Текст книги "The Devil's Garden"

Автор книги: Richard Montanari

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

FOUR

TALLINN, ESTONIA

Aleksander savisaar stood in the center of the bustling square. It was an unseasonably warm evening, the lilies were pregnant in bloom, and Viru Tänav Street was a carnival of the senses.

He walked a few blocks, sat at a small outdoor café, ordered tea, watched the girls walk by in their springtime dresses, each a long-petalled flower. He had been in many ports in his time, from Kabul to Moscow to a brief tour in Shanghai. His business affairs had taken him many times to Helsinki to Riga to St Petersburg and beyond, yet he was never happy in a city, any city. He could tolerate it all for a few days. Perhaps a week. Sometimes, if his needs were met, he found himself flourishing. But he was not, nor ever would be, at home in any urban setting. His place was the forest, the valley, the hills.

The city of Tallinn sat on the northern coast of Estonia, on the Gulf of Finland. As the capital, it was one of the most completely preserved medieval cities in the world. Since the fall of communism in 1991 it had become one of the more cosmopolitan destinations in the Baltics, with its world class symphony, its thriving tourist business, and even a burgeoning fashion market.

Aleks had driven the E20 route to Narva, in central Estonia, past the rusting relics of Soviet occupation, past the ramshackle buildings, failed collectives, the rusting cars and farm machinery, the slag heaps and stilled conveyor belts.

He then took a small commuter plane from Narva to Tallinn, which meant he’d had to leave a good many things behind. These days, even in small airports, on small airlines, security was quite rigorous.

It was not a problem. He had connections all over Estonia. And he had business. A business that had been a smoldering ember in his heart for four years.

THE SCHLÖSSLE WAS A small elegant boutique hotel in the heart of the old town. Aleks checked in. He showered, shaved, dressed in a dark suit, open-collar, starched white shirt. He called the concierge, arranged for a table at the Restaurant Stenhus.

He had three hours before he had to meet Paulu. Before then, he had to make a purchase.

THE SHOP WAS AN old stone front on busy Müürivahe Street. The small leaded glass window facing the street offered an elegant display, a single sterling silver place setting, washed with a mini-spotlight. In the lower left-hand corner was a hand-painted sign, lettered in gold leaf:

VILLEROY TERARIISTAD

To the right of the thick oaken door was a brushed-chrome panel with a small button. Aleks pressed the button. Moments later the door buzzed softly. He stepped inside.

The interior was long and narrow and quiet, with gleaming glass display cases on both sides, an elevated counter at the rear. It smelled of polished wood, glass cleaner, and the sharp redolence of honing oils. As Aleks made his way to the rear he surveyed the merchandise. The knives were from all over the world, in all manner of styles – hunting knives, stockmen’s knives, Indian kukri. The display case on the right held more exotic wares. Here there were boot knives, diving knives, tanto and throwing knives, the showy but deadly butterfly knife, even a section devoted to neck knives, which were designed to be worn in a sheath around one’s neck.

On the walls were racks of gleaming scissors, kitchen cutlery, straight razors, and other tonsorial wares. Overhead, reaching toward the center of the aisle, in the fashion of a trellis, was a dazzling display of swords – military, ninja, medieval and Viking, as well as samurai katana.

As he reached the rear of the shop a man stood and emerged from behind the counter. He was in his sixties, with pewter gray hair, sloping shoulders. He was at least a head shorter than Aleks’s six-three, and meticulously dressed in charcoal woolen slacks, white broadcloth shirt, and highly polished oxfords. The ring on his left hand said he was married. The signet on his right hand said he was an alumnus of Moscow University.

“Kas sa räägid inglise keelt?” Aleks asked, inquiring in Estonian if the gentleman spoke English. Aleks was fluent in five different languages, including Russian, German and French.

The man nodded, folded his hands expectantly on the counter.

“You have an impressive selection here,” Aleks said.

“Thank you,” the man replied. “And how may I be of assistance today?”

“I am looking for a knife, something suitable for both city and forest. Something of great utility.”

The man thought for a moment. He gestured to his left. “I’m sure we will have something to please you.” He walked behind the counter, reached beneath the glass, removed a display rack. There, presented on a rich burgundy velvet, were a half dozen folding knives. Aleks lifted them one by one, feeling their weight, their balance. He opened them all, trying the action. After giving them their due, he replaced them.

“All fine quality,” Aleks said. “But I am looking for something special.”

The man returned the rack beneath the case, glanced at Aleks. “I am intrigued.”

“I am looking for a Barhydt.”

The man drew a quick breath in reaction, recovered. “I see.”

Jan-Marie Barhydt was a limited edition armorer from Holland, an artisan of the first order. He produced some of the finest and most sought after knives in the world.

“I’m afraid this is something quite expensive,” the man said. “We are a small, humble shop. We don’t carry these items.”

The dance, Aleks thought. Always the dance. He held the man’s gaze for a moment, then reached into his pocket and removed three money clips, each clasped around a stack of different currency. Euros, US dollars, and Estonian kroon. He placed the three stacks on the counter, like an expensive shell game.

For a few moments, no words were spoken. The man glanced briefly toward the door, and the street beyond. They were indeed alone. He placed his right forefinger on the stack of euros. Aleks put the other currencies away, unclipped the bills. He counted off 3,000 euros, roughly 4,500 US dollars. “If one of these items were to be available here,” Aleks said, “would this be adequate compensation?”

The man’s eyes flashed for a moment. “It most certainly would,” he said. “Would you excuse me?”

“Of course.”

The man disappeared into a back room, emerged moments later. In his hand was a beautiful walnut case. He opened it. Inside was a thing of beauty, a stunning specimen of craftsmanship. The blade was hot-blued Damascus, as were the bolsters. The scales were premium white mother of pearl, the titanium liners were anodized purple, the back bar was inlayed with four pieces of abalone. It was an authentic Barhydt.

“I shall have this,” Aleks said.

“Very good, sir.” The man brought the box to the rear of the store. He slipped the polished case into a felt bag, drew closed the gold twine. Moments later he walked around the counter carrying a handled shopping bag with VILLEROY TERARIISTAD on the side. He handed the bag to Aleks.

Before leaving, Aleks looked at his watch, a gold Piaget he wore on his left wrist, the crystal facing in. Being a purveyor of fine things, Aleks knew the man’s eye would be drawn to the timepiece. What Aleks wanted the man to note was not the expensive piece of jewelry, but rather the elaborate tattoo on Aleks’s wrist, the black star peeking out from beneath his shirt cuff.

When Aleks glanced up at the man, the man was looking at him directly. Aleks did not have to say a further word.

There was no box, no bag. There was no Barhydt. No money had changed hands, no commerce had been conducted. In fact, the tall man with the pale blue eyes and small ragged scar on his left cheek was never there.

PAULU WAS vennaskond, a fellow thief. But vennaskond were not merely thieves, they were brothers, and adhered to a strict code. Steal from one, you steal from all. A vennaskond was never without someone at his back.

In his early thirties, Paulu was slight of build, but quite robust, with fast movements and a nervous energy that never allowed him to keep still. He had grown up in the city and was therefore never at peace, never at rest. He wore his black hair straight back. A pair of gold hoops ringed his right ear lobe. He displayed his tattoos with unabashed pride on his forearms and neck.

They met on a secluded section of the western shore of Lake ülemiste, just a few miles south of Tallinn city center. The main airport was on the eastern side, and every few minutes another plane roared overhead. The two men spoke in Estonian.

“When will he arrive?” Aleks asked.

“Eleven. They say he is quite punctual.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Not much,” Paulu said. “I told him you have a daughter, a daughter who is pregnant with the child of a Lithuanian. I told him you were in the market to sell the baby.”

“And you are certain he is the man who made the deal to sell my Anna and Marya?”

Paulu nodded. “Through his minions, he made the deal. He has been in the black market for children for many years.”

“Why haven’t I found him before?”

“He is expensive and secretive. There are many people afraid of him, too. I had to meet with three other men first. I had to pay them all.”

This angered Aleks, but he pushed the feeling back. Now was not the time for anger. “He will come alone?”

Paulu smiled. “Yes. He is this arrogant.”

Ten minutes later, bright headlights split the darkness. A vehicle topped the hill; a candy red American SUV with chrome wheels. The sound system blasted Russian rap.

Another gaudy vory, Aleks thought.

“That is him,” Paulu said.

Aleks reached into his pocket, pulled out a rubber-banded roll of euros. He handed it to Paulu, who pocketed the roll without looking at it.

“Where do you want me?” Paulu asked.

Aleks nodded to the hill to the west. “Give this five minutes. Then go.”

The smaller man hugged Aleks once – a man he had never met before this night, a man to whom he was bound in ways even deeper than blood – then slipped onto his motorcycle. Moments later he was gone. Aleks knew he would watch from the nearby hill much longer than five minutes. This was the vennaskond way.

When Paulu’s bike was out of sight, the SUV cut its lights. The man soon emerged. The Finn was big, nearly as tall as Aleks, but soft in the middle. He wore a tan duster, cowboy boots. He had thinning ice white hair to his shoulders, a yeasty, wattled neck. He wore red wraparounds at night. He would be slow.

His name was Mikko Vänskä.

VÄNSKÄ SMELLED OF American cologne and French cigarettes.

“You are Mr Tamm?” he asked. Tamm was Estonian for oak. They both knew it was not a real name.

Aleks nodded. They shook hands cordially, lightly. The distaste between them was thicker than the smell of spent airplane fuel in the air.

“I understand you have something to sell,” Vänskä said.

Something, Aleks thought. This was how this man thought of the children, of Anna and Marya, as if they were objects, some sort of commodity. He wanted to kill him right there and then.

Vänskä reached inside his coat, extracted a pack of Gitanes, put one between his lips. He then took out a gold lighter, lit the cigarette, drew on it deeply. All quite dramatic and unimpressive. All leading up to a discussion of money.

“There are many expenses on my end,” Vänskä began, as expected.

Aleks just nodded, remained silent.

“I have traveled a good distance to be here, and there are a number of people – highly placed people – who must be paid.” At this, Mikko Vänskä removed his sunglasses. His face was bone-pale, with dark smudges beneath his eyes. He was a drug addict. Aleks surmised meth.

“What is your profession?” Vänskä asked.

“I am a farrier,” Aleks replied. While it was true that he shod his own horses, there was something in the tone of his reply that told Vänskä it was not exactly the truth. The man ran his hand through his greasy white hair. He looked out over the lake, then back.

“You do not have a child to sell at all, do you?”

Aleks just stared at the man. It was answer enough.

Vänskä nodded. He smiled, crushed out his cigarette with the toe of his boot. He used the movement to slide back the hem of his coat. The move was not lost on Aleks.

“Do you know who I am?” Vänskä asked.

“I do.”

The man shifted his weight. Aleks relaxed his massive shoulder muscles, poised to strike. “And yet you waste my time. You do not do this with Mikko Vänskä. Tallinn is my city. You will learn this.”

Aleks knew it was pointless trying to finesse men like Vänskä. They looked at him as if he were some sort of rube, a provincial from south-eastern Estonia. “Let us just say it is a tragic character flaw.”

Mikko laughed, a raspy sound that echoed among the trees. “I am going to leave now,” he said. “But not until you pay me for my time. And my time is very expensive.”

“I think not.”

Vänskä looked up. It was clear he did not hear this sentiment often. Before he could make a move or a reply, Aleks had the man off his feet, face down on the muddy earth, the air punched from his lungs. An instant later Aleks had the man’s weapon removed from the holster at the small of his back. It was an expensive SIG P210. He continued to pat him down, found nothing else. He lifted the dazed Vänskä back up to his feet.

“The question now is, my Finnish friend,” Aleks began, his face just a few inches from Vänskä’s, “do you know who I am?”

A tic in the man’s lower lip betrayed his fear. He remained silent as he caught his breath.

“I am Koschei,” Aleks said.

The man smirked, then realized that Aleks was serious, and probably insane. This made him twice as dangerous.

“This is a myth,” Vänskä said. “Koschei the Deathless. A tale for children and old women.”

Aleks lifted the SIG, chambered a round. He handed it back to Vänskä. Vänskä took it in a snap, leveled it at Aleks, his hands shaking. “Fuck you, vittu! You do not come to Tallinn and talk this way to me. You do not lay your fucking hands on me.”

Aleks shrugged, took a backward step. “Then you have no choice but to shoot me. I understand.”

“What?”

Aleks slapped Vänskä across the face. Hard. So hard the man stumbled back a few steps. His lower lip began to bleed. Hands trembling violently now, Vänskä cocked the weapon.

Again Aleks slapped the man; this time a rotted tooth flew from Vänskä’s mouth. Vänskä put the gun to Aleks’s forehead and pulled the trigger.

Instead of a loud report, there was only the small, impotent echo of metal on metal. The weapon had jammed.

For a moment, Tallinn fell silent. No traffic, no airplanes. Just the sound of the water lapping onto the shore of Lake Ülemiste.

With lightning speed, Aleks lashed out with his left hand, striking the man just beneath the solar plexus. Vänskä dropped the weapon, clutched his heaving stomach. A gush of yellow vomit flew from his mouth. Aleks picked up the SIG and threw it into the lake.

When Vänskä caught his breath, Aleks slipped the Barhydt out of its sheath, opened it to its fearsome length. Vänskä’s eyes bulged at the sight. Aleks touched a finger to the perfect steel. It seemed to disappear in the blackness of the night.

“You should know this about me, Mikko Vänskä. I am a man who asks a question just one time. I will ask you a question. You will tell me the truth. Then we will part company.”

Vänskä tried to stand tall. His shaking knees prevented this. He remained silent.

“Four years ago, just before Easter, you brokered the illegal adoption of two newborn Estonian girls,” Aleks said. “The girls were stolen from their mother’s bed in Ida-Viru County. All this I know to be true. Who was your contact on the other end?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Aleks brought the knife up with a movement so fast it seemed a mere distortion of air. At first, Vänskä did not know what happened. A second later, it was all too clear. The man in front of him had slit open his left eye. Vänskä fell to his knees, blood gushing between his fingers, his shrieks echoing across the ancient hills. Aleks knelt, covered the man’s mouth. The snarl of another jet soon covered the screams.

“A man can live with just one eye, yes?” Aleks asked when the roar had trailed to silence. “He cannot live without his heart.” Aleks held the tip of the blade over the man’s chest.

“A man,” he said. His breath came in small, wet gasps. His face was spider-webbed with blood. “His name is Harkov. Viktor Harkov.”

“A Russian?”

Vänskä nodded.

“He is in Russia?”

The man shook his head. Blood flicked from the open wound. “He is in New York City.”

The United States, Aleks thought. He had never imagined this. Anna and Marya were now American children. It would take a lot to undo this. And getting them out presented a whole new set of problems. “New York City is a big place,” Aleks said. “Where is he in this city?”

For a moment it appeared as if Vänskä was going to go into shock. Aleks cracked an ammonia capsule beneath his nose. The man choked, took a deep breath. “He is in a place called Queens, New York City.”

Queens, Aleks thought. He knew someone in New York City, a man named Konstantine Udenko, a man with whom he had served in the federal army. Konstantine would help him find this Viktor Harkov.

For a moment Aleks studied Vänskä’s face, or what was visible beneath the gloss of fresh blood. He believed him. He had little choice. He put his gloved hands under the man’s chin, stared into his remaining eye. “You told me what I needed to know, and I now consider you to be a wise and honorable man. I am going to let you live.” Aleks brought his face close. “But I want you to tell your associates of me, of this man from Kolossova who is to be taken seriously, a man who cannot be killed. You will do this?”

Another slow nod.

“Good.” Aleks helped the man to his feet. The man was heavy, and offered no aid, but Aleks’s arms and back were powerful. He handled him with ease. “Which is the nearest hospital?”

Vänskä hesitated. He had not expected this. “West Tallinn Central. On Ravi Street.”

“I have a car,” Aleks said. He pointed to the crest of the hill. “Just around the bend. I will take you. Do you know the way?”

“Yes.”

“Can you walk?”

The man took a few moments, found his center. “I . . . I think so.”

Aleks glanced over Vänskä’s shoulder. He saw the moon reflecting off the glassy surface of Lake ülemiste. He recalled the way the Narva River shimmered on warm summer nights in his youth, glimpsed from the window of his stifling stone room in the orphanage, how he had always wondered what lay at either end.

He thought about his little girls, about this man in front of him. The wrath ignited within him as . . .

. . . the acrid smell of burning flesh hangs over Grozny, a damp, red blanket of death. In this hellish moment, as death rattles around him, he feels his destiny, the centuries he has lived, the centuries yet to come. He sees the farmhouse at the top of the hill. He hears the cries of the dying animals and . . .

. . . the man’s arrogant words.

You have something to sell?

Aleks turned. In one nimble motion, he spun 360 degrees, the torque of the movement, combined with his strong legs and back muscles – as well as the exquisite steel of the Barhydt – caught Mikko Vänskä just below his jaw, nearly severing his head from his body. The arterial spray launched nearly ten feet as the man chicken-stepped. Aleks then plunged the knife deep into the man’s groin, bringing it up with great strength. He pulled it out and finished with a lateral slash forming a T. Vänskä’s bowels spilled into the night, pink and black and foul as the man himself. He was dead before he hit the ground. Steam rose from the ropy entrails.

Aleks took a moment, closed his eyes, sensing the man’s soul on its journey. He always gave this moment its due. In the distance, in the silent canopies of the forest, a murder of crows stirred, awaiting its moment.

Ten minutes later Aleks walked to his car, and drove back to the center of the city. Tallinn was coming alive, and he would take full advantage of its charms.

Harkov, he thought. Viktor Harkov of Queens, New York City.

I will meet you very soon.

THE NEXT MORNING Aleks awoke early, showered, dressed casually. He had rolled Mikko Vänskä into a large canvas tarpaulin, weighted his body with stones, and sank him in Lake ülemiste. It would only be days before the man floated to the surface, but by then Aleks would be long gone.

Over breakfast, he logged onto the Internet and began to plan his week. He purchased an e-ticket to New York. He made arrangements for lodging in New York, and arranged to ship what he could not bring with him – including the Barhydt, and more than one hundred thousand US dollars in cash – via International FedEx. He returned to his room, packed everything into a FedEx box, and dropped it off with the concierge.

He may not have been at home in the city, but he availed himself of every progress, every advancement. Laptops, cellphones, wi-fi, online banking.

Over his final cup of coffee he searched the web for Viktor Harkov. He found him with ease. Viktor Harkov, Esq., was the owner of a firm called People’s Legal Services. He printed off the information at the hotel’s business center, making sure he erased all files and the cache from the hotel’s computer. He slipped the data into his carry-on bag.

During a layover in London’s Heathrow Airport Terminal Five – while luxuriating in the British Airways Terraces lounge, the area set aside for those traveling business class – Aleks allowed himself a massage in the Elemis spa.

Three hours later he sat in the section of the lounge overlooking his gate, a tumbler of Johnnie Walker Black in hand. He glanced down, saw Elena’s face swim up from the depths of the clear amber liquid. He recalled the first time he saw her, standing in the grove where he had seen the grey wolf, already an ennustaja of her village at the age of seven.

He wondered: would Anna and Marya look like Elena? Would they have the same beguiling blue eyes, the same milky skin?

He reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat. He took out the three crystal vials held on an exquisite gold chain. One of the vials was filled with blood. Two were empty. He slipped the chain around his neck.

Three girls, Aleks thought. The legend of Koschei and the prince’s sisters. Anna, Marya, and Olga. When all their blood was at long last his, they would live forever.

He looked out the window at the lights of Heathrow’s runways. Cities, he thought. How he hated them, and all that they have spawned. Now he was heading to the most important city in the world.

An hour later he settled into his seat on the plane, the power within him beginning to grow.

SHE WAS PETITE and pretty, with a generous mouth and slender, boyish hips. She wore a stiff white blouse, navy skirt. She seemed to be in her late thirties, although her hands suggested she might be older.

“Can I get you something?”

They had been airborne for two hours, served a gourmet meal. The crew had dimmed the lights.

Aleks looked around the Club World cabin of the large, powerful Boeing 747-400. He knew all too well about societal divisions in life. The small group who had stood in a separate, fast-moving line at Heathrow, the select few who had been welcomed aboard with a warm towel and glass of champagne, looked at each other with an understanding that they were all in this together, a cut above those who traveled coach, chosen all.

Aleks glanced back at the woman. She was not a flight attendant. She was a fellow passenger. “I’m sorry?”

She pointed over her shoulder, spoke in a hushed voice. “From the kitchen. Club World passengers have access to the galley, you know. Would you like some juice, or a glass of wine?” She held up her own empty glass.

What a world, Aleks thought. Your own kitchen on a plane. “I’m fine, thank you.”

The woman eyed the seat next to Aleks. Business class had individual seats, side by side, facing in opposite directions. The seats flattened into beds, and could be fashioned into dozens of positions. The seat next to Aleks was unoccupied. The woman clearly wanted to sit and chat for a while.

“My name is Jilliane,” she said, extending a hand.

Aleks smiled a disingenuous smile. He was traveling under one of his three passports. This identity was Jorgen Petterson. He introduced himself, carefully crafting his accent.

“My friends call me George,” Aleks added. When it was clear the woman was not going to leave, he gestured to the seat next to him. Before she sat down, she picked up the small pile of papers Aleks had put there. He had meant to put them back in his bag. He must have dozed off.

Jilliane arranged herself on the seat, smiled. Despite the dim light, Aleks could see her teeth were white and even. She had dimples, a flawless complexion. She glanced around the cabin, back.

“This is all quite posh, isn’t it?” she said. Aleks could smell the sweet-sour breath of alcohol.

“Yes.”

She tapped a manicured nail against her wine glass, perhaps searching for a portal into the conversation. “Do you travel to New York often, George?”

Questions, Aleks thought. He had to be vigilant. If he said he came to New York often, she may ask him other questions. “This is my first time.”

Jilliane nodded. “I remember my first time in the city. It can be a bit overwhelming. I live there now, but I grew up in Indiana.”

“I see.” Aleks was beginning to regret asking her to sit down.

Before she could respond, she pointed at the swing-out table on Aleks’s side of the partition. “What are these?”

She was referring to pair of marble eggs sitting on the table. The eggs were actual size, intricately carved to depict the ancient Russian legend of an egg inside a duck inside a hare, the fable of Koschei the Deathless. Aleks had had them carved in Kaliningrad. He had forgotten to put them back into his carry-on bag. He wished the woman had not seen them. It was a mistake.

“These are for my precious brorsdotter,” he said. “For Easter.”

Jilliane looked puzzled.

“I’m sorry,” Aleks said. “They are for my nieces. I am from a town called Karlskrona. It’s in south-eastern Sweden.”

Jilliane picked up one of the eggs, a little mystified. She put it down, getting to the point. “Do you like music, George?”

“Very much,” Aleks said. “I play a little.”

Her eyes lighted. “Really? What do you play?”

Aleks waved a dismissive hand. “My instrument is the flute. I kneel a thousand feet below Gaubert and Barrère.”

“Oh, I’ll bet you’re just as good as those guys.’’

Those guys. He remained silent.

“What about jazz?”

“I am quite a fan,” Aleks said. “Chet Baker, Charlie Parker, Oscar Peterson. There is not that much to choose from for the flute, but I have played some of Charles Lloyd’s arrangements. To no great acclaim, I’m afraid.”

Jilliane nodded. She didn’t know Charles Lloyd from Lloyd’s of London. She hesitated for a moment, looked over shoulder, back. Most of the cabin was asleep.

“Look, there’s this jazz place I go to, not too far from where I live. I think you’d like it a lot.” She took her pen out, and grabbed a cocktail napkin off his tray. “They play a lot of jazz like Kenny G.”

My God, Aleks thought. Jazz like Kenny G.

She whispered, “I’m free all weekend, George.”

She gave him her number.

LONG AFTER ALEKS had spirited the napkin away, and Jilliane had returned to her seat, he glanced at his watch. They were somewhere over the Atlantic.

He wondered what Konstantine would look like. The last time he had seen the man he had been standing over the body of a Chechen soldier, the dead man’s heart in one hand, a half-eaten pomegranate in the other. If one did not know Konstantine, it might have looked as if he was eating human flesh.

Aleks did know him, and it was entirely possible.

He settled into his seat, the thoughts of his past set aside. For now, he slept.

Five hours later he awoke from a dream, a vision of Estonia, a fantasy of sun sparkling on the river, of yellow flowers in the valley, of children running through the pines. His children.

Moments later, the jet began its slow descent to JFK International Airport.