71
Scooping up the Beretta just as Timofayev’s security detail appeared, he took out the first two as they came through the door. He twisted a machine pistol out of the grip of one of the dying guards just as he heard the sound of running men. They came round the corner straight into a hail of bullets from Dima. Leaping over them, he made for the stairs, running into three more. Their momentary hesitation, as they found themselves confronted by a naked man wielding a gun, gave him enough time to down them too. And then he was in the street, naked, covered in Timofayev’s blood with just the night, the freezing rain, and — three blocks away — the sirens and blue lights of the police.
He flung himself at a cab dropping off a couple who looked like they were on their first date. At the sight of a naked, rain- and blood-splattered man holding a gun the girl held out her bag like a steak to a rabid dog, averting her eyes and bringing the evening traffic almost to a standstill.
‘There’s five hundred cash in there! Don’t hurt me!’
The boyfriend, Dima noticed, did not leap in front to shield her. First date and last, he thought. He reached inside the bag, pulled out a pack of tissues, pushed past the stunned boyfriend, shooed the taxi driver out of his seat and took off.
It was an old Volga with the usual terrible brakes. The wipers, also well past their prime, made slow and slimy progress across the windscreen, leaving a film that was almost as opaque as the half-frozen rain.
He crossed into the opposite lane, which alerted the drivers of the police cars now on his tail, so he swept back into the left lane and tried to camouflage himself amongst some other cabs. But they weren’t going fast enough. He took a right and found himself close to the Paveletsky Station, but a cop car cut him off. He flung the column shift into reverse and backed up a few feet, then rammed the cop car just as its two occupants were getting out. Then he shot up the street he had come out of and into a space between two office blocks. Two drunks were huddled over a bottle. He pulled up beside them, got out and pulled one of them to his feet.
‘Your clothes — for this taxi.’
Dima knew the offer would take time to sink in, so he ripped the sodden coat off his back. It would do.
‘Got any cash?’
‘What? We’re the fucking beggars.’
‘I’m giving you the taxi.’
Dima waved the machine pistol and they produced fifty roubles.
‘All this and you’re on the streets. You could find a roof with this.’
They looked at him in disgust. Dima took off down the alley and crossed several more streets, dodging the puddles and dog shit, before disappearing into a Metro station.
72
Bulganov’s goons took some persuading. It’s not every day an oligarch gets an unannounced visitor who is spattered with blood, wearing nothing but a piss-stained overcoat. They looked him up and down again, as his feet continued to bleed on to the pale mushroom carpet.
‘Where are your shoes then?’ said the larger of the two.
‘He’s expecting me.’ Dima spelled his name again. ‘I just spoke to him. I saved his daughter’s life, for fuck’s sake.’
Big goon and small goon conferred again and got on the phone, which prompted the arrival of a third. All bulk and no agility, the three of them were about as much use as paperweights. Dima could have floored them in seconds, but having just called in a big favour from their master he thought it might not go over well.
Eventually the private lift pinged behind them.
‘You can go up,’ said the third paperweight. ‘Leave the weapon.’
‘Whatever.’
Dima threw it to him: he caught it, but only just.
On the 45th floor Dima got out and Bulganov appeared, barrelling towards him, a large scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other. The apartment smelled of Chanel No. 19 and money.
‘Dima! My God, what have they done to you—?’
He got a whiff of the coat and stopped short.
‘Christ! Get in the shower, will you? You’re not getting on my plane smelling like that.’
The money was Bulganov, but the Chanel. .
Omorova was sitting on a white sofa below a small Picasso, her face a mixture of amusement and annoyance. He came forward but she batted him away.
When he emerged from the shower he found a dressing gown bearing the livery of the British soccer team Bulganov had recently acquired, and put it on. He updated Omorova, who glanced at her watch.
‘You’ve been back in Moscow — what? Seven hours. You’re a one-man crime wave.’
He raised his hands in submission.
‘I know: it’s been hectic.’
‘Thanks for my help? Don’t even mention it.’
‘Of course none of it would have been possible without you. Can I have that kiss now?’
‘My career is so over.’
‘You’re not bailing out?’
‘Dima, they probably won’t even let me back in the building.’
A butler appeared with a large bourbon for her and a Diet Coke for Dima. One minute you’re running naked through the streets, the next you’re on the 45th floor standing on silk carpet. A strange life. But then Dima had never had anything he could call normal. He raised his glass to them both, and the Picasso.
She took a big swig and crossed her legs.
‘Do that again,’ said Dima.
‘Piss off. Here’s your stuff.’
She opened her bag and produced the contents of his safety deposit box.
‘You think of everything.’
‘Someone has to.’
He did a quick inventory of the currencies and picked up the passports.
‘Ah, hello, old friends.’
‘I caught up with your man Rossin in Paris. He’s looked at all the staff at the Bourse: domestic and security, all clean.’