Last Snow - Eric van Lustbader [91]
In the closet next to the front door he extracted the things he needed, including his lambswool overcoat and soft cashmere scarf in the signature Burberry plaid, which he wrapped around his neck, making certain his throat was well protected against the strong April wind. Shrugging on his coat, he opened the door, went out into the corridor, noting that the bloodstain, now a dark, almost purple brown, had not yet been cleaned up. Everything continues to slide downhill, he thought, to erode, to sicken, wither, and die.
He met no one in the elevator, but as he saw the charming widow Tanova coming in from the street with an armful of groceries, he smiled, holding the elevator door open for her. She returned his smile, thanked him, and asked him over for tea and her homemade stollen later in the afternoon, an invitation he accepted with genuine pleasure. The widow Tanova had lived almost as long as he had, she understood the nature of life, what was important and what must be let go. She was someone he could talk with, confide in, commiserate with, mourning the losses they had suffered. Also, she had great legs—stems, as they said in the old black-and-white American films he still adored.
Waiting until the elevator and its comely occupant were on their way up, he crossed the now deserted lobby and, pulling open the heavy front door, stepped out onto the yellow-brick stoop. He drew a breath of the chilly air deep into his lungs as he glanced both ways along the street. There were no pedestrians and few moving vehicles. But there was the car, just as he’d expected. He saw it immediately, a gleaming black Mercedes—in their supreme arrogance these people felt no need for discretion, vigilance, foresight, or even tact: last night being a perfect case in point. There were two men sitting in the front seat, flamboyant as every member of the Izmaylovskaya learned to be. Like a fucking cult, Dyadya Gourdjiev thought.
Having looked this way and that he strolled away from the car on the opposite side of the street, then crossed the street and turned back. When he was abreast of the vehicle he stopped and tapped on the driver’s window. The driver, startled, slid down his window in reflex. Even before the window was fully down Dyadya Gourdjiev had his Glock out. He pumped two bullets into the man on the passenger’s side as he was reaching for his pistol, then shot the driver between the eyes.
At once, sliding the Glock into the deep pocket of his overcoat, he sauntered away with jaunty insouciance. It was as if with each step several years had melted off him until, at the corner, he had been resurrected into the strong young man he’d once been.
As he turned the corner he began to whistle “Dva Gusya,” the old folk tune his mother used to sing to him when he was a child.
ANNIKA PRODUCED Kirilenko’s gun, which, as a member of the FSB, he was allowed to carry on all modes of public transportation. Aiming it at him, she cocked the hammer back. At that moment, the cell phone in Jack’s hand began to burr.
“Whoever’s calling you, will have to wait,” Jack said, “possibly forever.”
“It’s not his phone,” Alli said. “I checked.”
“Whose phone is it?” Jack said, staring at it.
Alli took the phone out of his hand, manipulated several keys to access the SIM card information. “A man named Limonev.”
Annika took a step forward. “Mondan Limonev?”
Alli looked up at her. “You know him?”
She nodded. “I know of him. He’s said to be a contract killer for the FSB.”
“A despicable lie