leave the country. He could work for Navrozov elsewhere in the world.
No, he didn’t much enjoy that kind of job. Whereas the contractor—the zek, the convict who’d done time in Kopeisk, was reputed to enjoy killing so much that he preferred to draw out the process, in order to make it last.
In this man’s line of work, such a disturbing streak of sadism was a qualification. Maybe even necessary. He was capable of doing anything.
He made Chuzhoi extremely uncomfortable.
Chuzhoi knew very little about the zek beyond this. And of course the owl tattoo that disfigured the back of his head and neck. He knew that the Sova gang recruited the most brutal inmates at Kopeisk.
Chuzhoi, who had trained in the old KGB and later climbed the greasy rungs of its main successor, the FSB, had encountered this type on a few occasions and had put a few in prison. The most successful serial killers were like that, but they rarely got caught.
With his shaved head and his staring eyes and his grotesque tattoo and his bad teeth, the contractor knew he frightened people, and he surely enjoyed that. He viewed all others with contempt. He considered himself a more highly evolved species.
So he would never imagine that a washed-up old silovik, a former KGB agent, a lousy petty bureaucrat, could possibly attempt what Chuzhoi was about to do.
The element of surprise was Chuzhoi’s only advantage against this sociopathic monster.
An overgrown lawn came into view: wild, almost jungle-like. In the midst sat a small clapboard house. He parked his black Audi on the gravel driveway and approached the front door. It had started to rain.
Chuzhoi wore the same nailhead suit he’d worn in Boston, tailored to fit his broad physique. He moved with his accustomed air of authority. His long gray hair spilled over his shirt collar.
His trusty Makarov .380 was concealed in a holster at the small of his back.
The green-painted door swung open suddenly, and a face came out of the darkness. The shaved head, the intense stare, the deeply etched forehead: Chuzhoi had forgotten how fearsome the man was.
Something about his amber eyes: the eyes of a wolf, wild and feral and ruthless. Yet at the same time the eyes were cold and disciplined and ever calculating. They studied his acne-pitted cheeks.
“The rain has started,” Chuzhoi said. “It’s supposed to be a bad storm.”
The zek said nothing. He glared and turned around, and Chuzhoi followed him into the shadowed recesses. The house had the stale smell of a place long closed up.
Was the girl here?
“You have no electricity?” Chuzhoi said.
“Sit.” The zek pointed to an armchair with a high back. It was upholstered in little flowers and looked like something chosen by an old lady.
Of course, the zek had no right to speak to him this way, but Chuzhoi allowed him his impertinence. “The girl is here?” he said, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. It was so dark he could barely see the sociopath’s face.
“No.” The zek remained standing. “Why is this meeting necessary?”
Chuzhoi decided to meet brevity with brevity.
“The operation has been terminated,” he said. “The girl is to be released at once.”
“It’s too late,” the zek said.
Chuzhoi pulled a sheaf of papers from his breast pocket. “I will see to it that you are wired your completion fee immediately. All you have to do is sign these forms, as we’ve already discussed. Also, in consideration of your excellent service, you will receive a bonus of one hundred thousand dollars in cash as soon as the girl is handed over.”
“But ‘terminated’ is not the same as ‘concluded,’” the zek said. “Was the ransom not paid? Or were other arrangements made?”
Chuzhoi shrugged. “I am only a messenger. I pass along what the Client tells me. But I believe other arrangements have been reached.”
The zek stared at him, and Chuzhoi, hardly a delicate man, felt a sudden chill. “Do you need a pen?” he said.
The zek came near. Chuzhoi could smell the cigarettes on his breath.
The zek gave a hideous grimace. “You know, we can go into business for ourselves,” he said. “The girl’s father is a billionaire. We can demand a ransom that will set us up for life.”
“The father has nothing anymore.”
“Men like that are never without money.”
A sudden gust of wind lashed the small window with rain. There was a rumble of distant thunder.
But why not offer him whatever he asked? It was all irrelevant anyway. He’d never get a cent.