'Sez who?' I can slay 'em with these comebacks.
The weightlifter reached under his shirt and came out with a Sig automatic. 'You'll come or we will shoot you.' He said it in a normal speaking voice, as if he didn't give a damn who heard. Another Russian.
I said, 'Have you guys been following me from Los Angeles?'
The weightlifter shoved me, and it felt like getting blindsided by a backhoe. 'Shut up. Walk.'
I shut up. I walked.
Maybe Wilson Brownell was right. Maybe I was in something deeper than I realized, and now it was too late to get out.
Isn't hindsight wonderful?
CHAPTER 9
The buzz cut held the door as the lifter walked me out, then followed behind us. The big guy let the gun dangle along his leg but made no effort to hide it. A woman with two kids came out of a bakery across the street, saw the gun, then grabbed her kids and stumbled back into the bakery. I said, 'Don't you guys know it's illegal to walk around with that thing?'
The big guy said, 'This is America. In America, you can do what you want.'
'I'd put it away if I were you. The cops will be here in seconds.' Maybe I could scare him into letting me go.
He made a little gesture with the gun, as if it were the gun shrugging, not him. 'Let them come.' Guess not.
'Who are you guys?'
The buzz cut shook his head. 'Nobody.'
'Where are we going?'
'To the car.' Everybody's a comedian.
The black Lexus was parked by a fire hydrant at the end of the block. This morning I was boarding a jet to fly to Seattle to find the missing father of three children in what should have been a no-big-deal job, and now I was being taken for a ride by two unknown Russian maniacs. I was willing to walk with these guys, but I did not want to get into the car. There are two crime scenes at every kidnapping. The first crime scene is where they snatch you, the second is where the cops find your body.
The lifter didn't seem to be paying a lot of attention, but the buzz cut was looking at everything. He scanned the storefronts and alleys and roof lines, his ice blue eyes moving in an unhurried, practiced sweep. I wondered what he was looking for, and I wondered where he had picked up the habit. I said, ' Afghanistan.'
The ice blue eyes never stopped their search.
The big guy said, 'Da. Alexei was Spetnaz. You know Spetnaz?'
The ice blue eyes flicked at the big guy, and Alexei mumbled something soft in Russian. The big guy's eyebrows bunched like dancing caterpillars. Nervous. I guess he was scared of Alexei, too.
I said, 'I know Spetnaz.' Spetnaz was the former Soviet army's version of our Special Forces, but they were really more like Hitler's SS. Motivated zealots with a penchant for murder. 'That's a kind of Austrian noodle, isn't it?'
The ice blue eyes flicked my way, and Alexei smiled. The smile was wide and thin and empty. 'Da, that's right. A little noodle.'
I wondered how many Afghan kids had seen that smile before they died.
The big guy was walking behind me, but Alexei was maybe three paces back and to the side so that he wasn't between me and the gun. If I could put Alexei between me and the lifter, I could use him as a shield from the gun and perhaps effect an escape. Superman could probably do it, and so could the Flash. Why not me?
I slowed my pace, and almost at once Alexei slid sideways, brought up a Glock semiautomatic, and locked-out in a perfect two-hand combat stance. Guess they both had guns. He said, 'The car is safer, my friend.'
I showed him my palms and we went on to the car. So much for effecting an escape.
They put me in the front seat. Alexei got behind the wheel and the big guy got into the back. When he got in, the car tilted. Steroids. We started away and the big guy leaned forward and pushed a CD into the player. James Brown screamed that he felt good, and the big guy bobbed his head in time with the music. He said, 'You like James Brown, the king of soul?'
I looked at him.
Alexei said, 'Turn it down, Dmitri.'
Dmitri turned it down, but not very much. He made little hand moves with the music as if he were dancing, looking first out one side of the Lexus, then out the other, as if he wanted to take everything in and miss nothing. 'I enjoy the king of soul, and the Hootie and the Blowfish, and the Ronald McDonald's. Do you enjoy the Big Mac?'
I looked at Alexei, but Alexei wasn't paying attention. 'I prefer Burger King.'
Dmitri seemed troubled. 'But there is no special sauce.' He spoke Russian to Alexei.
Alexei shook his head, irritated. 'No. No special sauce.'
I said, 'Are you guys for real?'
The lifter said, 'What is that, 'for real'?'
Alexei pointed the Glock at me. 'This is real. Would you like to see?'
'No.'
'Then keep your mouth shut.'
Crump.
A light patter of rain began to fall, and Alexei put on the windshield wipers. We took the Alaskan Way Viaduct up past Elliot Bay into Ballard, then turned toward the water and bumped along an older part of the wharf to a warehouse at the edge of a pier. The warehouse, like the pier, was old and unkempt, with great rusted doors that slid along tracks and peeling paint and an air of poverty. Dmitri climbed out, pushed open the door, and we drove inside to park between a brand-new $100,000 Porsche Carrera and an $80,000 Mercedes SL convertible. Guess the air of poverty only went so far.
The warehouse was a great dim cavern that smelled of fish and rain and marine oil. Dust motes floated in pale light that speared down through skylights and gaps in the corrugated metal walls, and water dripped from the roof. Men who looked like longshoremen were driving forklifts laden with crates in and out of the far end of the warehouse, and did their best to ignore us. Alexei blew the horn twice, then cut the engine and told me to get out. A row of little offices was built along the side of the warehouse, and, with the horn, a pudgy guy with a cigarette dangling from his lips stepped out of the last office and motioned us over. We were expected.
The three of us went through the door into a shabby office in which it was even harder to see. The only light in the place came from a single cheap lamp sitting atop a file cabinet in the corner. Three men were around an oak desk that had probably been secondhand in the thirties, two of the men in their mid-fifties, the third maybe younger. The younger guy was the one who'd waved us in. I had hoped that maybe Clark would be there, but he wasn't. Probably just as well.
An empty folding chair was in the center of the room. The pudgy guy gestured at it and said something in Russian. Alexei said, 'For you.'
'I'll stand, thanks.'
Alexei glanced past me to Dmitri and then an M-80 went off in my ear. I rocked sideways and went down to one knee, then felt myself put into the chair. Alexei leaned toward me. 'No more jokes, now.' His voice was far away. 'That was a slap, do you see? If Dmitri closes his hand, it will kill you.'
'Sure.' His face tilted crazily first to one side, then the other, and I thought I was going to throw up.
A fourth man entered, this guy a little shorter than the others, but wider, and hard to see when your eyes are blurring. He was in his fifties, with crinkly gray hair and a florid face and a dark blue shirt open at the neck to show a lot of grizzled chest hair. He was also holding a McDonald's soft drink cup. Large. I guess that's where Dmitri got it from.
When the new guy entered the other men stood, and murmured greetings of respect. The new man spoke more Russian, and Alexei handed over my wallet. The new man put his cup down and sat on the edge of the desk to look through my wallet. Deciding my fate, no doubt.
I rolled my head one way, then the other. The disorientation was beginning to pass, but the soft tissue around my ear felt tight and hot.
The new guy finished going through my wallet, then tossed it to the floor. His eyes were tired and lifeless and uncaring. Just what you want to see when you're being held in a chair by a four-hundred-pound Russian with steel fingers. The new man said, 'I am Andrei Markov.'