The Boy in the Suitcase - Lene Kaaberbol [90]
Dimitri Bukovski approached him with open arms.
“My friend,” he said. “Long time no see.”
They embraced in the masculine back-patting way, and Jučas endured the two smacking kisses Dimitri planted, Russian style, one on each cheek. Dimitri was an Eastern European melting pot product, a little Polish, a little Russian, a little German and a touch of Lithuanian. He must be over fifty by now, and balding, but he looked as if bench-pressing two hundred kilos was still no great challenge. Pecs and biceps bulked under his black T-shirt. Years ago, in a similar basement in Vilnius, it had been Dimitri who taught Jučas about serious training. Now Dimitri lived here in Copenhagen, and out of three possible Danish contacts, he was the only one who would not go squealing to Klimka the minute Jučas left.
“Nice place,” said Jučas.
“Not bad,” allowed Dimitri. “We’re running it as a club, so we have some say in who gets admitted. Some people here do serious work. You want a workout?”
“God, yes. But I don’t have the time,” said Jučas with genuine regret.
“No,” said Dimitri, “I understand this isn’t just a courtesy call. Still working for Klimka?”
“Yes and no,” said Jučas vaguely.
“Oh? Well, it’s none of my business. Step into the office, then.”
Dimitri’s office was little more than a cubbyhole. A desk and two brown leather armchairs were squeezed into the narrow space, and the walls were covered with photographs, many of which were of Dimitri standing next to some celebrity or other, mostly singers or actors, but also a few politicians. Pride of place had gone to a picture of Dimitri, grinning from ear to ear, shaking hands with Arnold Schwarzenegger.
“Home Sweet Home,” said Dimitri, with a vague gesture at his mementos.
Jučas merely nodded. “Did you find me anything?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Dimitri opened a small safe bolted to the wall beneath the Schwarzenegger photo. “You can have your pick of a Glock and a Desert Eagle.” He put the two weapons on the desk in front of Jučas.
Both were used, but in good condition. The Glock was a 9mm, the classic black Glock 17. The Desert Eagle was a .44, bright silver and monstrously heavy, and appeared to be somewhat newer than the Glock. Jučas picked them up one by one. Ejected the clip, checked that the chamber was empty. Worked the safety. Aimed at one of the pictures on the wall, and dry-fired. The pull on the .44 was somewhat stiffer than the Glock.
“How much?” he asked. “And are they clean?” He had no wish to acquire a weapon that could be traced to someone else’s crimes.
“My friend. What do you take me for? Would I sell you a dirty gun? Two thousand for the Glock, three for the Eagle. Dollars, that is. For an added five hundred, I throw in extra ammo.”
“Which one would you choose?”
Dimitri shrugged his massive shoulders.
“Depends. A Desert Eagle is kind of hard to ignore. Very effective as a frightener. But if you actually want to shoot someone, I’d go for the Glock.”
HE BOUGHT THE Glock. It was cheaper, too.
NINA DROPPED MARIJA off in Vesterbrogade at 4:47.
She noted the time specifically because the time on her own watch didn’t match that of the clock on the arch by Axeltorv. Hers was two minutes ahead, and she couldn’t help trying to calculate which of the two was correct.
The girl stood by the curb, hunched and uncertain, as if she wasn’t sure where to go. There was sand in her damp hair, Nina noticed, but apart from that, not much was left of the girl from the beach. She was no longer smiling.
Nina watched her in the rearview mirror until the girl turned to walk in the direction of Stenogade, narrow shoulders tensed and raised as though she were cold. An acidic, heavy puff of exhaust and hot pavement reached Nina through the open car window, and for a moment she had to struggle with a burning compulsion to turn around and drag the girl back into the car. But Marija hadn’t asked for her help, and Nina hadn’t offered. Nina had written her name and phone