‘Take the feet,’ Sherenko told him.
Business not personal, O’Bramsky had said five years ago. Business not personal, Sherenko’s attitude and eyes said now. Bastard, Kincaid thought. He grabbed the woman’s feet, Sherenko the shoulders, and moved her so they could see the face of the male underneath. Kincaid straightened and glanced at the girl even though he did not want to. Beautiful girl, beautiful body. So what the hell is someone like her doing here? Why the hell is Sherenko staring at her as if he’d paid his money at a peepshow?
The smell crept over them, consumed them; the eyes and the limbs and the hair. They came to the end, made their way back, and began to check the bodies on the table along the left wall. Male, white flesh almost translucent, the arm broken at a grotesque angle, either before death or after. Female, needle marks up the arms and face half missing. They finished checking the bodies on the tables, bent down, and checked underneath. An arm brushed against Kincaid’s face.
They came to the trolleys in the middle, came closer to the girl. Female, so no need to check, but the body beneath her was male, so they had to touch her, handle her. Move her so they could see the face of the man across whose body her legs were spread.
They came to the end.
In forty seconds the footsteps would come down the corridor. ‘Sorry, my friend …’ Kincaid zipped up the bag and left.
The attendant swung the door back in place and sealed the dead back in their own world, then they went back down the white-tiled passageway and out through the metalled rusting door to the gloom at the bottom of the incline down.
‘Thanks.’ Sherenko pulled off the gloves, shook the attendant’s hand, handed him a business card and slid him a folded hundred-dollar bill. ‘Keep the photo. If he shows, let me know.’
The man disappeared back inside and pulled the door shut. Kincaid and Sherenko walked back up the slope, into the sun at the top, and drove away.
The thin girls were still playing tennis and the children were still climbing amongst the felled trees, the washing was still hanging on the balconies and the couple were sitting on the grass holding hands. Kincaid rolled down his side window and allowed the little wind there was to brush against his face. At the top Sherenko turned left and dropped toward the Profsojuznaja metro station, past the kiosk where he had bought the Stolichnaya, then turned right at the lights toward Leninski Prospekt. Five minutes later Red Square was on their left, on the other side of the river, the domes of St Basil’s sparkling in the evening sun and the walls and towers of the Kremlin behind it. They crossed the river and turned right, up one street and down another. The buildings were suddenly changing, a set of kiosks on a corner – better built kiosks, better-dressed people round them – music coming from somewhere, and shops on either side.
Sherenko pulled in, switched off the engine, got out, and sat against the bonnet, breathing deeply. A well-dressed couple passed them, passed the armed guard on the door to the club behind them. A black Mercedes pulled in and two men – smart haircuts and padded suits – got out and went inside. Kincaid stepped out of the BMW and drew the air into his lungs, ran his fingers through his hair again as if that would dispel the odour. Sherenko fetched the Stolichnaya from the glove compartment and leaned again against the bonnet, cracked open the top and took a long stogram.
Chert vozmi, Kincaid thought. Screw you. You didn’t stand in the morgue at Belle Vue, you had no idea what it means to go into a place like the morgue on C’urupy Ulica. He leaned across, wrenched the bottle from Sherenko’s grasp, and took a long pull.
Sherenko took the bottle back, emptied it, threw it in a bin at the side of a kiosk with tables in front, jerked into the driver’s seat and started the engine in one movement, and pulled away, barely waiting for Kincaid to get in.
‘Riley said you and Brady were showing me Moscow tonight.’ Sherenko’s eyes were fixed on the road in front.
Screw you, Sherenko, Kincaid thought again. Screw you, Joshua. ‘Yeah. Show you Moscow.’
When the two of them plus Brady arrived at the Santa Fe it was almost nine-thirty. The restaurant, in one of Moscow’s residential suburbs, was protected by tall white walls, BMWs and Mercedes were pulled in to the dust strip between the road and the wall, and the South Western American style double gates were slightly ajar, one guard outside and a second inside. Sherenko nodded at the guards and led Kincaid and Brady through. The restaurant was to the left, white-washed and Spanish style, with steps up to it.
The first bar was spacious, high ceilings and tables and chairs around the edge. All of those present were well-dressed, a mix of expats and Russians. They looked round, chose a table near the door, and smiled at the waitress who asked for their drink orders. Didn’t expect to find tequila and Tex-Mex in Moscow, Brady joked, and ordered a margarita. Same, Kincaid told the waitress. Three – Sherenko held up three fingers. Two minutes later the waitress brought the margaritas and took their orders: salsa dip, ribs and French fries, and San Miguels in the bottle.
‘Vashe zdorovye.’ Kincaid held up the glass.
The woman came in the door behind them, looked at Kincaid and Brady, allowed her eyes to settle on Sherenko, and walked through to the restaurant at the far end. She was mid-twenties, tall, dark hair immaculately groomed, high-heeled shoes and expensive dress.
Brady turned as she went past.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ Sherenko told him.
‘Why not?’
‘You couldn’t afford it.’
Brady was still watching the woman. ‘Why couldn’t I?’
The waitress cleared the cocktails and brought the San Miguels.
Sherenko rubbed the lime round the rim of the bottle. ‘To understand, you have to understand the new Russian women, some of whom you see here tonight.’ He waved his hand towards the rest of the bar, the movement controlled and economic. ‘Okay, some of them are working girls. Some of them are young, probably late teens, dressing up and trying to look good. Others are high-class, good lookers, good dressers. Probably born into the party. By which I mean the Communist Party.’
He took a pull of San Miguel and smiled as the waitress served them the tortilla chips and salsa.
‘There is, however, a third type. Probably slightly older. Late twenties, early thirties. Similar background, university educated and multi-lingual, but now running their own businesses, or at least successful in their chosen careers. High-earners and high-players, but not on the game.’ He played with the bottle. ‘A woman like this might be single or might still be married but is running the show, might have got fed up with her husband. Perhaps he drinks too much Stoli so she’s kicked him out.’
He looked at Kincaid. Too close to home – Kincaid felt the unease, though for Stolichnaya read Jack Daniels. Screw you, Sherenko.
Sherenko looked back at Brady. ‘So she works hard during the daytime and plays hard at night. Comes to a place like this – hell, you can see them, see the way they do it. They could make the catwalks in Milan without problems, but the fashion world doesn’t appeal because it’s not as much fun as here.’ Sherenko looked round the bar again and Kincaid realized the woman who had come in earlier was glancing at him. ‘So she comes in, looks round, decides who she likes the look of. Makes eye contact and they’ll eat, possibly dance. She might pay, he might pay, it doesn’t matter. Might take in a club, might do some dope. And if she fancies him then she’ll go to bed with him; if she doesn’t, she’ll say ciao.’ He paused slightly. ‘Takova zhizn.’ He threw back his head and hands in a slightly exaggerated manner. ‘I’m me and nobody else. Take me or leave me.’
Arrogant son-of-a-bitch, Kincaid thought again.
‘So why couldn’t I afford one?’ Brady asked.
‘You could still afford some of them, but not the high class girls, not the ones you’re really talking about.’