The Mountain Shadow (96 page)

‘If you want to see it that way.’

‘Double again.’

‘
Double again?
’

‘
Chert, da
.’

‘Why?’

‘An Afghan and a Russian in the same room, right now, is worth extra.’

‘Twelve grand to fight with me tonight? Forget it.’

Didier began to walk back toward our table. There was a spatter of applause, and he bowed to dinner patrons a few times before he sat.

‘Tell you what,’ Oleg said, leaning close, ‘I’ll come along, and if I don’t deliver, don’t pay me anything at all, but if I do, pay me my price.’

‘Didier, meet Oleg,’ I said. ‘You’re gonna love this guy.’

‘
Enchanté, monsieur
,’ Didier preened.

‘You don’t mind that I’m sitting here, monsieur?’ Oleg asked politely. ‘Considering that I came into your bar with a lunatic?’

‘Who has
not
walked into Leopold’s with a lunatic?’ Didier demurred. ‘And Didier can spot a man of character from fifty metres, and shoot him through the heart from the same distance.’

‘I can see that we’re going to get along very well,’ Oleg said, resting his arms on the table comfortably.

‘Waiter!’ Didier cried. ‘Another round!’

I raised my hand to stop the waiters.

‘We’re leaving, man,’ I said. ‘Are you okay?’

‘But, Lin!’ He pouted. ‘How can I share my triumph? Who will drink with me now?’

‘The next lunatic that walks through the door, brother,’ I said, giving him a hug.

Chapter Sixty

W
E RODE TO
P
AREL, AND THE ABANDONED MILLS DISTRICT.
The information from the Tuareg put Concannon’s drug operation in a vacated factory complex, rented out in small private spaces.

The place was a ghost town at night, meaning that many people reported seeing ghosts in the vast network of factory huts after dark. Men and women had lived, worked and died in those acres for two generations, before the mills closed.
You know what ghosts are?
Johnny Cigar once said to me.
Poor people, who die
.

‘It looks deserted,’ Oleg said, as we parked the bike and walked toward the rows of grey, silent factories.

‘It mostly is, at night,’ I said. ‘He’s working from the fourth building. Factory 4A. Keep your voice down.’

We were keeping to a chain-link fence line, shadowed by billboards advertising get-broke-quick schemes for property and the stock market.

‘At the very least,’ Oleg whispered, ‘it’s damn good material for my writing.’

I stopped, and stopped Oleg with a palm on his chest.

‘Writing?’ I whispered.

‘Yeah.’

‘Are you a journalist, Oleg?’

‘
Chert, net
,’ he whispered.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means
Hell, no
, in Russian. It’s like the opposite of
chert, da
.’

‘You’re teaching me Russian, now?’ I whispered. ‘Are you a fucking journalist or not, Oleg?’

‘No, I’m a writer.’

‘A writer?’

‘Yes.’

‘A Russian writer? You’re kidding, right?’

‘Well, I’m a writer,’ he whispered. ‘And I’m Russian. So, I guess that makes me a Russian writer, if you want to think about it that way. Are we still going to the fight?’

I had my hands on my knees, leaning forward into a decision. I was trying to decide if I’d rather face the two-plus-two in factory 4A on my own, or with a Russian writer. It wasn’t an easy decision, but maybe that was just a writer thing.

‘A Russian writer,’ I whispered.

‘You’ve got something against Russian writers?’

‘Who hasn’t got something against Russian writers?’

‘Really? What about Aksyonov? Everybody likes Aksyonov.’

‘Fuck you,’ I whispered.

‘What about Turgenev? Turgenev is funny.’

‘Yeah. As funny as Gogol.’

‘Gogol wasn’t strictly Russian,’ Oleg clarified, whispering hoarsely. ‘He was a Ukrainian Cossack. One of the great Cossack writers.’

‘Enough.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Oleg whispered, his hand on my arm. ‘Are you a writer? That’s it, isn’t it? Ha! How funny, two writers, engaging on a quest together.’

‘Oh, shit. ’

‘By the way,’ he asked. ‘What
is
our quest?’

With the Russian, it might be possible to surprise the three men, let me have it out with Concannon, and get out again without anyone getting hurt but Concannon, and me. Without Oleg, I’d have to cut Concannon’s men, which was why I wanted Oleg with me. But he was a writer. A Russian writer.

‘Then there’s Lev Luntz,’ Oleg whispered hopefully. ‘I love him.’

‘Shut the fuck up,’ I whispered back.

I straightened up, and looked around. The long, wide street had nature frontage on one side with a railway line behind. The Nissen hut factories on our side were silent, stretching away from us like so many burial mounds.

There was no-one in sight, and even the wandering pariah dogs were scouting other ranges. It was peaceful, in the way that dangerous places are if you’re not scared of them. I was channelling that peace, because I was scared, and I wanted to stop Concannon without more blood, but I didn’t think it would be that easy.

‘By the way, why me?’ Oleg whispered. ‘Why not your friend Didier, or someone else?’

‘You really wanna know?’

‘Of course,’ he said, searching my eyes. ‘It could be good material.’

‘Because I’ve got friends who’d go with me, but they might get hurt, and I’d feel bad about that, but I won’t feel bad if
you
get hurt. You see that, right?’

‘I see that,’ he whispered, grinning happily. ‘And it’s a very good reason. If I was in the same spot, I’d buy
your
life, too.’

‘I’m not buying your life, Dostoevsky. I’m buying your
time
, in a fight. Are we clear?’

‘Clear,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’m glad we had this talk.’

‘Well, here’s another talk. If you go near my girlfriend, I’ll cut you.’

‘You’ve got a girlfriend?’ he whispered, incredulously.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Well . . . ’

‘If you make a Russian-writer move on her, I’ll cut you.’

‘I got the cutting part the first time,’ he whispered. ‘It’s not something you forget.’

He was grinning at me, and I couldn’t read it. He was either a pretty happy guy, wherever he was, or there was something he knew that I didn’t know.

‘What?’ I frowned.

‘You’ve really got a girlfriend?’ he asked.

‘Keep your Russian epic away from her.’

‘I got it, I got it,’ he grinned.

‘What are you grinning about?’

‘It’s just so much fun, to do some shit worth writing about with another writer. We should work on a short story together, after this. I’ve got some great ideas.’

‘Will you cut it out. We could get seriously fucked up here. This Irish guy’s crazy, and tungsten hard. Stay sharp.’

‘Okay, okay, take it easy. I’ve got twelve thousand bucks invested in this. Let’s fuck up the Irishman and his friends, and get drunk.’

He started sprinting toward factory 4A, alone. Russians.

I sprinted after him and caught him outside the entrance. We slipped around the side of the huge, curved hut to sneak a glimpse in a raised window.

Concannon was there with two men, playing cards on the bonnet of an immaculate red Pontiac Laurentian, partially obscured by a silver dust cover.

‘Are you good?’ I whispered.

‘Good for what?’ Oleg whispered back. ‘What’s the plan?’

‘We walk in through the door and I challenge the Irishman.’

‘Don’t you think we should
sneak
in?’

‘If I was a sneak-in guy, I would’ve brought a gun.’

‘You didn’t bring a
gun
?’

I opened the door and walked into the empty factory. Oleg was a step behind me as we crossed the floor. We stopped a few steps from Concannon and his friends.

The Afghan’s hands were in his lap. The Indian’s hands were in his lap. I didn’t know if they had guns or not.

I knew where Concannon’s hands were. They were applauding.

‘You’re more fun than a drunk nun,’ he applauded. ‘I heard you were dead. I see it was just a vicious rumour.’

‘Let’s do this,’ I said. ‘Just you and me, alone.’

‘Is it a
fight
you want, boyo?’

He was still grinning. I’d learned how much you can come to dislike a happy grin.

‘I want you to stop all your shit, and stay away from me, and my friends. If you agree to that, I’ll sit down, and beat your ass at poker.’

‘And if I don’t?’

Cold stars filtered through wet light glittered in his eyes.

‘Then it’s you and me, right here, right now, and we’ll settle this, once and for all.’

He leaned back in his plastic chair, and smiled.

‘Put your gun on him, Govinda,’ he said quietly.

It was the Indian guy who had the gun. The Afghan stood up, his cards still in his hand.

‘Yes, boss,’ Govinda said.

‘Get up, Govinda, and stand beside his friend.’

‘Yes, boss.’

Govinda stood up, and moved away from the car.

‘Keep your gun on the Australian convict as you walk, lad,’ Concannon warned. ‘He’s a naughty one. If he moves an inch, shoot him.’

‘Yes, boss,’ Govinda said, smiling at me.

His eyes shone like opals in the half-light of the factory. When he reached Oleg, he shoved the gun into his stomach. Oleg was still smiling. It looked like I was the only guy in the place who wasn’t smiling.

‘I come in here, man to man, and you pull a gun?’ I said.

He was stung, because we both knew I was right. The fight was rising in him, fast.

‘Just a little insurance,’ he said, controlling his rage.

‘You do this the wrong way, Concannon, we won’t be the only ones who die.’

I said it for the benefit of the paid hands, the Afghan and Indian henchmen.

‘Govinda will certainly die,’ I said. ‘And the Afghan, too.’

I turned to the Afghan.

‘
Salaam aleikum
,’ I said.

He wouldn’t reply.

‘
Salaam aleikum
,’ I said, insisting on one of the kindest Islamic teachings, that a genuine greeting of peace should always be met with an equal or better greeting.

‘
Wa aleikum salaam
,’ he said, at last.

‘What’s your name?’

He opened his mouth to speak, but Concannon cut him off.

‘Don’t tell him that, you heathen half-wit. He’s just fuckin’ with your mind, don’t you see? He’s gone native, so he knows native talk. But it’s all just to fuck with your fragile heathen minds. Watch a master, while I fuck with
his
mind.’

He stood up and walked around the front of the car to stand close to me.

‘If he does anything at all,’ he said to Govinda, ‘shoot his friend. I’ll help you cut the body up meself, later on.’

‘Yes, boss.’

He stood opposite me, swaying from side to side slowly, his lips pressed into the shell of a smile.

‘I know what you want to know,’ he said, standing close to me.

‘I want you to stop. That’s all.’

‘Ha! No, you don’t. You want the answer to a very important question.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘A question,’ he sang at me. ‘A question, a question.’

‘Spit it out.’

‘Mind my words, Govinda!’ he commanded, looking at me. ‘If he makes a move on me, kill his friend. I’ll take care of this cunt.’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘You only really want to know one thing,’ he said, leaning in close. ‘Did I fuck her, that sweet little American girlfriend of yours, before I left Ranjit with her that night, or didn’t I?’

Veins worked their clotted way upward from my clenched jaw through my eyes and into my forehead. I was sweating with the rage to hurt him. It was something else, something different, something I hadn’t brought through the door with me. When he put Lisa in the room, I was fighting for her.