abortive efforts at starting the Volga later, Butuzov reappeared and gave Ozers a discreet nod. When Ozers next turned the key in the ignition, he twisted it fully rather than halfway as he had been doing before, and the engine started perfectly.
“Thanks for your help, Yarik.” Butuzov handed Maltsev the vodka bottle. “Don’t spill any, eh?” With the foil cap removed, there was no way of closing the bottle. Proper drinkers always finish an open bottle; when they go to the fridge, it’s to get a new bottle rather than put the current one back for another day.
“I won’t. You can count on that.”
The flush in Maltsev’s cheeks wasn’t entirely due to the cold. Butuzov suspected that Maltsev would opt for the simplest way of avoiding spillage and relocate the vodka from bottle to stomach.
They watched the Comstar van leave. “If that bottle’s more than glass and air by tonight, I’m a Chechen,” Butuzov said.
“Would you mind telling me what all that was about?”
Maltsev’s one working brake light flared dimly as he paused at the junction, and then he was gone from sight. Butuzov walked over to the nearest parked car and bent down to retrieve what he’d left behind the rear bumper; a set of Comstar engineer’s overalls, and a toolbox.
7
Sunday, December 29, 1991
T he guards at Karkadann’s gatehouse—all Chechens, naturally, for Chechens trust only their own kind—frisked Butuzov and searched his van before letting him through. The precautions were standard, and there was no reason for the Chechens to be suspicious. They had no way of knowing that the Comstar logo had been painted on the van only last night, or that the sign writer responsible had been paid five hundred dollars for his services and five hundred more to keep his mouth shut.
At the front door of the mansion itself, however, Sharmukhamedov was more suspicious. His head was freshly shaved and his beard trimmed neater than usual; neither detracted from his air of menace. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“There’s a problem with your lines,” Butuzov said.
“Not that we’ve reported.”
“You wouldn’t have. We picked it up at the central exchange about an hour ago.”
“Who else is affected?”
“Hundreds of people. But our most valuable customers get priority.”
Sharmukhamedov nodded, as if priority was no more than his right. “What happened to the other guy? The one who was here yesterday?”
“Yarik? Sick. Stupid bastard drank some dodgy vodka.”
Maybe it was the use of Maltsev’s name, or the all too plausible intimation of vodka poisoning; either way, Sharmukhamedov’s suspicions seemed to be allayed. He jerked his head back toward the interior of the house; in you come. A moment, a decision; a mistake.
Ozers had wanted to come too, of course, but Butuzov had disagreed and Lev had supported him. Two people for what was one man’s job might arouse suspicion; unlikely, perhaps, but Karkadann was as paranoid as they came, so it wasn’t worth taking the chance. If Butuzov was discovered and things turned nasty, an extra person would make little difference in a house full of armed Chechens. So Butuzov had come alone, unarmed, and very scared.
“I’ll need to see all the phones,” said Butuzov, impressed at how steady his voice sounded.
“Sure. But I’m with you all the time, understand?”
Butuzov shrugged with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “Whatever.”
The house was warm, huge and unbelievably gaudy. To Butuzov the place seemed overblown and tasteless. Golden nymphs squatted on banister ends or pranced in crystal fountains. The paintings were hideous art nouveau, more often than not made even more vulgar by being set in relief. Karkadann’s bedroom had spreads of scarlet satin and a mirrored ceiling; his bathroom boasted two Jacuzzis.
There were thirty-two handsets in the house, but Butuzov knew the best place for him would be Karkadann’s study. It was hard to see across the room; the
“Thanks for your help, Yarik.” Butuzov handed Maltsev the vodka bottle. “Don’t spill any, eh?” With the foil cap removed, there was no way of closing the bottle. Proper drinkers always finish an open bottle; when they go to the fridge, it’s to get a new bottle rather than put the current one back for another day.
“I won’t. You can count on that.”
The flush in Maltsev’s cheeks wasn’t entirely due to the cold. Butuzov suspected that Maltsev would opt for the simplest way of avoiding spillage and relocate the vodka from bottle to stomach.
They watched the Comstar van leave. “If that bottle’s more than glass and air by tonight, I’m a Chechen,” Butuzov said.
“Would you mind telling me what all that was about?”
Maltsev’s one working brake light flared dimly as he paused at the junction, and then he was gone from sight. Butuzov walked over to the nearest parked car and bent down to retrieve what he’d left behind the rear bumper; a set of Comstar engineer’s overalls, and a toolbox.
7
Sunday, December 29, 1991
T he guards at Karkadann’s gatehouse—all Chechens, naturally, for Chechens trust only their own kind—frisked Butuzov and searched his van before letting him through. The precautions were standard, and there was no reason for the Chechens to be suspicious. They had no way of knowing that the Comstar logo had been painted on the van only last night, or that the sign writer responsible had been paid five hundred dollars for his services and five hundred more to keep his mouth shut.
At the front door of the mansion itself, however, Sharmukhamedov was more suspicious. His head was freshly shaved and his beard trimmed neater than usual; neither detracted from his air of menace. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“There’s a problem with your lines,” Butuzov said.
“Not that we’ve reported.”
“You wouldn’t have. We picked it up at the central exchange about an hour ago.”
“Who else is affected?”
“Hundreds of people. But our most valuable customers get priority.”
Sharmukhamedov nodded, as if priority was no more than his right. “What happened to the other guy? The one who was here yesterday?”
“Yarik? Sick. Stupid bastard drank some dodgy vodka.”
Maybe it was the use of Maltsev’s name, or the all too plausible intimation of vodka poisoning; either way, Sharmukhamedov’s suspicions seemed to be allayed. He jerked his head back toward the interior of the house; in you come. A moment, a decision; a mistake.
Ozers had wanted to come too, of course, but Butuzov had disagreed and Lev had supported him. Two people for what was one man’s job might arouse suspicion; unlikely, perhaps, but Karkadann was as paranoid as they came, so it wasn’t worth taking the chance. If Butuzov was discovered and things turned nasty, an extra person would make little difference in a house full of armed Chechens. So Butuzov had come alone, unarmed, and very scared.
“I’ll need to see all the phones,” said Butuzov, impressed at how steady his voice sounded.
“Sure. But I’m with you all the time, understand?”
Butuzov shrugged with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “Whatever.”
The house was warm, huge and unbelievably gaudy. To Butuzov the place seemed overblown and tasteless. Golden nymphs squatted on banister ends or pranced in crystal fountains. The paintings were hideous art nouveau, more often than not made even more vulgar by being set in relief. Karkadann’s bedroom had spreads of scarlet satin and a mirrored ceiling; his bathroom boasted two Jacuzzis.
There were thirty-two handsets in the house, but Butuzov knew the best place for him would be Karkadann’s study. It was hard to see across the room; the
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