and griped about the lack of carts. The Russians were almost invisible under mountains of boxes daubed with stylized drawings hinting at the contents within: cheeses and cognacs from Paris, children’s bicyclesfrom Abu Dhabi, Japanese stereos and video recorders from Frankfurt, discount computers from Prague. These cargo mules were ordinary workers who’d left Russia a few days earlier with all the savings they could muster, and were now returning in the hope that selling long-forbidden items from distant lands of plenty would recast them as wealthy merchants—as long as they could persuade bored customs officers that their goods were for personal use only, of course. Oratory usually failed; bribery usually succeeded.
There was only one flight to Dubai that day, and twenty dollars to the check-in girl had given Lev’s men a look at the passenger manifest. There he was: Baltazar Sharmukhamedov, traveling first class. Ozers and Butuzov had then visited the customs and excise officer to whom Lev paid a handsome annual retainer in return for ensuring that vodka imported by the 21st Century Association received an uninterrupted passage, and impressed on him that the retainer also covered the loan of two customs uniforms, the requisite area passes and a spare office.
All they had to do now was recognize Sharmukhamedov, which, since he was twice the size of everyone else, shouldn’t prove too taxing. Whether Sharmukhamedov would recognize Butuzov was a different matter. It was a risk, but Sharmukhamedov didn’t seem the type to have paid much mind to a menial telephone repairman, let alone one he’d never have expected to see again. In any case, Ozers and Butuzov had been obliged to formulate their plan on the hoof and there wasn’t time to change it now.
They found Sharmukhamedov striding toward the departure gate, taking two strides for everyone else’s three. He noticed them when they were still severalyards away, fanned out subtly but unmistakably to prevent him going anywhere but backward.
“Baltazar Sharmukhamedov?” Ozers was the one who spoke; he had the less threatening face. “Customs and excise. If you’d just come with us for a second?”
“What the fuck for?” Sharmukhamedov’s eyes glowered sapphire beneath beetle brows.
“Nothing serious, of course. It’s just that your boss has asked us to pass you an, er, an
item
, for your vacation, one he didn’t want going through the security checks, and we’d prefer not to do it in public.” Ozers looked almost apologetic, even overawed, as though dealing with gangsters was a huge but daunting thrill for a lowly customs officer.
“This item’s so big that it needs two of you to tell me?”
“We’re not performing this service for charity, you understand. My colleague will take the same commission I will; he doesn’t trust me not to pocket it all.”
Butuzov gave Sharmukhamedov a you-know-how-it-is smile, and saw no recognition whatever in the nod he received back. The Tsentralnaya had their tame officials at Sheremetyevo as much as any other gang; such cooperation was only to be expected. Sharmukhamedov would not have obeyed the orders of authority, but he
would
indulge them in a situation that showed the Tsentralnaya’s dominance.
If Sharmukhamedov hadn’t already been thinking of the beaches he was going to strut upon and the women he was going to fuck, perhaps he’d have been more suspicious; a man’s reactions are always conditioned by the mood he’s in. He gestured at Ozers to lead the way.
Ozers and Butuzov ushered Sharmukhamedov into their “office.” The room was small and minimallyfurnished: a table and three chairs hemmed in by olive walls, solitary window gazing disconsolately onto a row of generators. There was nothing on the table, and no closets. Sharmukhamedov was just starting to ask where this precious item was when Ozers unsheathed the truncheon from his belt and swung it in a wide arc, rising to the base of
There was only one flight to Dubai that day, and twenty dollars to the check-in girl had given Lev’s men a look at the passenger manifest. There he was: Baltazar Sharmukhamedov, traveling first class. Ozers and Butuzov had then visited the customs and excise officer to whom Lev paid a handsome annual retainer in return for ensuring that vodka imported by the 21st Century Association received an uninterrupted passage, and impressed on him that the retainer also covered the loan of two customs uniforms, the requisite area passes and a spare office.
All they had to do now was recognize Sharmukhamedov, which, since he was twice the size of everyone else, shouldn’t prove too taxing. Whether Sharmukhamedov would recognize Butuzov was a different matter. It was a risk, but Sharmukhamedov didn’t seem the type to have paid much mind to a menial telephone repairman, let alone one he’d never have expected to see again. In any case, Ozers and Butuzov had been obliged to formulate their plan on the hoof and there wasn’t time to change it now.
They found Sharmukhamedov striding toward the departure gate, taking two strides for everyone else’s three. He noticed them when they were still severalyards away, fanned out subtly but unmistakably to prevent him going anywhere but backward.
“Baltazar Sharmukhamedov?” Ozers was the one who spoke; he had the less threatening face. “Customs and excise. If you’d just come with us for a second?”
“What the fuck for?” Sharmukhamedov’s eyes glowered sapphire beneath beetle brows.
“Nothing serious, of course. It’s just that your boss has asked us to pass you an, er, an
item
, for your vacation, one he didn’t want going through the security checks, and we’d prefer not to do it in public.” Ozers looked almost apologetic, even overawed, as though dealing with gangsters was a huge but daunting thrill for a lowly customs officer.
“This item’s so big that it needs two of you to tell me?”
“We’re not performing this service for charity, you understand. My colleague will take the same commission I will; he doesn’t trust me not to pocket it all.”
Butuzov gave Sharmukhamedov a you-know-how-it-is smile, and saw no recognition whatever in the nod he received back. The Tsentralnaya had their tame officials at Sheremetyevo as much as any other gang; such cooperation was only to be expected. Sharmukhamedov would not have obeyed the orders of authority, but he
would
indulge them in a situation that showed the Tsentralnaya’s dominance.
If Sharmukhamedov hadn’t already been thinking of the beaches he was going to strut upon and the women he was going to fuck, perhaps he’d have been more suspicious; a man’s reactions are always conditioned by the mood he’s in. He gestured at Ozers to lead the way.
Ozers and Butuzov ushered Sharmukhamedov into their “office.” The room was small and minimallyfurnished: a table and three chairs hemmed in by olive walls, solitary window gazing disconsolately onto a row of generators. There was nothing on the table, and no closets. Sharmukhamedov was just starting to ask where this precious item was when Ozers unsheathed the truncheon from his belt and swung it in a wide arc, rising to the base of
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