The Case of the General's Thumb by Andréi Kurkov Page A

sausage, consumed a considerable portion, skin and all, deposited the remainder on the table beside the passports, and was soon asleep and snoring again.
    After returning the sausage to its carrier bag to prevent its falling to the floor, Nik dressed, stowed his bedding away, and sat by the window, entranced by the fleeting scene, and drinking the two cups of tea brought by the conductress.
    In Warsaw, where they stopped for twenty minutes, Sakhno woke, shook his head and listened to the loudspeaker announcements.
    â€œWhat are they saying?”
    â€œIt’s Polish.”
    â€œFat lot of use you are,” Sakhno grinned.
    As they travelled on, Sakhno proposed opening a second bottle of vodka, but when Nik demurred, didn’t argue.
    â€œWhere are we going?” he asked.
    â€œPoznan.”
    â€œWhat the hell is it you want me for?”
    â€œA job. Do it, collect your share, and that’s it.”
    â€œAnd that’s why you got me out from under back there?”
    â€œExactly.”
    â€œRight,” was the surprisingly limp response, followed, with a grin, by “I daresay I’ll survive, if others don’t”.
    Nik seemed suddenly to see it all. He was interpreter-factotum, Sakhno was hitman. They were an operational team. Their abstract objective having been set by Ivan Lvovich, they would now receive concrete instructions from Wozniak in Poznan.
    Phoned from the station, Wozniak said he would pick them up. They were to wait by the taxi rank. They then sat sunning themselves for a good half hour before he turned up, in an ancient Mercedes, and whisked them off to a little café on the outskirts, where they were quickly served with beer and plates of salad. Stocky, moon-faced, he inquired politely about Kiev, and Sakhno spoke animatedly of new shops and restaurants while Nik kept prudently silent. A pork and cabbage dish came, and more beer.
    â€œGoing to give Polish vodka a try?” Wozniak asked Sakhno, who perked up visibly.
    â€œAnd would you mind savouring it over there, while Nik and I talk business.”
    â€œNo problem,” said Sakhno getting to his feet, and moving to the corner table, to which Wozniak brought vodka and pickled cucumber from the bar.
    â€œStick these away till later,” Wozniak said returning to Nik and slipping him two blue passports.
    â€œThey’re in the names of Niko Tsensky and Ivo Sakhnich, citizens of the new Yugoslavia, with visas for Germany. There’s DM three thousand each in these envelopes. In an hour from now you take the electric train to Germany. Speak German?”
    â€œI studied it.”
    â€œIn Berlin – the tickets are in the passports – you change for Koblenz. In Koblenz you stay at the Hotel Mauer. It’s cheap, good and no distance from the station. There you sit back and wait to be contacted.”
    â€œWho by?”
    â€œDon’t worry, he’ll be one of us. And how are you getting on, you two?” he asked, inclining his head to where Sakhno sat staring at an empty glass.
    Nik said nothing.
    Wozniak smiled.
    â€œGood luck, anyway! Though God knows what with. My part’s played. We’d better be off.”
    Wearily, reluctantly, Sakhno rose and joined them.

20
    Viktor’s plans for the funeral had come to nothing, and but for the discovery of Ivin’s earlier stay in Kiev, the day would have been a complete loss. At least his direct or indirect involvement in Bronitsky’s death now seemed as good as proved.
    Viktor walked for an hour or so before returning to the Moskva, where he had left his car. He looked into the foyer. The receptionist was now a middle-aged brunette with hair lacquered into a balloon-like eminence.
    â€œWhere can I get a coffee?”
    â€œThe fourth-floor buffet, if it’s good coffee you want.”
    The coffee came with a tiny bar of chocolate. He ordered a second cup, and while waiting, moved to a window seat. There was the