“I don’t know,” squealed the manager. He was rewarded with a crack on the side of the head from a pistol barrel. “It’ll be in the staff file,” he screamed.
They made him get out the staff list. Driver Fifty-two as Vassili. There was an address in the suburbs.
After telling him that if he even let the thought cross his mind of calling Vassili to warn him, he would quickly move from his present accommodation to a long wooden box, the leader tore off a chunk of the worksheet and left.
The manager nursed his head, took an aspirin, and gave a thought to Vassili. If the fool was daft enough to cheat men like that, he deserved a visit. Clearly the driver had shortchanged someone with an even shorter temper, or been rude to his girlfriend. This was Moscow, 1999, he thought; you survived or you made trouble for men with guns. The manager intended to survive. He reopened his office and went back to work.
Vassili was taking a late lunch of sausage and black bread when the doorbell rang. Seconds later his wife came back into the room white-faced, with two men behind her. Both had black ski masks and guns. Vassili opened his mouth and a piece of sausage fell out.
“Look, I’m a poor man, I don’t have ...” he began.
“Shut up,” said one of the men while the other pushed the trembling wife into a chair. Vassili found a torn sheet of paper pushed under his nose.
“You’re driver Fifty-two, Central City Cabs?” asked the man.
“Yes, but honestly, guys …”
A black-gloved finger pointed out a line on the work sheet.
“Two nights ago, a fare to Chisti Pereulok. Just before midnight. Who was it?”
“How should I know?”
“Don’t get smart, pal or I’ll blow your balls off. Think.”
Vassili thought. Nothing came.
“A priest,” said the gunman.
That was it. The light went on.
“Right, I remember now. Chisti Pereulok, a small side street. I had to check the street map. Had to wait there ten minutes before he was let in. Then he settled up and I left.”
“Describe.”
“Medium height, medium build. Late forties. A priest, come on, they all look the same. No, wait a minute, he had no beard.”
“A foreigner?”
“Don’t think so. His Russian was perfect.”
“Seen him before?”
“Never.”
“Or since?”
“Nope. I offered to come back for him, but he said he didn’t know how long he’d be. Look, if anything happened to him, it was nothing to do with me. I just drove him for ten minutes. …”
“One last thing. Where from?”
“The Metropol, of course. That’s what I do. Night shift at the rank outside the Metropol.”
“He came up the pavement or out the doors?”
“Out the doors.”
“How do you know?”