Vodka (78 page)

Stalactites of grease congealed around the entrance to a pipe barrel; glowing lines of worms the size of grass snakes, luminous in the darkness. The phosphorescence in turn illuminated carp with tiny horns on their heads, strange mutations caused by chemical waste.

Half an hour, an hour, perhaps two—Irk had no idea how long it had been, but suddenly there was a splashing in the tunnel up ahead. Jabbing his flashlight in that direction, Irk picked out a half-size man swinging from hand to hand, almost at the end of the beam’s range, and with him Josh, slumped over Rodion’s shoulder, held in position by the sling—it was impossible from this distance to tell whether he was unconscious or dead. Sound carried a long way in the sewers, Irk thought, and then realized that it worked both ways: Rodya must have heard them coming.

The chase was on.

Scanning the mountain ridges, looking for a dust puff on the scree, some tiny inconsistency in the shape of the
upper hillside, but seeing nothing but the flowers and blue skies and mountains; then the flicker of lightning above the rock walls, a thunderclap over the valley, and here came the attack: a lunar surface of sliding feet and razor-fine rock cutting shins and knees and hands and elbows, mujahidin running for firing positions, bullets whipping up little fountains of dirt all around, and you’d think how close that was, how you must write to your friends and tell them, but not your mom, of course, you didn’t want to worry her, but that’s the way it was when you lived next to death like that, you didn’t think about it anymore—never think, never think, the first to think died, keep moving if you wanted to stay alive, move and fire, move and fire, your trigger shiny with use, never look back, bullets slapping into the cliffs, you hoping that they were the ones that exploded on impact, because then they wouldn’t ricochet and get you on the rebound, when a bullet hit someone it was an unmistakable sound, you never forgot it, a wet slap and down went your mate right next to you, and the first time it happened you reacted like you were in a dream, but soon there was nothing left of you but your name, you’d become someone else, someone who wasn’t frightened of a corpse, someone who just wondered how the hell he was going to drag two hundred and twenty pounds of man and equipment down the rocks, especially in that heat.

Rodion scampered ahead of the pursuers, a fox before the hounds. It was a hideously uneven contest, of course. There were many of them and only one of him, they had legs where he didn’t, they were armed where he wasn’t, and they weren’t being slowed down by having to carry a
child. But he could move fast on those strong hands, and he used them well, keeping to the narrow tunnels wherever he could, doubling back on himself and leading them around in circles, second-guessing those detachments that boxed the long ways around to try and cut him off up ahead. No matter how many tunnels they covered, Rodion always had one more up his sleeve, and like a fish he was gone from the net again. He swung across gangways and rappled down waterfalls using ladders like ropes. Where streams joined each other in larger channels, he scooted across the current as fast as possible, ignoring the echoing shouts that bounced off the walls and the flashlights that danced with the effort of pursuit, sounds and shadows wild and distorted as light and shade churned together. When they were close, he could hear the urgency of their puffing breath.

“Give it up, Rodya!” Irk shouted, but he knew he was wasting his time.

Rodion knew he couldn’t run forever; there were simply too many people after him. Gradually his options began to narrow. Three times he almost set off down a tunnel before realizing there were men coming through it toward him. They were getting better organized, that was what was happening; rather than simply following him, they had spread out in a large circle and were slowly closing in.

Nearer and nearer still, and Rodion was tiring with Josh’s weight, but he couldn’t let the child go. He darted into a side tunnel and realized too late it was a dead end. Then they were with him, and all he could do was push himself flat against the wall—he didn’t want to be shot from behind—and put a knife to Josh’s neck as Irk advanced.

“I’ll slash him, I swear I will,” he shouted. Slash him and then carve the hammer and sickle, as they’d done to the bodies of the mujahidin—a kind of signature, to show it was the Red Army and not the Afghan government troops who’d done the killing. It wasn’t the kind of thing you bragged about back home. Most things in war were best left on the battlefield.

The pipeline bubbled with noise, the hunters coming back to the quarry, calling each other; all they needed was trumpeting horns. Irk saw the rise and fall of Josh’s chest: still alive.

“Let him go, Rodya.” Irk’s voice quavered.

“Let
me
go,” Rodion replied, “or I’ll kill him.” The knife nicked at Josh’s skin, blood welling like rose petals. Rodion bent his head to Josh’s neck and licked the droplets off.

Irk looked at the nearest Mafioso. He had his pistol outstretched, sighting down the barrel.

“In the shoulder,” Irk whispered. “Shoot him in the shoulder.”

The man looked quizzical, but all Irk did was nod slightly:
Just do it, don’t ask why.

“You’ll get a fair trial,” Irk told Rodion. “I’ll tell the court you’re insane. You’ll go to a hospital, not prison. That’s the best you can hope for.”

Rodion shook his head, and then tilted forward to lick Josh’s neck again. The report from the Mafioso’s gun came so loud that it made Irk jump, flash and crack simultaneous in such a confined space.

The shot pushed Rodion up the wall, but it was not that which made him lose his grip on Josh, it was the dark stain that suddenly flowered on Rodion’s shirt, the slick that had him clamping his hands to it and screaming in
agony that he was losing his blood, losing his blood, they had to help him or he’d die.

It took four Mafiosi to hold him down, he was flailing around so much. Only when one of them pistol-whipped him did Rodion stop struggling.

There were crates of vodka as far as Rodion could see, and he knew where he was: the underground warehouse, a stone’s throw from the orphanage. Lev was tugging at the tourniquet on Rodion’s arm, testing it for tightness.

“The bullet went straight through your shoulder,” he said. “No lasting damage.”

“Where’s Juku?” Rodion asked.

“Back in the real world.”

The 21st Century men had escorted Irk and Josh to the surface, where they’d told Irk that they would handle Rodion from there. Irk had, of course, wanted to take him into custody so that due process could take its course. Due process be damned, they’d replied; the courts were useless, the Mafia was the only outfit that worked around there, and they’d dispense justice themselves. Irk had insisted that Rodya was his collar; he’d lived and breathed this case for weeks. Yes, came the reply, but if it hadn’t been for their manpower, Josh would have been dead and Rodion would still be trawling the underworld for his next victim. Besides, the attacks had been against Lev. Now Lev had plans for him—that was the bottom line.

Realistically, there was nothing Irk could have done other than return Josh to his parents and then try to round up reinforcements, as if that would do any good. The 21st Century hadn’t told him where they were taking Rodion, much less what they planned to do
with him. By the time Irk found them again, it would be too late.

All the Mafiosi who’d helped in the hunt were there to see Rodion’s fate. They watched him with bewildered curiosity, as if he were an exotic exhibit in the zoo.

Lev came in, and every man rose to his feet. He took a chair in the center and bade them sit.

“This is a thieves’ court,” he said, “convened for those who’ve transgressed our rules. You’re not a
vor
, Rodya, of course, but you’ve killed my children and betrayed my friendship, therefore you’ll be tried under thieves’ law. I’ll be judge, jury, and if necessary executioner. We’ll take the prosecution as read. You know the charges: you’ve killed at least six children. You can ask for a defense lawyer or defend yourself, it’s your choice.”

“I demand to be tried by a proper court,” Rodion said. The words seemed to have come from somewhere other than inside him; the courage of a desperate man, perhaps.

“You’re in no position to demand anything. This
is
a proper court, a damn sight more so than the shambles that passes for official justice.”

“This is
not
a proper court, it’s a show trial. Stalin himself would have been proud of this. You’ve only brought me here by force, and it’s force alone that gives you the right to sit in judgment and find me guilty. Why bother with a trial at all? It’s obvious what the outcome will be.”

“Is that all you have to say?” Lev asked.

Rodion thought for a moment and shook his head. He cleared his throat and began hesitantly, speaking for his life.

Afghanistan was a strange place, a clear place. Everything was understandable there, I knew my purpose. In a war, you have to learn to live by the rules, and the quicker you learn them, the longer you’ll have to live by them. I didn’t think about whether I was defending the revolution or the Motherland. I just shot at those who were shooting at me. In the mountains, it was always obvious who was who. The war peeled people’s shells off. It taught me not to believe words, only actions.

I hated being in Afghanistan; now I hate not being there. The moment I got home, I wanted to go back. The place that had made me half a man was the only place that could make me whole again. Here, I’m fighting against myself all the time, pursuing myself. My only release is in the actual act of killing, just like the alcoholic’s only release is in the act of drinking. For me, vodka’s become blood, and blood’s become murder—I need my fix, it’s that simple. When I gain my release, nothing else matters, place and time seem to telescope. The attacks feel as though they’re over in seconds, but when I come around, I find that I’ve been there for hours. Once the adrenaline’s gone, I get so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open.

My crimes aren’t the kind that can be punished, either by the courts or by your underworld, so why do you have me here? I’m a monster, a psychopath. I live outside the law—outside the government’s law, outside your law, outside anybody’s law but my own.

As a
vor
, Lev, you chose to be an outsider. I don’t have that choice. I’m possessed by evil, so I’m no longer responsible for my actions. The war did this to me. The war in Afghanistan, the war against communism, the war against capitalism, the war we’re always waging, the war against ourselves—they all did it to me.

I know that I won’t leave here alive. I accept that. In fact, I welcome it, because it’ll put me out of this endless torment; it’ll save another child, another two, several, many. I want you to know that I never tortured them—it was bad enough that I had to kill others to survive, so I did it as quickly and humanely as I could. They trusted me, you see. People like me, the crippled and invalids, we’re used to the adults who shrink from touching us, who at best ignore us and at worst abuse us. But children, they’re curious about us, not threatened. How else did I get so close to them, how else could I have subdued them?

I couldn’t have done it to adults, they’d have shrunk away from me, the men would have been too strong for me. Besides, they’re all awash with vodka, not like the kids. I’d offer them a hundred grams first, just to check, and if they didn’t drink it then that was it, fate sealed. Those children were victims of the Afghan war, through no fault of their own, just like we who fought there were victims. Those children died because of that war, as surely as if they’d stood on a land mine or been gunned down by a sniper.

I’m sorry for one more thing: that I did it so close to home. You’ve always been good to me, Lev, and it was never aimed at you. The first ones were those who were nearest and easiest, and that meant Prospekt Mira. After that, when you suspected the Chechens and Karkadann used that against you, well, it was perfect for me, I could keep on knowing that your suspicions were elsewhere. I put Modestas’s body in the warehouse—in
here
—after the Chechens attacked, knowing the two would be linked. That wasn’t the Chechens who broke into our apartment and killed the Archangel blues—it was me. I
was desperate, I thought if I could drink their blood I wouldn’t have to kill another child, but it was no good, my body rejected it. Only human blood would do.

I ask only one thing: when you kill me, make sure it’s final. Sever my head from my body and place it between my legs. Perhaps I’ll still be able to hear, at least for a moment, the sound of my own blood gushing from my neck. Or put a stake through my heart, bury me near a crossroads to confuse me, stake my corpse into its grave, bind my hands and arms to prevent my body from escaping, dismember my corpse and bury the pieces separately, burn my corpse to ashes, tear out my heart, throw boiling oil on my grave, bury me facedown, or with a willow cross under each armpit and one on my chest, put garlic in my mouth, break my neck, string wild roses around the outside of my coffin. Just make sure you release me from all this.