“For me to watch his back, actually.”
“Don’t gimme that look, dear! I no can leave my bar!”
“I was just wondering why the Antonov is so deserted, Ashot. Maybe your unkempt dreadlocks scare your customers away.”
“Just wait for the evening! Stalkers will pour in, pouring vodka down their throats and telling ya how they single-handedly finished off a pack of jackals and found dozens of Heartstone artifacts! Ya can make your pick then!”
“I don’t need little boys with big mouths, Ashot.”
“Judging by your pet and the F2000 you carry, you’re prepared for close quarters. Let’s see if I know someone reliable with a skill for long weapons,” Shrink says studying the Stalker’s equipment. He strokes the stubble on his chin. “Mac, you like men who talk too much?”
“Definitely not.”
“Then an assistant of mine would be just the right choice. Calm guy, keeping his thoughts to himself if he believes it’s useless to reason with someone. Otherwise, he speaks his mind.”
“What’s his name?”
“Got to admit I could never memorize his call sign. Something like ‘axe a little’ or ‘box a bottle’—it breaks the tongue of even a Polish. Sometimes he talks to his rifle, calling it by an even more tongue-breaking name.”
“Sounds like a weirdo to me.”
“I’d rather say, eccentric. For snipers it’s like an occupational disease. First I tried to heal him out of being a natural born loner, but when I saw him shooting a dushman from a distance of three hundred meters didn’t bother anymore. He’s beyond my skills. If human brains are broken watches and me a watchmaker, I’m not up to deal with a fine Swiss chronometer.”
“Come on, boss,” Ashot says with a skeptical smile while he cleans the counter. “Maybe ya wanted to say three kilometers? Not as if I’d believe that either.”
“Ashot, give me one more vodka,” Mac says. “I’m with you on this. With a good rifle, even a rookie could hit a target at three hundred.”
“At pitch dark, without night vision, aiming and adjusting range only by the noise the dushman was making in the bushes?” Satisfied with the impression his words have made on the Stalker, Shrink proudly smiles as if he was the sniper himself. “If anyone of you guys do it after him, I’ll analyze you for free.”
Ashot expresses his respect by giving a whistle. “Maybe it was him who shot that sheriff in me favorite song!”
“Is this guy in Bagram now?” Mac asks, now much more curiously.
“He’s up in the lookout tower. Loves to be left alone, you know.”
Mac is about asking for another drink when Shrink’s radio set starts crackling.
“Shrink here,” he says taking the receiver fastened to his body armor.
“Commander, you asked me to keep calling the Asylum but I still get no copy from them.”
“Keep calling them.”
Shrink’s face darkens as he puts the receiver back to its holder. “It’s the Stalker manning our communications gear in the tower. Mac, there is a change of plans. I want you and that box-in-bottle find out what’s going on in the Asylum. Can you repair a radio?”
“Sure, but do you really think the silence is because of a broken radio?”
Looking genuinely concerned, Shrink drums his fingers on the counter. “I think of their radio being broken because I don’t dare thinking of anything else.”
15
Pete’s night had been a horrible one.
Every pore in his body was screaming out for stuff. Writhing on his bed with his skin turned gooseflesh and covered with cold sweat, he didn’t even try to sleep. Every minute or so he switched the air-con on and off, pulling a blanket over to warm himself, only to tear it off himself a few seconds later because he was suffocating from heat. Realizing that he had left his notebook in the abandoned house makes him even more upset.
Time appeared to stand still. He zapped through the TV channels with the voice down for minutes — or was it hours? He walked up and down the room, bashing and kicking the walls, cursing his father, the world, the people who came for him. The window could be opened only ajar and he found himself fighting for breath.
Then, just like in the car before, the desire to escape was all over him again. If he could only get away, he would find a way to obtain opiates—any opiates at any price.
He expected the door to be closed. Sneaking down the veranda and the stairs, he arrived at the vacated motel lobby and stopped at the cube ice-making machine, staring at it with an unfocused gaze. The faint blue light in the display window appeared insanely beautiful. Pete served himself one portion of ice after the other until melting ice cubes were all around his bare feet. He stepped on them, wondering why it felt like stepping on glowing coal.
The main door too stood open, letting the smell of wet asphalt stream into the lobby. Pete looked at the street lights outside, hesitating. He wished he would be able to run but already breathed heavily. Then the call was too strong to resist — somewhere outside there had to be stuff and he had to get it.
Pete was barely outside when someone blocked his way. He wanted to just punch him and push away, cursing, but the piercing blue eyes of the huge man in front of him made his curse turn into a whimper. I fucking hate you, Hartman was all he could utter. Hartman didn’t care to reply, just shoved him back to the motel where another shadow was coming down the stairs. Pete whimpered once again, this time in fear — the mess of red and white calluses covering the right half of the strange girl’s face appeared to squirm and twist. You must be feeling dizzy, little bother, she said. Taking Pete’s hand she lead him back to their room where she sat down in the sofa, pulling Pete closer to her until he was lying there with his head in her lap. I’m dying, Pete whispered and she replied yes you are. Then Pete felt her hands on his forehead from where she wiped off the cold sweat; her touch was soft and warm on his skin and Pete felt as if it would drain the ache off his whole body. You are dying but will be reborn, she said, caressing Pete’s forehead which perspired no longer, and he felt like sinking into a pool of darkness with redeeming sleep in its depths.
Pete awakes in his own small room where the muted TV is still on. He has no watch but the bright light falling through the window tells him that it’s late morning already.
His throat feels parched. He takes the Dasani that someone had caringly put on the bed stand; it still tastes cool as he greedily draws on it. A drop of water falls to his chest, making him aware that he is all naked. His clothes, cleaned and by now almost completely dry, are neatly arranged on a chair.
He quickly puts his clothes on. They smell of disinfectants and washing powder.
He tries to remember the last night, unsure if all had been for real or just a nightmare. It must have been real because he feels strangely light-headed, without the aches and nausea. Maybe it was just the sleep. It was his best in a long time, though he still finds it hard to believe that he was able to sleep at all.
Yet it all feels as if something had been taken from him; together with the thought of being virtually a prisoner, this feeling still leaves him in a dark mood.
He opens the door but almost shuts it again, seeing Tarasov sitting half-naked in a chair with Nooria kneeling in front of him. For a second, he gazes at her amazed—it is the first time he sees Nooria without her raincoat on, and the sight of her loosened, curly hair that coats her back like a silky, chestnut-colored robe down to her waist, impresses him beyond measure. Embarrassed over having interrupted a moment of intimacy, Pete is about to step back into his room but Tarasov waves to him.