professional, Reikhman waited in the dank, lightless lobby for Iryna’s return. The lift pinged, the door opened and she stood there, full of loathing. ‘Why poison that old lady? You’re sick.’
‘Higher authority,’ he started, but got no further.
‘So higher authority is a bastard. Who cares? Who gives a damn? What kind of country is this that it’s considered necessary to go round murdering people in case they might embarrass higher authority?’
Something inside Reikhman’s head flickered. Lunging into the lift, he went for her throat with his left hand and tried for his gun with the right. Iryna twisted sideways, grabbing his left hand, plunging her teeth into his palm and kicking her feet underneath her, to add the force of gravity to her bite. Reikhman roared with pain and threw his gun into the far corner so he could free up his right hand, smashing his fist repeatedly into her face, neck and throat. In the flaying of arms and legs and teeth, the lift door closed and the lift jerked into motion, upwards.
On the seventh floor, the lift door pinged open to reveal Reikhman with his back to the hallway, one knee on Iryna’s chest. Her legs, which were kicking up and down with manic energy, slowly lost their power and came to rest. Reikhman sensed something behind him and shifted his weight. He saw a very young soldier, more boy than man, in uniform, with a shock of white hair, no beard to speak of. The boy soldier was aiming his camera phone directly at the man who had his thumbs deep into Iryna’s throat.
‘Hey you, come here,’ Reikhman said, but the soldier had gone, leaping down the stairwell.
Reikhman stood up awkwardly and slipped on the puddle of blood oozing from Iryna’s body. Recovering his balance, he ran along to the stairwell, saw a figure moving extraordinarily fast three, four landings down, and fired off two rounds, the noise of his gun dizzyingly loud in the close confines of the block. Down the corridor a door opened and an elderly man popped his head out, saw the gun and closed the door fast.
There would be hell to pay if Reikhman had to delete more witnesses. He, or they, could catch up with this cretin of a soldier later. He rode the lift down and at ground level pulled Iryna’s corpse halfway out of the lift, so that the door couldn’t close automatically. He walked fast to the SUV, holding his jacket across his white shirt, which was sodden with her blood.
Konstantin asked, ‘Where’s Iryna?’ Then he saw the blood on the shirt, and yelled ‘What have you done?’ and got a bullet in his brains.
Reikhman pulled the corpse down into the passenger seat footwell, got behind the wheel and reversed the Mercedes up to the entrance of the block of flats. He went inside to find that the lift door, programmed to close, was automatically slamming repeatedly into Iryna’s ribcage.
Reikhman picked up Iryna’s corpse and hurried back to the SUV. From round the corner came a young mother holding the hand of a small, dark-haired boy, about five years old. Mother and son looked on, aghast.
‘Keep it zipped, or you lose the kid!’ yelled Reikhman. The mother turned her head to look at where she had just come from, as if understanding something that only now made sense. Moving forwards a few steps, the corpse still in his arms, Reikhman glimpsed a shock of white hair vanishing down a row of forty or so garages facing each other, culminating in a dead end. He dumped Iryna across the back seat of the SUV, got behind the wheel and drove towards the garages at a walking pace.
The white-haired soldier had no way out. He had to be in one of the garages. But a long war of attrition by thieves had left many of the garages, originally constructed with black steel doors, patched up with bits and bobs of metal. Some owners had fitted extra steel cross-beams, others wire-mesh gates. The effect was it was all the more difficult for Reikhman to see whether one of the doors wasn’t quite shut.
‘Higher authority,’ he started, but got no further.
‘So higher authority is a bastard. Who cares? Who gives a damn? What kind of country is this that it’s considered necessary to go round murdering people in case they might embarrass higher authority?’
Something inside Reikhman’s head flickered. Lunging into the lift, he went for her throat with his left hand and tried for his gun with the right. Iryna twisted sideways, grabbing his left hand, plunging her teeth into his palm and kicking her feet underneath her, to add the force of gravity to her bite. Reikhman roared with pain and threw his gun into the far corner so he could free up his right hand, smashing his fist repeatedly into her face, neck and throat. In the flaying of arms and legs and teeth, the lift door closed and the lift jerked into motion, upwards.
On the seventh floor, the lift door pinged open to reveal Reikhman with his back to the hallway, one knee on Iryna’s chest. Her legs, which were kicking up and down with manic energy, slowly lost their power and came to rest. Reikhman sensed something behind him and shifted his weight. He saw a very young soldier, more boy than man, in uniform, with a shock of white hair, no beard to speak of. The boy soldier was aiming his camera phone directly at the man who had his thumbs deep into Iryna’s throat.
‘Hey you, come here,’ Reikhman said, but the soldier had gone, leaping down the stairwell.
Reikhman stood up awkwardly and slipped on the puddle of blood oozing from Iryna’s body. Recovering his balance, he ran along to the stairwell, saw a figure moving extraordinarily fast three, four landings down, and fired off two rounds, the noise of his gun dizzyingly loud in the close confines of the block. Down the corridor a door opened and an elderly man popped his head out, saw the gun and closed the door fast.
There would be hell to pay if Reikhman had to delete more witnesses. He, or they, could catch up with this cretin of a soldier later. He rode the lift down and at ground level pulled Iryna’s corpse halfway out of the lift, so that the door couldn’t close automatically. He walked fast to the SUV, holding his jacket across his white shirt, which was sodden with her blood.
Konstantin asked, ‘Where’s Iryna?’ Then he saw the blood on the shirt, and yelled ‘What have you done?’ and got a bullet in his brains.
Reikhman pulled the corpse down into the passenger seat footwell, got behind the wheel and reversed the Mercedes up to the entrance of the block of flats. He went inside to find that the lift door, programmed to close, was automatically slamming repeatedly into Iryna’s ribcage.
Reikhman picked up Iryna’s corpse and hurried back to the SUV. From round the corner came a young mother holding the hand of a small, dark-haired boy, about five years old. Mother and son looked on, aghast.
‘Keep it zipped, or you lose the kid!’ yelled Reikhman. The mother turned her head to look at where she had just come from, as if understanding something that only now made sense. Moving forwards a few steps, the corpse still in his arms, Reikhman glimpsed a shock of white hair vanishing down a row of forty or so garages facing each other, culminating in a dead end. He dumped Iryna across the back seat of the SUV, got behind the wheel and drove towards the garages at a walking pace.
The white-haired soldier had no way out. He had to be in one of the garages. But a long war of attrition by thieves had left many of the garages, originally constructed with black steel doors, patched up with bits and bobs of metal. Some owners had fitted extra steel cross-beams, others wire-mesh gates. The effect was it was all the more difficult for Reikhman to see whether one of the doors wasn’t quite shut.
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