The taxi dropped Pesek off at the Central Bus Terminal, and he made a pretense of going into the big modern terminal. He came out again a moment later and wandered around the cluster of booths to the left of the entrance. Most of them sold souvenirs, but a few sold soft drinks, snacks and sandwiches for travelers about to go on their way. He purchased a plastic bottle of Polustrovo water and sipped it as he meandered among the booths. He finally stopped in front of Otrepyev’s establishment, by no means the largest one at the bus terminal.
Grigory Otrepyev bore a remarkable resemblance to Mr. Toad of The Wind in the Willows. He was short and squat, with wide, rubbery lips, a bulbous nose and slightly bulging eyes. The resemblance was heightened by the old curved pipe inevitably clamped between his teeth that constantly sent up a cloud of choking smoke that had long ago given Otrepyev a permanent squint in his right eye. To top things off, the man’s complexion was cratered with pockmarks like the surface of an asteroid, and he made only the most basic passes with a razor at the white stubble on his cheeks and chin.
“I’m looking for a matryoshka doll,” said Pesek in Russian.
“As you can see, gospodin, I have many such dolls,” answered Otrepyev, making a sweeping gesture over his stock and grinning around the yellowed stem of his pipe. Even from six feet away behind the counter, the man smelled like an overflowing ashtray. “Do you have any particular size doll in mind?”
“I thought that today I would like a nine-millimeter doll,” said Pesek, pitching his voice softly. Otrepyev reached out and picked up a doll. “I have a rather nice Grach in stock. As you can see, it is very nice.”
“How heavy?”
“Point nine seven of a kilogram.”
“I think I would like something lighter today.”
Otrepyev put down the first doll and randomly picked up another. “What about the PMM Makarov. Just point seven six of a kilogram?”
“Out-of-date, and it has a tendency to jam,” said Pesek.
“Then perhaps I could interest you in our Baghira doll. Nine-millimeter Parabellum, fifteen-round capacity, the same weight as the Makarov and with a slope return/buffer mechanism to prevent shock and increase accuracy.”
“How much?” Pesek asked.
“Eight hundred euros,” said the Russian, squinting at Pesek. Eight hundred euros, almost twelve hundred U.S. dollars.
“Expensive,” commented Pesek.
“Worth it.” The Russian shrugged.
“I’ll take it,” said Pesek.
“Ammunition?”
“A single magazine.” If fifteen rounds wasn’t enough he was dead anyway. He took out his wallet, removed four yellow two-hundred-euro notes and folded them into a small rectangle that fit between his index and middle fingers and against his palm. Otrepyev picked up a nesting doll, bent down to get a bag from beneath the counter and rose a few seconds later, handing the plastic bag to Pesek. For his part the Czech assassin reached out and shook the Russian’s hand, passing the four folded notes in a single rapid move.
“Good doing business with you again,” said Otrepyev.
Pesek nodded, smiling. “And you,” he replied. He checked his watch. Forty minutes had passed since he’d left the hotel on Lesnaya Ulitsa. He turned away from the booth, went to the taxi rank in front of the terminal and headed for 36 Sivtsev Vrazhek Lane.
29
Genrikhovich stared at them, chewing on the hamburger. Holliday stared back, feeling the taste of bile rising in his throat along with his anger. Genrikhovich swallowed and smiled.
“You find this amusing?” Holliday asked.
“You are here, aren’t you?” Genrikhovich said blithely, taking another bite of his Big Mac, the Russian version of special sauce oozing out of the bun and onto his fingers.
“Not for long, pal,” said Holliday, bitterness in his tone. “I went along with your goose chase because you mentioned the name of someone I admired and respected. I neither admire nor respect you, Mr. Genrikhovich; in fact, I have it on good authority that you’re something of a pathological liar.”
The Orthodox priest who had answered the door stared at Holliday. “Patologicheskii’ lzhets,” translated Eddie.
“I understand English quite well, thank you. I am just surprised he said it,” answered the priest.
Genrikhovich popped the last of the Big Mac into his mouth, chewed briefly, licked his fingers and swallowed noisily. He picked up a napkin from the coffee table in front of the couch, then wiped his mouth with it and cleared his throat. “Father Anatoliy Ivanov, may I introduce you to Colonel John Henry Holliday and his friend Eduardo Vladimir Cabrera Alfonso.”
“Edimburgo, not Eduardo,” said the Cuban.
“I beg your pardon,” Genrikhovich said.
“Why did you leave the train like that?” Holliday asked bluntly.
“I was afraid, of course,” said Genrikhovich with a languid shrug. “Why don’t you sit down and we’ll discuss the situation.” He gestured toward a pair of old, worn upholstered chairs.
“I’ll stand for now,” said Holliday. “What were you afraid of?”
“I live in Russia, Colonel Holliday, and in Russia fear is a way of life.”
“Don’t feed me that kind of old crap, and don’t try to change the subject. What were you afraid of?”
Genrikhovich sighed and then let out a little belch. “I overheard the provodnitsa on the train talking to the. . poezda, the conductor, about you and your black friend. She was suspicious. They were going to have the police waiting for you in Perm.”
“But not you,” said Holliday bitterly.
“I had to save myself,” aid Genrikhovich. “I could not allow myself to be taken by the FSB. They would have tortured me, and I know too much.”
“About Rasputin and the rest of the crap you were feeding me? Don’t make me laugh,” said Holliday. “You’re a nutcase, plain and simple.”
“Would a nutcase, as you call me, have known of your relationship with Rodrigues the monk, or your position within the Templars? I think not, Colonel.”
“But you were willing to feed Eddie and me to the dogs,” said Holliday.
“It was a question of priorities.” The Russian shrugged again. “Besides, it doesn’t matter now. You are here, and now we can proceed.”
Holliday let out an exasperated sigh and dropped down into one of the upholstered chairs. He kept his hand on the automatic in the pocket of his jacket. Something was still bothering him about the Russian, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “Proceed with what?” he asked as Eddie sat down in the chair beside him.
“Our holy quest, of course.” Genrikhovich smiled. It occurred to Holliday that perhaps the Russian was more than just a nutcase and a liar; from the crazed look in his eyes he could well be completely, right-out-of-his-mind, barking insane. His expression made him look like a cross between a Bible-thumping evangelical preacher and a greed-mad Scrooge McDuck.
There was a soft clicking sound from the front door; somebody was slipping the lock with a credit card. Holliday turned his head sharply but it was too late; the door burst open and Anton Pesek appeared, an automatic pistol held in a two-handed grip, his sharp eyes scanning the living room of the apartment. Without turning, the Czech killer lifted his foot and kicked backward, closing the door behind him. He twitched the weapon toward Father Ivanov, who was still standing to the left of the couch occupied by Genrikhovich.
“Sidet’, svyashchennik,” the Czech ordered. The priest did as he was told and sat down on the couch beside Genrikhovich.
Genrikhovich looked as though he were about to be sick. “FSB,” he whispered, gagging.
“No such luck,” said Holliday, recognizing the intruder. “Mr. Pesek here is just a run-of-the-mill contract killer.”