Psycho Within Us (The Psycho Series Book 2) (5 page)

“If I wanted money, Vladimir Putin, why the fuck would I come way out here to planet Earth’s frozen asshole?”  Vladimir Putin?  That was a little strange.  Either the man was insane and really believed Zakhar to be the former Prime Minister, or else he was using the sarcasm that the English were known for.  Zakhar didn’t know the language well enough to place the regional accent.

“You can have anything in the house that you want,” he told the man.

“Oh, I’ve got all I want.  Right here, right now.”

“I’m…not sure I understand you.”

The man smiled, and his smile…didn’t quite
happen
the right way.  The left side, it twitched a little, and kind of frowned as the rest of the face smiled.  Something had happened there, something terrible.  Zakhar reminded himself of the Colt Woodsman .22 at his side, ready to be drawn, ready to be fired.  And his eyes constantly flitted to the Glock in the intruder’s hand.

The gunman suddenly changed topics. 
“There’s this bigass crater in America.  Maybe you’ve heard of it?  It’s called the Barringer Crater.”  The gunman raised his eyebrows.  “It’s outside o’ Flagstaff, in Arizona.  It’s a meteor impact crater.  You guys have one like it here in Siberia.  I think ya call it Popi-guy?  Poppy-
gay
, somethin’?”  He waved his gun hand dismissively.  “In any case, the Barringer Crater, it’s like four thousand feet wide, and like six hundred feet deep.  You could fit about five major aircraft carriers inside.  You could also fill that crater with how much shit I know that you
don’t
know.  So when you say, ‘I don’t understand,’ believe me when I say,
I know
.  Only in this instance, I think you
do
know.”

“
Know what?  What the hell are you talking about?”

The gunman tittered.  It was a disturbing little titter, almost girlish, and it made Zakhar
think of the boy downstairs.  “You’re really gonna make me say this, aren’t you?”  He shook his head in wonderment, stood up, sighed.  “You fuckers, you don’t even have the guts to own up to what you’ve done.  An’ they call me the freak.”

Zakhar raised his left hand slowly. 
“Tell me what you want,” he said reasonably, “and then maybe we can work out an arrangement of some kind.”

“An arrangement.  Like what you’ve got here?”  He looked around at the living room, giving an appraising look at the moose on the wall, the considerable fireplace
, and mantelpiece.  “Quite the
arrangement
.”  He took a step closer to Zakhar, and Zakhar took a step back, bumped against the mantelpiece and then walked slowly to his left, to the far side of the fireplace.  “I’m no vengeful spirit, but I
am
here because of your little
arrangement
here.  Fascinating how you stayed off the grid with your work.  A smart plan.  Much smarter than the rest of your ilk, the ones in Germany, and Ukraine.”  He smiled knowingly.  “And Derbent?  Mm?”

For a fraction of a second, Zakhar’s eyes widened, but he controlled his surprise and remained calm.  “You?”

“Good brandy in Derbent.  Good scenery, too.  Nice, sleepy little city.  Lots of ancient structures.  A mixed and cultured people.  Peaceful.  Not the kind o’ town you would associate with people who have your kind of
arrangement
.”  The gunman let that sit in the air between them.  He glanced at the windows.  The wind was getting even harsher, and great chunks of snow were smacking up against the side of the lodge.  “I saw you got chains on the front tires o’ that SUV outside.  Do ya have any more chains for the rear tires?”

Zakhar nodded slowly, calmly.  “Yes, of course.  I could show you where—”

“Don’t you fuckin’ move,” said the gunman evenly.  Zakhar froze.  He had just started to turn for the door, aiming the right side of his body away from the gunman, so that he couldn’t see his hand moving to the holster.  Now, the gunman sighed, looked him up and down appraisingly.  “Just tell me where they are.”

The logs were
being consumed by flame in the fireplace, and the fire was now crackling at his side.  Zakhar was close to the flames, and felt his palms growing sweaty, though not just because of the heat.  All at once, he was becoming increasingly aware of his isolation.  The isolation that had once brought such sweet solitude and respite was now a trap.  Even on a clear day, without wind or rain, a man could fire a gun outside and not be heard by anyone for many kilometers around.  “The chains?” he said.  “You…you want to know about the—”

“Yeah, Vladimir, I want the goddam chains.
  I parked my rental car a good ways away from here, hiked in on foot.  How d’ya think I got way out here without leaving any tire tracks in the snow?”  He snorted out a laugh.  “I don’t wanna chance hiking back to it, not in this weather.”

Zakhar thought that that little fact might spring hope
. 
Maybe he’s just on the run
. 
A desperate man, just needs a vehicle to get clear of here
.  But that was a false hope.  Hadn’t he just said he had been to Derbent?  And he obviously knew things.  Things about the others.  “The chains are behind a pegboard in the shed.  I can show you.”

“Just tell me.  An’ the gas, too.”

He swallowed, eyes darting towards the Glock, back at his intruder’s eyes.  “The pegboard is in a hidden closet in the shed.  Where…”  He swallowed again.  “Where the poster with the big bear is hanging.  The petrol is in there, too.”

“Petrol?” he said.

“
Da
.  Er, yes. 
Fuel
.”

“Oh, right,” said the
gunman, glancing out one of the windows.  “We say
gasoline
back in the States.”  He looked back at Zakhar.  “That’s where I’m from, ya know?  The States.  You ever been to Georgia?”  Zakhar shook his head.  “No?  Ya know anybody from Atlanta?”  Zakhar shook his head.  The gunman gave a teasing smile.  “Awwww, c’mon now, Zakhar.  Don’t lie to me.  You can do this.  You’re a big boy.”

“I don’t follow y—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sakes, man!  You really can’t say it, can you?  Huh?  Can you?”  He chuckled, glanced out the window, and Zakhar’s fingers touched the sandalwood grip of his Colt just as the gunman looked back at him.  “Ya sit out here in the middle o’ nowhere, you’ve got a basement door with three locks on it, and you’ve gotta believe I haven’t missed those locks, and you’re still tight-lipped.  I’ve told you that I’ve been to Derbent an’ that I came from Atlana, but you’re still not letting yourself put the pieces together, are ya?”

Zakhar said nothing, took a slow, deep breath, and let it out quietly, calming his nerves.  Thought about the Colt, going for it, watching the Glock trained on him, decided against it.

The intruder was still smiling that not-right smile of his.  “What’ve ya got down there, Zakhar?” 
Zakhar, he says
. 
He knows my name
.  “Or, maybe I should ask,
who
have ya got down there.  Lemme guess, a sweet little piece o’ action?  Small girl, blonde-haired and blue-eyed?  Your people in Derbent were partial to those types.  Izzat what you got, Zakhar?  Hm?  Izzat what you got on the last shipment?”

Trembling with barely controlled rage—rage at the insolence, the indignity, and
his impotence in the moment—Zakhar said nothing, tried to remain still.  His fingertips were still just touching the Colt’s grip.

The intruder laughed again.  Zakhar’s blood was boiling.  He was getting tired of being mocked in his own house by a trespasser, and someone who knew his secret.  “Cut this, Jack,” said the intruder.  “I know all about you.  I know what you like doin’.  I know you’re a part of somethin’ bigger, a family of sorts that started out this gig, but now you’re more like a customer.  You help a little here an’ there with the shipping and the details, you still have a little bit o’ stock in your family’s old shipping business
.  Northeast Siberian Shippin’, right?”

Steady now
. 
Steady
.  “I’m still not sure I follow you, my friend.”

That smile never wavered.  “Well, let’s see if you can follow me around the world,” he said.  “Seven months ago I’m in Atlanta, ran into a little bit o’ trouble with some Russians.  A group of
vory
that fractioned off of the main group of
vory v zakone
, right here in the Motherland, and who started workin’ for some groups of human traffickers.  One of their clients was a group of child pornographers called the Rainbow Room.  The
vory
were at first only interested in the usual stuff—forced prostitution, maybe moving the girls across borders, through shipping containers.  But they still used some old business ties over here in the Motherland; financing, moving some money into some trustworthy family members over here, family members who were holding on to it, like a retirement plan for the whole fucked up family.

“I got into a tussle with some of your pals—that’s how I got so pretty,” he added, turning his face over and stepping a bit more into the firelight.  Zakhar could see the grotesque scar running the length of his face, like a canyon that someone had tried to fill in
, and failed.  “I dipped outta the A-T-L with the sirens still screamin’ for me.  I found a doctor who did passable work on sewing me up, an’ then I got to looking.  The guy that did this to me, his name was Dmitry.  I believe ya know ’im?”

Zakhar
tensed.  He shook his head.  “I’m afraid not.”

The gunman tilted his head to one side curiously, in a kind of look that said,
How long are we going to do this? 
He continued with his story.  “Before he died—if you can call it dying—Dmitry told me that he had family in Derbent.  Now, I promised this son of a bitch that I’d kill his entire family.  It was the
least
I could do after all he put me through.  An’ I like to keep my promises.  Call me old-fashioned.”  He snorted a laugh.  “I read all the follow-ups in the news concerning the story—you probably remember it?  A bunch o’ human traffickers an’ child pornographers operating in and around Atlanta?  They finally pinned a last name on ol’ Dmitry.  Him, his brother Mikhael and their sister Olga were part of the Ankundinov family.  Well now, as you can imagine I was happier’n a pig in shit when I found this out, because this narrowed my search down
considerably
.

“But first, I had to get outta the country.  This wasn’t easy, ya know?  I mean, every cop and his dog knew that I was in Atlanta, and they for some reason associated
me
with the Rainbow Room, and so I became a prime suspect.  I’m still on Interpol’s list, last I checked their website.  I never became very famous, because I was just one of a dozen others that eluded police agencies around the world durin’ this operation.” 
Bragging
, Zakhar thought. 
He’s actually taking the time to brag
.  As much as it angered him, it might also be his salvation. 
Keep talking
. 
Just keep talking
.  “Feds cracked down on anybody who knew me.  Lotta colleagues o’ mine ain’t too happy with me.”  He sighed.  “In any case, after I got sewed up, I hopped from one ride to the next until I got into Canada.  Found an old pal that owed me a favor, got a couple fake IDs, and finally, I made it here, to the Motherland.

“
In a way, it was like…comin’ home, almost.  I’m no Russian, but I have a certain, ah, aptitude, an ability to integrate easily into various socio-economic classes.  I’m also good at pickin’ up on the
vibe
of a city.  Ya know, I tend to read the people well.  I also take an interest in the customs an’ behaviors of my host city—it’s important in my line o’ work—so I bought a few language CDs, learned how to say ‘where’s the shitter’ and ‘fuck you’ in Russian—you know, the important stuff—an’ then started to check the listings on the Internet.  Such a handy tool, the Internet.

“Long story short—I know, I know, too late, right?—I found a few more members of the Ankundinov family, followed a few for the first couple o’ months, figured out which ones hung out in the
skeevy part o’ Derbent, and then offered my services.  I’m a thief, specializing in boosting cars, and people always need cars, especially
vory
, am I right?  Am I right, Zakhar?”  Zakhar didn’t know what else to do but nod, so he did.  “So, I engendered myself to a few of them, learned a bit about jackin’ local cars—you fuckin’ Europeans and your reversed ignition switches,” he chuckled.  “And then I made myself the go-to guy for disposable cars.”

Zakhar’s eyes wandered about the room, searching for some way out,
any
way.  The front door was five steps away, but it was locked.  He’d locked it as soon as he returned from gathering the wood.  There wouldn’t be enough room or time to lay down a few suppressing shots and dive for the door.

“That’s where I found out about the Ankundinov family’s connections to the Northeast Siberian Shipping Company.  Lots o’ boats moving in and out of port, and all year round.  The company
was initially founded and run by an Anatoly Ogorodnikov—your grandfather.  More an’ more shares have been sold down through the decades, leaving you with very little stake in it, but stake in it you still have, at least enough so that you get a few benefits.”