overhead chandelier was the only light on, and each window was taped over with cardboard packing sheets. A layman might have assumed this had somethingto do with redecoration, but a Mafioso knew better. The sheets were a precaution against snipers; denying a shooter visual into the room and diffusing the body heat of those inside, thus rendering infrared rifle sights useless.
Lying on his back under the desk, Butuzov made a big show of unscrewing the wall socket and poking around among the wires in there; they’d taught him this at the KGB institute, of course, it was the kind of thing he could have done in his sleep. Even if Sharmukhamedov had been lying under the desk with him, he’d have seen nothing. Butuzov had the bug hidden between two fingers, and he simply pressed it among the wires as he fiddled, pushing hard to compensate for the shaking in his hand. But crawling on the floor with a telephone repairman was several notches below Sharmukhamedov’s dignity; he stood and watched, missed and failed.
Butuzov replaced the plastic covering on the socket and sat up fast. He was too much of a professional to wince in anticipation of his head hitting the underside of the table, even though he knew it would have to hurt if it was to be convincing. He spluttered a couple of expletives and rubbed his skull; a quick, almost imperceptible movement of his right hand from scalp to the underside of Karkadann’s desk and the second bug was in place, stuck fast in the middle of the table, far from the reach of straying hands. One device on the phone line and one in the room; all bases covered.
Butuzov emerged from under the table with a wince—his head really ached, there was nothing fake about that—and packed up his toolbox. Sharmukhamedov didn’t ask whether he was hurt.
“All done,” said Butuzov, picking up the handset and making a show of checking for the dial tone.
8
Monday, December 30, 1991
B utuzov and Ozers took turns manning the listening post; four hours on, four hours off, like naval watches. They both spoke decent Chechen, enough to understand the gist of conversations, if not their finer nuances. Much of the material was workaday and mundane—Karkadann discussing dinner arrangements with his wife, Karkadann arranging what sounded like a tryst with a mistress—but two dialogues were sufficiently interesting for Butuzov and Ozers to make transcripts in Russian and pass them on to Sabirzhan.
The first was a late-night disagreement—
another
disagreement, by the sound of it—between Karkadann and Ilmar about the wisdom of engaging the Slavic Mafia alliance in battle.
K: Are you working for those Slav fuckers or something? I don’t understand you.
I: And I don’t understand you. This is business, not a pissing contest.
K: This is war, and we’re going to win.
I: This is idiotic, and I tell you again: it’s not too late to use common sense.
The second, timed just before nine in the morning, was a brief exchange between Karkadann and Sharmukhamedov.
S: Boss, I’m off now.
K: When’s your flight?
S: Lunchtime; I can’t remember exactly what time.
K: And you’re back when?
S: Thursday.
K: New Year in Dubai, one man and his libido … I pity those poor Arab girls. Bring some of them back with you, yeah? I hear they’re lush.
S: Why else do you think I’m going?
K: You don’t like the girls I get you?
S: I’d like them better if you could get me sunshine and sand too.
Sabirzhan handed the transcript back to Ozers and nodded to them both. “Well done, lads.”
Sheremetyevo Airport is drab at the best of times, let alone on a sunless morning which spat uncertain flakes of snow as though the sky were trying to get rid of a bad taste. No wonder Sharmukhamedov was so looking forward to his holiday. Ozers and Butuzov prowled the airside beyond passport control and stepped smartly through drifts of arriving passengers. The foreigners penguin-walked with suitcases dangling from both hands
Lying on his back under the desk, Butuzov made a big show of unscrewing the wall socket and poking around among the wires in there; they’d taught him this at the KGB institute, of course, it was the kind of thing he could have done in his sleep. Even if Sharmukhamedov had been lying under the desk with him, he’d have seen nothing. Butuzov had the bug hidden between two fingers, and he simply pressed it among the wires as he fiddled, pushing hard to compensate for the shaking in his hand. But crawling on the floor with a telephone repairman was several notches below Sharmukhamedov’s dignity; he stood and watched, missed and failed.
Butuzov replaced the plastic covering on the socket and sat up fast. He was too much of a professional to wince in anticipation of his head hitting the underside of the table, even though he knew it would have to hurt if it was to be convincing. He spluttered a couple of expletives and rubbed his skull; a quick, almost imperceptible movement of his right hand from scalp to the underside of Karkadann’s desk and the second bug was in place, stuck fast in the middle of the table, far from the reach of straying hands. One device on the phone line and one in the room; all bases covered.
Butuzov emerged from under the table with a wince—his head really ached, there was nothing fake about that—and packed up his toolbox. Sharmukhamedov didn’t ask whether he was hurt.
“All done,” said Butuzov, picking up the handset and making a show of checking for the dial tone.
8
Monday, December 30, 1991
B utuzov and Ozers took turns manning the listening post; four hours on, four hours off, like naval watches. They both spoke decent Chechen, enough to understand the gist of conversations, if not their finer nuances. Much of the material was workaday and mundane—Karkadann discussing dinner arrangements with his wife, Karkadann arranging what sounded like a tryst with a mistress—but two dialogues were sufficiently interesting for Butuzov and Ozers to make transcripts in Russian and pass them on to Sabirzhan.
The first was a late-night disagreement—
another
disagreement, by the sound of it—between Karkadann and Ilmar about the wisdom of engaging the Slavic Mafia alliance in battle.
K: Are you working for those Slav fuckers or something? I don’t understand you.
I: And I don’t understand you. This is business, not a pissing contest.
K: This is war, and we’re going to win.
I: This is idiotic, and I tell you again: it’s not too late to use common sense.
The second, timed just before nine in the morning, was a brief exchange between Karkadann and Sharmukhamedov.
S: Boss, I’m off now.
K: When’s your flight?
S: Lunchtime; I can’t remember exactly what time.
K: And you’re back when?
S: Thursday.
K: New Year in Dubai, one man and his libido … I pity those poor Arab girls. Bring some of them back with you, yeah? I hear they’re lush.
S: Why else do you think I’m going?
K: You don’t like the girls I get you?
S: I’d like them better if you could get me sunshine and sand too.
Sabirzhan handed the transcript back to Ozers and nodded to them both. “Well done, lads.”
Sheremetyevo Airport is drab at the best of times, let alone on a sunless morning which spat uncertain flakes of snow as though the sky were trying to get rid of a bad taste. No wonder Sharmukhamedov was so looking forward to his holiday. Ozers and Butuzov prowled the airside beyond passport control and stepped smartly through drifts of arriving passengers. The foreigners penguin-walked with suitcases dangling from both hands
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