―It‘s part of the industry I‘m in, Tracy. There isn‘t the capital floating around there was in 2000, so more start-ups are chasing less money. That makes for cutthroat competition.‖ He shrugged. ―It can‘t be avoided.‖
―But from the looks of you, this kind of work could send you to the hospital.‖
―I‘ve just got to be more careful from now on.‖
She frowned. ―Now you‘re making fun of me.‖ She came and sat next to him.
―But there‘s nothing amusing about that wound in your chest.‖
He produced the photo he‘d printed out at the Internet café, set it out between them. ―To become Professor Alonzo Pecunia ZuigaI‘m going to need your help.‖
She held quite still, her liquid eyes studying his face for a moment.
Then she nodded.
Day three of Oserov‘s reign of terror brought a downpour such as no one in Nizhny Tagil could remember, and this was a city where grudges were nursed, meaning memories were as long and vibrant as the winter chill. Day three also brought other deaths, ones so brutal, so horrific that there now came to the remnants of Stas Kuzin‘s people a black fear. One that crept into their bones, lodging there like a grain of polonium, eroding their confidence the way the radioactive material eats away flesh.
It began in the early hours of the morning, just past two o‘clock, as Oserov boasted to Arkadin afterward.
―With great stealth I broke into their head enforcer‘s house, tied him up, and forced him to watch what I did to his family,‖ Oserov told Arkadin later.
When he was finished, he dragged his victim into the kitchen, where he went to work on him using the fire-reddened tip of a carving knife he slid from a wooden rack. The pain of what Oserov did to him hammered the enforcer out of his state of shock and he began screaming until Oserov cut out his tongue.
An hour later, Oserov was finished. He left him in a pool of his own blood and vomit, alive, but just barely. When the enforcer‘s associates came for him as they did each morning to begin their daily patrol, they found the front door flung open, which led them to the abattoir inside. It was then, and only then, that Mikhail Tarkanian entered Nizhny Tagil. By then, the criminals were in such a frenzy that they‘d all but forgotten about Arkadin.
―Lev Antonin, I think I can provide the solution to your problem,‖
Tarkanian said to the new head of Stas‘s gang when he met with him in his office. There were seven heavily armed men standing guard. ―I‘ll find this killer for you and take care of him.‖
―Who are you, stranger? Why would you do this?‖ Lev Antonin squinted at him suspiciously. He had a gray face with long ears and stubble on his chin and cheeks. He looked like he hadn‘t slept in a week.
―Who I am is of no importance, except to say that I‘m intimately familiar with men such as your murderer,‖ Tarkanian replied without hesitation. ―And as to why I‘m here the answer is simple: I want Leonid Danilovich Arkadin.‖
At once Antonin‘s expression changed from suspicious to enraged. ―And why would you want that fucking whoremonger, that shit-faced miscreant?‖
―That‘s my business,‖ Tarkanian said mildly. ―Your business is keeping your people alive.‖
This was true. Antonin was a pragmatic man, with none of the mad fire that had burned within his predecessor. Tarkanian could read him like a comic book: Clearly, he was all too aware that the current of fear lapping at the knees of his men was undermining both their effectiveness and his authority.
He also knew that once fear made its presence felt, it spread like wildfire.
On the other hand, he wasn‘t about to give away the farm. Arkadin‘s head on a platter was what they‘d all dreamed of since Arkadin had killed Kuzin and set their world ablaze with bullets and death. Letting go of that dream wouldn‘t endear him to his rank and file.
He scrubbed his face with his hands and said, ―Fine, but you‘ll bring me the killer‘s head so all my men can see for themselves the end of this filth.
And then if you can find that bastard Arkadin you can have him.‖
Naturally enough, Tarkanian did not believe this Neanderthal. He recognized the greed in his yellow eyes and intuited that it was not enough for him to be given the head of the murderer; he wanted Arkadin as well. The two bloody heads would cement his power over his people for all time.
―What Lev Antonin wanted was irrelevant,‖ Tarkanian told Arkadin afterward. ―I had planned for such a treacherous eventuality.‖
It would have amused Oserov no end to ―find the murderer‖ for the baboon named Lev Antonin and bring him the freshly cut head, but no, he was to be denied this pleasure. He scowled when Tarkanian told him that Tarkanian himself would find and deliver the ―murderer‖ to Antonin.
―To take the fury out of your heart, I have another assignment for you,‖
Tarkanian told him. ―A much more important job that only you can do.‖
―I strongly suspect he doubted that very much,‖ Tarkanian told Arkadin later, ―but when he heard what I wanted him to do a smirk spread across his face. Poor bastard, he couldn‘t help it.‖
Tarkanian needed someone to bring to Lev Antonin. But not just anyone—he had to look like a murderer. Moving through the twilit streets of Nizhny Tagil, Tarkanian scoured the bars for a likely victim. Now and again he was forced to sidestep puddles as big as small ponds, caused by the deluge that had only recently been reduced to a light mist. As it had been since dawn the claustrophobically low sky was a dull gray, but now it was marred here and there by bruises of yellow and lavender, as if the storm had brutalized the day.
Tarkanian parked himself outside the most raucous of bars and lit a harsh Turkish cigarette, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs and exhaling it in a gray cloud as thick as those above his head. Night gathered around him like an acolyte as the drunken laughter spilled out to him, along with the shattering of glass and the chunky exhalations of a fistfight. A moment later a big man, bleeding from the nose and several cuts on his face, staggered out onto the sidewalk.
As he bent over, hands on knees, wheezing and retching, Tarkanian ground out his cigarette under his boot heel, walked over, and delivered a vicious chop to the exposed back of the man‘s neck. The drunk pitched forward, hitting his forehead on the pavement with a satisfying smack.
Tarkanian grabbed him under the arms and pulled him into the alley. If any passersby noticed what he was up to none of them gave the slightest indication. All of them hurried on about their business without even a glance in his direction. Life in Nizhny Tagil had trained them to ignore anything that wasn‘t their business. It was the only way to keep healthy in this city.
In the deepening shadows of the stinking alley, Tarkanian checked his watch. There was no way to contact Oserov; he‘d just have to hope he‘d accomplished his part of the plan.
Fifteen minutes later he walked into a bakery and bought the largest layer cake in the glass case. Back in the alley, he dumped the cake and, lifting the man‘s severed head by his beer- and blood-damp hair, placed it carefully in the cake box. The glassy eyes stared blankly back at him until he lowered the lid.