Ferg had obtained through Corrigan. Which was a pain, not because he couldn’t pay it — he had a stack of counterfeit rubles with him — but because to do so would signal him as an easy mark and cause considerable trouble down the line.
A long series of negotiations followed, with Ferg starting at a quarter of the going rate — as much an insult as Ruby’s asking price — then working slowly toward one and a half times what Corrigan’s data indicated was a fair price. It took nearly twenty minutes for them to reach that point, and it was only the addition of two dozen grenades and six mines that sealed it. They celebrated the agreement by brewing a fresh pot of tea.
“Now a truck,” said Ferguson, and the bargaining began all over again. It took another half hour before he finally obtained a pickup with petrol at what he thought was a good price — he could judge that only by how long it took to reach agreement. By then his bladder was overflowing, and he excused himself, positioning some of the necessary cash in his pocket on the way back.
When he returned, Ferguson asked if it might be possible to obtain the services of a few men. The Chechen hesitated sufficiently to let him know it would not be easily done. When he did not protest when Ferguson told him to forget it, the American realized that there would be no way to hire the mercenaries he was hoping for. While that lack complicated his plan, it did not torpedo it, and after one last cup of chay he left a small deposit and went immediately with Ruby’s son to round up the truck. Ruby was so pleased with the entire day’s work that he gave Ferguson two VOG-25 grenades completely gratis — a thoughtful gesture, even if the grenades were useless without their rifle-mounted launcher.
The son complained about his father as soon as they left the store. When they reached the truck, he hinted that he deserved a tip. When Ferguson scoffed he insisted on one; when Ferg began laughing he started to sulk, almost in tears.
The CIA officer pulled a fifty-euro note from his pocket.
“I need a driver,” he said.
And so he obtained the services of Gribak Morkow, who, besides knowing the best roads to Groznyy, spoke surprisingly good English.
The real price of his services was a seemingly unending diatribe against Ruby. Gribak kept making sweeping statements about the sins of fathers in general and asking Ferguson if what he said wasn’t true.
Conners had almost fallen asleep in the chair when the rap came at the door.
“Come,” he said, his gun aimed at the opening.
Ferg pushed inside. “Still here, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on. Get your stuff.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, if they’re not going to arrest you, we’ll move on to plan B.”
“You didn’t want them to arrest me, did you?” asked Conners, taking his small bag.
“Just bustin’,” said Ferg.
Gribak had the truck idling down the street. Two AK-47s were beneath the front seat, along with several clips and two of the hand grenades.
“When the police come, make a commotion,” Ferg told Conners.
“That’s it?”
“Well, that and don’t get caught. Meet me back at Happy Acres when you’re done. Give Gribak fifty euros when you get there. Don’t go more than that; he’ll think you’re queer.”
“OK,” said Conners. Ferguson was so deadpan it was hard to tell if he meant it as a joke or not.
The smoke felt like a saw blade hacking at Ferg’s eyes as he entered the bar. He pushed into the crowd nonetheless, sauntering through a crowd of off-duty Russian soldiers and Chechens. The Red Star was not the most notorious bar in Groznyy, but it did rate in the top ten. Ferguson slid forward, pushing his way between two natives and making sure to address the bartender first in English, then in Russian. He took his vodka and walked toward a row of tables at the left side of the room. The tables seemed entirely occupied by soldiers, which would have made things much too obvious. It occurred to him that Gribak might not be as accomplished a source as he pretended to be.
Returning to the bar with his now-empty glass, Ferguson held it out for a refill. When the bartender came back he asked if he knew how one might find Novakich.
The bartender squinted at him as if he’d asked the way to the Statue of Liberty. Ferguson repeated the name. When he got a frown this time, he smiled at the bartender and let a ten-ruble note float to the bar as he disappeared.
The next club seemed more a smuggler’s hangout, at least to judge by the efficiency of the pat-down. Ferg once more repeated the routine, adding a visit to a table where he dropped Ruby’s name as well.
The third club had an American Western theme, with posters of fifties movies and a saddled horse in the corner. Unfortunately, the horse was stuffed. As Ferg walked to the end of the long bar, he wondered if he ought to ask for a sasaparilla. The bartender’s round nose sniffed the air as he approached; Ferg nearly looked at his boots to check if he’d tracked manure in.
“You know a Novakich?” he asked in Russian, holding on to his money.
The bartender looked at him, sniffed again, then shook his head.
“Oh, well,” said Ferg in English, letting the money drop before asking for a vodka. The bartender scooped up the money, replacing it with a shot glass and a bottle. Ferg slid around, sizing up the sparse crowd.
You sure that’s the police?” Conners asked Gribak as the small car sped down the road. The battered Lada looked like an ordinary passenger vehicle to him, though it did stop in the middle of the road in front of the bar Ferguson was in.
Gribak gave him an exasperated look.
“All right. I guess you’d know,” said Conners, pushing open the door. He trotted up the road toward the sewer opening, watching to make sure that the police car stopped. As the two plainclothes officers got out and headed toward the bar, he knelt and dropped the grenade through the grate, returning to the truck at a dead run. When he reached it, Conners pulled open the door and leaned back over the roof, aiming the automatic rifle down the block. He shot off a few rounds, then threw the gun into the street as Gribak cursed angrily and hit the gas. They drove through a maze of alleys and narrow streets, and in a few minutes the Chechen’s mood began to improve greatly; he started humming.
“Very good,” said Conners when he fell silent. “Do you know ‘Finnegan’s Wake’?”
The din in the bar was so loud that the grenade could barely be heard, though the muffled crack set off a chain reaction. Weapons appeared instantly; two men started for the rear exit. Ferg followed, only to find his way barred by a large man in a black turtleneck sweater at least two sizes too small for him. More impressive than his haberdashery was his gun, an H&KMP-5.
“Guess I’m going a different way,” said Ferguson, stepping back. He saw some men heading toward a door at the right; he followed and found that they were heading out a restroom window that opened onto an alleyway He followed, turning left away from the street as gunfire erupted in the front of the building. He knew it wasn’t Conners — there was too much of it for too long. Someone ahead of him jumped over a fence. Ferg followed, then found himself in the middle of four somewhat angry-looking Chechens.
“Hey—” he started to say as the one nearest him swung a fist at his face. Ferg ducked, but caught a stick from another in the ribs. As the men closed in he swung his fists in every direction, but something hard clipped him on the side of head. As he fell to the ground there was more gunfire in the alley behind him; he lost consciousness for a moment, and by the time he blinked his eyes open his wallet was gone, and so were his tormenters. He also had a thick swag of wet blood on the side of his neck and shirt.
Ferg sat back against the fence, trying to get his bearings. Finally, he pushed his legs under him, rising to his feet. He gripped the top of the fence and pushed upward, peering over into the eyes of a plainclothes policeman.
“Shit,” said Ferg, dropping to the ground.
