“Very smart,” Kolokov repeated, looking at the bald man, named Pau, who was the only other person in the very dark, windowless room.
An incongruous floor lamp, heavy wrought iron with elaborate glass panels, provided illumination and something at which to glance.
“The clothes fit you,” said Kolokov.
James looked down at the shirt he was wearing. One of the other Kolokov men, Bogdan or Alek, had given James these clothes, told him to strip and dress. The rough, warm, long-sleeved khaki shirt did fit, as did the badly faded jeans whose legs had to be rolled up. He had been given no belt.
James ached. His face, neck, head, arms, body, and legs all ached in various degrees of pain that worsened when he moved. James used two hands to drink from the blue metal cup.
“You understand that I had to kill your friends?”
James nodded.
“And I’ll have to kill you if you lie to me?”
James didn’t respond.
“That was a question.”
James nodded. And then he decided. There was really no hope in playing the fool. There might be something for him in engaging the man in conversation, flattering him. What he would really have liked to do was throw the remaining coffee in the Russian’s white, smirking face and then shove the cup in a sharp thrust against his nose. That would have been suicidal, but that’s what he wanted to do. Instead, he said, “Why did you need to kill them?”
Kolokov’s mouth opened slightly, and then closed as he smiled. The black man had said this in perfect Russian, and had said it without a trace of the fool.
“I need two things,” said Kolokov. “I need to feel danger, physical, immediate danger, for me or for others created by me.”
“It’s a need?” asked James calmly.
“A need,” Kolokov said. “I am definitely a borderline psychopath. At least that is what the psychiatrist at the prison said before I gouged her eyes out.”
“You didn’t gouge her eyes out,” said James.
Kolokov regarded his prisoner very seriously now.
“No, I did not, but I wanted to. The way you want to gouge my eyes out right now. Calling me a psychopath gives my actions a name, but a label explains nothing.”
Kolokov leaned back, reached into his shirt pocket, removed a package of American cigarettes, put them on the table, and didn’t open them.
“You smoke?”
“No,” said James.
“Suit yourself.”
Kolokov opened the package, removed a cigarette, and lit it.
“You need money,” James said.
“I’ll amend that. I want money. I want to be rich. I want things. I want people to do things to, to do things for. I want a very big bathtub with constant hot water, steaming water, clear, clean water.”
“Women?” asked James.
“When I want them.”
“Yes.”
“You understand all this?”
“Yes,” said James, forcing a smile with bruised puffed lips.
James was thinking of a home and family he would probably never see again. Well, that was premature. Kolokov leaned forward across the table and whispered, “I’m surrounded by fools. That doesn’t mean I’d want someone like you with me. Too smart. Can’t trust people like you, but I do like matching wits with them.”
“Honduras,” came the voice of the bald man.
Kolokov turned toward him and said, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Honduras,” the man repeated.
“Does something go with that observation?” asked Kolokov.
“Remember Honduras,” said the bald man.
“Honduras?” repeated Kolokov, looking at James for a possible answer to the question.
James had no answer.
“The man from Honduras,” said the bald man. “Three years ago.”
“Hon-” Kolokov repeated. “I don’t remember any-Guatemala. He was from Guatemala. How did you come up with Honduras?”
“I got it wrong.”
Kolokov looked at James and sat back, smoking and remembering. The Guatemalan had been a tiny man, the color of a pecan shell. He was no more than thirty-five and had fallen under Kolokov’s umbra during a street robbery. On little more than a whim, Kolokov had brought the man, Sanchez, to an apartment, and was about to do something particularly painful to him under the guise of getting him to tell how he might provide ransom money.
Sanchez had worked him perfectly, claimed to be a member of the Guatemalan mission in Moscow, talked Kolokov into a partnership to steal ancient artifacts from Central America and sell them to dealers in Turkey. Kolokov let the man go after they shook hands on a partnership that promised to make both men rich.
The problem was that Sanchez had lied. He was not a diplomat. He was a visiting poet. He knew nothing about artifacts. He knew much about making up stories.
“You really know where there will be a delivery of diamonds?”
“Yes,” said James. “They will be delivered to three Russians who will take them to various cities, where they will be exchanged for cash.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Kolokov.
James was impassive.
“I’m telling the truth.”
“I’ll kill you painfully if they do not appear where you say with the diamonds.”
“I understand.”
Kolokov rose and began to pace the room. If this black man were as smart as he appeared to be, he knew that he would be dying as soon as Kolokov had the diamonds.
“What will you do with the diamonds when you have them?” asked James.
“Sell them?”
“Where? To whom?”
“I know people,” said Kolokov pausing, wary.
“People who can handle millions in diamonds or low-level gluttons who deal in wristwatches and seal skins?”
Kolokov didn’t answer.
“You need to know who can pay for the diamonds,” said James. “You need to know the people who can take the diamonds West to Germany, France, England, the United States, Japan, the people who will pay you for the diamonds when you have them.”
“And you will tell us who they are?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll have to trust me.”
“No,” said James. “Once you have the diamonds we go to someplace very public where it will be impossible for you to kill me without getting caught. In this public place I will tell you who the contact buyers are.”
“You might lie?”
“We stay in public till you or your people make the first contact,” said James. “I will give you three names. You pick whichever one you like.”
“Sounds good,” said Kolokov, knowing full well that he would have to find a way to kill this smart-mouthed black once he had what he needed. It should not be too hard.
“Guatemala,” warned the bald man.
Kolokov shook his head and smiled at James with a shrug. If it were like Guatemala, at least he would be ready for it. It was also a promising sign that the bald man had not said ‘Honduras.’
“Are you a chess player?” asked Kolokov.
“Yes.”
“A good one?”
“A good one.”
“So am I. Let’s play a game or two.”
“Guatemala,” came the voice from the shadows.
Kolokov grabbed the blue cup from in front of James and hurled it in the direction of the bald man. He hit the man in the face. The bald man made no sound.
“I’ll get the board,” said Kolokov. “Play your hardest, Botswanan.”
“I will.”
James had decided to see what kind of player Kolokov was before devising a strategy that would convince his captor that he was doing his best while letting the Russian win the game. He did decide that, while he would lose the first game, he would surely win the second, but lose the third. Kolokov would sometimes be even, but he would never lose.
James Harumbaki was not the best chess player in Botswana. He was the second-best player. He was confident that he could manipulate the Russian. The best player in Botswana was an Indian who owned four pawnshops. The Indian had finished fourth in the world the previous year.
“Watch him,” Kolokov said, leaving the room to get the chessboard and pieces.