Chuzhoi’s shoulder in a comradely fashion. “We could be partners. Think of how much we can make, you and I.”
His hand ran smoothly down Chuzhoi’s back until it lightly grasped the butt of his pistol. As if he knew precisely what he would find and where.
“Last time you came unarmed.”
“The weapon is for my protection.”
“Do you know what this is?” the zek said.
Chuzhoi saw the wink of a steel blade, a thick black handle.
Of course he knew what the thing was.
In the calmest voice he could muster, he said, “I am always happy to discuss new business opportunities.”
He felt the nip of the blade against his side.
The zek’s left hand slid back up his spine to his left shoulder, the long fingers gripping the shoulder blade at the front. Suddenly he felt a deep twinge and his left arm went dead. Chuzhoi sensed the man’s hot breath on his neck.
“I know the Client’s ransom demands have still not been met,” the zek said. “I also know he has made a deal to give me up.”
Chuzhoi opened his mouth to deny it, but the blade penetrated a little more, then pulled back. The pain was so intense it made him gasp.
“If we are to do business together, we need to trust each other,” the monster said.
“Of course,” Chuzhoi whispered, eyes closed.
“You need to earn my trust.”
“Yes. Of course. Please.”
A tear rolled down his cheek. He wasn’t sure if it was from the physical pain of the zek’s pressure point or simple fear.
“I think you have some idea where the girl is located,” the zek said.
Chuzhoi hesitated, not wanting to admit he’d had the man followed after their last meeting. That would only enrage him.
Chuzhoi had ordered the follower to keep the surveillance discreet. In fact, he’d stayed back so far he’d lost him.
But … was it possible the zek had detected the surveillance?
Even so, Chuzhoi had only an approximate location of the burial site. He didn’t know the name of the town. The county, yes. Hundreds of square miles. So what? That was as good as nothing.
Before he could think how to reply, the zek spoke. “A man with your experience should hire better eyes.”
Chuzhoi felt the blade again, white hot, but this time the zek didn’t pull back, and the pain shot up to the top of his head and down to the very soles of his feet. Heat spread throughout his body, or so he thought, until he realized that in fact his sphincter had given way.
In desperation he cried, “Think of the money—!”
But the knife had gone in deep into his stomach. He struggled against the zek’s iron embrace, retched something hot, which burned his throat.
Outside the wind whistled. Rain spattered the clapboard sides of the house. It had become a downpour.
“I am,” the zek said.
“What do you want?” he screamed. “My God, what do you want from me?”
“May I borrow your mobile?” the zek said. “I’d like to make a phone call.”
79.
“Put it on speaker,” I told Navrozov.
This was it. The call that told us either that the kidnapping had been successfully called off, or …
Navrozov answered it abruptly: “Da?”
“Speaker,” I said again.
To me he said, “I don’t know how to do this.”
I took it from him and punched the speaker button, and I heard something strange, something unexpected.
A scream.
* * *
AND THEN a man’s voice, speaking in Russian.
I could make out only intonation and cadence, of course, but the man sounded calm and professional.
In the background was a continuous whimpering, a rush of words that sounded like pleading. I set the phone down on the desk, looked at Navrozov, whose face registered puzzlement.
He leaned over the phone, not fully understanding the concept of a speakerphone, and said, “Kto eto?”
The calm voice on the other end: “Vy menya nye znayete.”
“Shto proiskhodit?” Navrozov said.
“Who’s that?” I said.
“He says the contractor is not available to speak but he can pass along a message—”
The whimpering in the background abruptly got louder, turned into a high, almost feminine shriek that prickled the hairs on the back of my neck. A peculiar gargling sound, then a rush of words: “Ostanovitye!… Ya proshu … pazhaluista prekratitye! Shto ty khochish?… Bozhe moi!”
Navrozov looked stricken. His face was flushed, his features gone slack as he listened.
“Nye magu … nye … magu…”
The pleading voice in the background grew fainter.
“Who is it?” I demanded.
Then the calm voice was back on speaker. “Someone is there with you?” the man said, this time in English. “Tell Mr. Navrozov that