Saltanat took the blade, felt the heft, the balance, nodded approvingly.
“If I think she’s getting the better of you, or she’s going to kill you,” I said, reached for my gun under the seat, held it up, “then I’m going to blow her fucking head off.”
Saltanat started to protest, but I put a finger to my lips. She leaned forward, kissed my cheek, and I could smell the freshness of her perfume, the lemon shampoo of her hair.
Saltanat’s phone rang. As she listened, her face changed from shock into anger. She put the phone back in her pocket and turned to me.
“That was my embassy. Elmira, the woman looking after Otabek? She’s been shot, she’s dead. And the boy’s missing.”
And then she was out of the car, walking without haste toward the base of the statue. Albina emerged from the shadows, turned and beckoned Saltanat to join her. I got out of the car, following the two women further under the trees. Lenin ignored them, obviously dreaming about the irresistible rise of the proletariat.
Finally, we came to a spot away from the park paths, where carved stone statues stood in a ring, as if refereeing the fight. Their faces in the shadows were cruel or uncaring, as if they’d seen it all before and remained unmoved. Albina held up a hand toward me, indicating I should come no further. I nodded my acceptance.
Across the far side of the clearing, Otabek stood, his arms wrapped around a slender birch tree, wrists tied together. Even from a distance, I could see the despairing slump of his shoulders, the dried tear tracks on his cheeks.
“Will you be able to carry this bitch’s body back to your car on your own, Akyl? I imagine that foot of yours is giving you a little trouble!” Albina shouted. “You’ll need to make two trips if you’re going to carry the boy’s body as well.”
“We’ll be leaving your body where it falls,” Saltanat said. “Unless you’d like Graves to fetch you to star in his next major motion picture? A non-speaking role, obviously.”
“You always were a difficult child, Saltanat, you’ve grown up to be a troublesome woman.”
The two women, one blond, the other raven-haired, both dressed in black, crouched and started to circle each other. What little sunlight came through the trees reflected off the blades of the knives, the way ice skates spark and dance on winter lakes.
The two women moved sideways, placing each foot down, testing the ground, as if treading barefoot on glass. I’d been present at the aftermath of several knife fights, but those had been drunken, messy, brutal affairs, more bravado than an intent to kill. This was different, like watching two ballerinas performing to music only they could hear. There was a grace and elegance about the whole thing, a ritual no one but the participants could understand. There was none of that nonsense of tossing the knife from hand to hand you get in movies. If the knife isn’t in your hand, you’re unarmed. Drop it and you’re not just a bad juggler, you’re a dead one.
Albina skipped forward, light as a cat on her feet, flicked out with her blade, before stepping back. Saltanat twisted to stand sideways, and I thought the blow had missed her. Then I saw the cut in her sleeve, blood rising through the dark material. I slid my hand inside my jacket, loosened the Yarygin. At that distance, taking Albina down would be easy. Taking her alive? Rather more difficult.
Albina raised one leg and aimed a Thai-style kick at Saltanat’s hip, the knife as a follow-through aimed at the throat. Saltanat swayed backward, stabbed down with her own knife. The blade’s tip nicked the webbing of Albina’s thumb and forefinger, blood hanging in the air like a shower of rose petals.
Albina fell back, her face a mask of anger and pain, raising her hand to suck on the wound. When she took her hand away, the blood that smeared her face and teeth reminded me of the wolf I’d once seen shot in the mountains. But this wolf’s eyes were ferocious, alive with hate and bloodlust.
“You used to be good at this,” Saltanat taunted. “Old age finally caught up with you?”
“Good enough to have killed your friend, the orphanage director. Good enough to have given you that scar,” Albina said, pointing at Saltanat’s face.
The dance never stopped, a step forward, a step back, block, move, thrust, both women swaying from side to side to hide their next attack. Albina leapt forward two paces, catching Saltanat just below the earlier wound, deeper now, blood staining the grass. But the leap had caught Albina off balance and as she stumbled, Saltanat plunged her knife into the bicep of Albina’s knife-arm. Even as Albina registered the shock of the blow, Saltanat twisted the blade and drew it down the length of the arm.
The dance was coming to its inevitable conclusion, as Albina dropped her knife and fell to her knees. With her other hand, she tried to pull the edges of the wound together, but blood continued to spurt, and I realized Saltanat had hit an artery.
I stepped forward, but Saltanat turned on me, enraged, raising her knife at my face.
“Get back,” she said. “It’s not over.”
Albina’s clothes were drenched in blood, and I knew that even if Saltanat had let me approach, it would have been too late to save Albina. She knew she would bleed out in just a few minutes, but the expression on her face said she wasn’t ready to submit. She intended to face death as it ran through the trees toward her, scooping her up and carrying her off to feast at its leisure.
“Saltanat,” I said, tried to put my arm around her. She pushed me away, lowered her blade, walked over to where Albina still knelt, upright by some miracle of will.
“We always knew it would end this way,” Saltanat said, “ever since I was a little girl.” And there was a softness in her voice that sounded almost like love.
“You made me what I am, Albina, for good or bad. Good for me, bad for you.”
Albina’s eyelids drooped, her head swaying. She started to speak, but only disjointed sounds emerged.
“I suppose you killed Gurminj when he caught you abducting Otabek,” Saltanat said. “A decent man, who only wanted to help children. Even if I could, I wouldn’t help you. Now all that’s left for you is to rot in the earth.”
Saltanat spat onto the ground, wiped her mouth with the back of one bloodstained hand, walked toward Otabek.
I watched as Albina’s face went slack, and death began to flood her eyes. She made one ineffectual grab for her knife, missed, tried again, and then fell forward onto her face.
And then Saltanat was walking back to me, carrying Otabek, who clung to her neck as if nothing could ever break his grasp. They passed Albina’s body without sparing it even a glance as I picked up the knives. I saw Saltanat’s face was filled with a haunting mix of love and sorrow. Perhaps mine was as well.
Chapter 57
The three of us managed to sneak through the hotel lobby and up to our room without attracting too much attention. I’d managed a makeshift bandage for Saltanat’s arm, and her dark clothing hid the blood fairly effectively. I bathed the cut, shallow and just above the elbow, poured the remaining hydrogen peroxide over the wound. I remembered how much it had hurt when Saltanat had done the same for me and couldn’t help smiling.
“Revenge?” she said, gritting her teeth.
“Something like that,” I said, rolling a bandage around her arm. Saltanat gave me one of her specialty suspicious scowls.
“So, do you want to tell me about it?” I asked.
“About what?”
“About Albina and you, what there was between the two of you,” I said.
Saltanat sighed in exasperation, stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling. We’d already taken the room next to ours, with a connecting door between the two suites. Saltanat had bathed Otabek and held his hand while he curled up under the covers and escaped into sleep. I dry-swallowed a handful of the extra-strong painkillers I’d managed to cajole out of the pharmacist, waited for the pain in my shoulder and foot to also take a nap.