyes. “Vabandust?” Excuse me?

“Okay, friend. You drive a hard bargain.” Clark said it again. “You take my clothes. I give you one hundred euros.” If the homeless drunk was confused for a moment, soon it became clear. It also became clear that this was