Hot Siberian (51 page)

Nikolai stood. Vivian remained seated. She leaned against his leg, hugged it, and that made him feel good, depended upon. He studied the blue tractor. It was, he noticed, not just a pulling-pushing thing but was equipped with special attachments. He couldn't make out what those were at this distance, but from the work the tractor had done in that pink section he could guess. The pink blossoms the tractor and its attachments had decapitated were strewn all along the rows.

Caws of crows, mocking.

A bumblebee, its legs already burdened with pollen, hovered indecisively over one of the nearby whites before diving into it.

Vivian's bare thighs had been streaked with the syrupy fluid from broken stems. Flaky dry now, it resembled semen. She scraped at it with a thumbnail.

Nikolai needed to assess the situation. He went to the adjacent side of the bin and peeked around the edge. His optimism expected to see only the expanse of tulips, but there little more than fifty rows away was one of the killers. The heavier-set man. He was moving swiftly in a crouch, alert but not searching, as though sure of his objective. His course was a roundabout sweeping one in relationship to the bin. No doubt the bin was what he had in mind. Meanwhile, approximately the same distance away on the far left was the woman. She was making the same sort of wide sweeping approach in the direction of the bin. They intended to pincer, close in from opposite directions and have Nikolai and Vivian caught in a crossfire. The fucking gate, Nikolai thought. The noise it made had given them away. He hurried back to tell Vivian. She got that angry-frightened look in her eyes again. She took her Beretta off safety, made sure there was a round in the chamber and that the silencer was screwed on tight. She was ready to make a stand, use the bin for cover and let the killers come. That was one option. Nikolai hastily suggested another. He'd go for the tractor. There was no way of getting to it without being seen, so he'd use that to advantage, make an obvious run for it. Vivian would stay, go into the bin and keep out of sight. No matter what, she wasn't to fire. The killers would be drawn to him. They'd run after him, and when they did, when they were committed surely to that and were far out in the pinks, Vivian would make a dash for the inn and the BMW. Did she have that straight?

Vivian nodded compliantly.

“Don't worry,” he told her, “I'll make the tractor.” To himself he added: And if I do I hope to hell there's a key in it.

He didn't kiss her; even a peck would have admitted to a farewell. He turned and bolted and let out a primitive attention-getting battle cry as he tore through the remaining rows of whites and on through the pinks, sprinting for the tractor. He didn't look back, just went all out for it. He figured the only edge he had was that the killers would either have to fire on the run or stop and take aim. On the run they'd be less accurate. While they stopped to aim he'd be widening the gap. Their bullets were smacking around him now, slitting through the foliage close by. He zigged and zagged like a foot soldier on the attack. He believed he felt a bullet brush the fabric of his windbreaker. He hadn't thought he'd get this far without being shot in the back. How much farther to the tractor? A hundred yards? The mounds of the rows and the depressions between the rows were fighting him. So were these pink tulips. The mounds seemed to be getting higher, the depressions deeper, the tulips thicker. He'd never run so hard. He wasn't used to it. The good London living had taken its toll. There was burning in his lungs because he couldn't get any air down to them. And now, suddenly, a sharp shooting ache in his right side. But the bullets were spitting at him from behind and survival was hung like a sweet out in front of him, compelling him on. He stumbled several times but refused to fall. He loathed the tulips by now. They seemed to want to play a part in his death, the way they grabbed at his legs as he forced through them. He'd never reach the tractor. He'd never reach it, never.

Then he had. He had some part of the bright blue metal of it in his grasp. It was glad to support him. It didn't mind that he brought bullets ricocheting off its hard body. Its other side offered protection. He drew out his Sig. His hand was shaking. He sighted back at his adversaries.

There was Vivian.

On the ground twenty feet from the tractor. She was slithering along reptilelike, trying to get to it. She appeared in pain. Nikolai feared the worst. He crawled out to her and dragged her in. Asked where she was hit. All she could do was shake her head to let him know she wasn't hit, only winded. As further assurance she managed an on-and-off smile. She'd run in his tracks, nearly kept up, would have made it had not fatigue and some of those bloddy blooming tulips caused her to fall.

Shielded by the tractor, Nikolai again looked back over the field for the two killers. That catch in his side was still bothering him. In fact, it was sharper now. It would go away when he got his breath entirely back, he thought. He reached in under his windbreaker to massage the spot, believing that might help. At once he withdrew his hand. It was wet, sticky wet and bright red. There was no way he could determine how badly wounded he was without examining his side. He didn't want to, didn't want to know, didn't want Vivian to know. What difference, anyway, would knowing make? If he was wounded seriously enough to die, then he was going to die. There'd be no rescuing ambulance and instant transfusions out there in remote tulipland. If he had to get hit, why hadn't he gotten hit in the leg or arm so he could have applied a tourniquet? Blasted luck. Anyway, he didn't yet feel woozy or weak. He felt even more ready than before to take these bastards on. Where were they? He scanned the pinks and the whites. They should be in there somewhere. No doubt they were. Keeping down for the moment, deliberating their next move. Was it an illusion, or had a change come over the tulips? They seemed strangely inert. The near pinks explained the impression. The six petals of each blossom had opened as wide as possible to the higher sun and were basking, drowsing. Uninhibited now, their pistils and stamens exposed like genitals. The tulips that had been so involved in this confrontation were now disregarding it with insolent ennui.

The key was in the ignition of the tractor.

Nikolai climbed up onto the bright blue plastic seat. He glanced briefly at the controls, the foot pedals. He was supposed to know about tractors. Russians were practically synonymous with tractors. He'd driven one once. For a quarter of a mile from a beet field to a barn, because he'd been asked to and hadn't wanted to admit he couldn't. That was seventeen years ago during one of those summers when he'd helped with the harvest on a state farm in Vetuchna only because in the future it would look good in his
trudovaya knizhka
, his workbook. The tractor then had been a Chaika, cumbersome and simple—two speeds forward: slow and not quite so slow. This tractor he was now on had eight forward speeds and numerous levers and switches with no indication of which was for what. He couldn't take much time to figure it out. He was a sitting target up there. One of the killers would soon rise up and pick him off.

He shoved in what had to be the clutch pedal and turned on the ignition. The tractor exploded from its exhaust several times as though before doing anything it had to get rid of its flatulence. Nikolai eased the hand throttle down to race the engine and get it firing on all cylinders. Vivian climbed up. He moved forward on the seat to make room for her. She fit herself snug against his back, her pelvic mound pressed to his tailbone, her arms around his chest. Like a motorcycle moll, except there was no place to put her legs. She couldn't double them up, had to extend them ahead and hope they were out of the way.

Nikolai released the clutch. The tractor lurched forward and stalled. He had it in too high a gear. He quickly restarted and shifted the stick to a different position. When he let out the clutch this time the tractor lurched again but not nearly so much. He nursed it with some throttle and kept it going, and it rolled ahead slowly. Christ, but they were vulnerable up there. Only minutes ago they'd been crawling around hugging the ground for dear life and now here they were high up, flagrantly exposed. Why weren't the killers taking potshots at them? Nikolai wondered. Perhaps they weren't all that close, were hiding in wait for a surer opportunity, probably somewhere in the vicinity of the bin. In that case he'd steer clear of them.

He got as sharp a turn as possible out of the tractor, then straightened its wheels to be on a course that would skirt the bin by a good two hundred feet. He double-clutched and shifted to a higher gear. His intent was to make a run for the inn and the BMW, leave the killers thrashing about in the tulips. It would be a rough trip. Going straight across the humps of the rows at ten miles an hour the tractor pitched and tossed violently, seemed to be making a furious effort to throw them off. Nikolai hung on to the steering wheel and Vivian hung on to him. It was while her feet were trying to find something to brace themselves on that she inadvertently kicked the lever that lowered the cutting attachment. It fell and locked into a horizontal position straight out like an arm from the right side of the tractor. It didn't have serrations, teeth, or even any moving parts. It was like a razor about six feet long with a slightly curved steel blade contained in a holder so that its forward edge was the cutting edge. The blade was honed exceptionally sharp in order to sever blossoms from the pliant stems cleanly. It was now decapitating blossoms from the whites within its reach as the tractor bucked across one, two, three, four rows.

The heavyset killer sprang up.

Less than two rows, ten feet, away. Slightly off to the right, in perfect position to make the kill. He had both hands around his .44 Galesi magnum to steady it.

He didn't see the blade. It was coming at blossom level, somewhat obscured, and, as well, he was concentrating totally on making the shot. He had just squeezed the slack from the trigger when the blade reached him. It sliced simultaneously into both his thighs. Within a few hundredths of a second it was through his skin, the superficial and the deep fascia, through the abductor magnus, quadriceps femoris, and the other muscles there. Through the nerves and blood vessels, including the femoral arteries. It had no regard for bones, sliced cleanly through both femurs and all, and continued right on to literally cut his legs out from under him and leave him in three parts among the whites.

It was better for Nikolai and Vivian that it happened so swiftly. Neither saw much of it. In fact, Vivian thought the tractor had merely run down the killer and that it served him right. Nikolai knew better but would never tell her. He kept the tractor headed for the inn. There was still the last of the killers to contend with, the woman.

Nikolai spotted her.

Far off to his left between rows of whites. She was running away. Nikolai stopped the tractor and watched her diminish as she got farther and farther off. He wondered if she would look back. She reached the distant edge of the field that ran parallel with the road, scrambled through the fence, and disappeared into some bushes. A moment later there was the sound of a car door slammed, an engine turning over, tires making gravel fly. The maroon Saab sped out of sight.

Nikolai and Vivian climbed down from the tractor. He took off his windbreaker. His shirt on the right side was sopped with blood.

Vivian uttered a little
ooh
.

He gingerly pulled his shirt up out of his trousers. The wound was just below the rib cage and somewhat around back. He couldn't see it all that well. Vivian used the tail of his shirt to wipe and blot away the blood. He watched her face while she examined the wound. Her reaction would give the wound its due, he thought. He'd know by her reaction if it was terribly serious.

She looked at it for quite a while. Cocked her head one way, then the other as she considered and poked around it with a finger. Finally, she shrugged and told him: “It needs tending, but it's hardly a nick, Nick. Actually it almost doesn't qualify as a graze. You're a prolific bleeder, but I'll bet there won't even be a scar to show for it.” Then in contradiction to her indifference she kissed the wound tenderly, and there was blood on her lips that her tongue came out and licked away.

It occurred to Nikolai that there where they'd stopped was in the vicinity of the youthful-looking killer's body. He found it four rows away. It was distasteful for him to touch it but he searched the pockets and found some florins and pounds and a British passport issued two years ago to Charles Smith of Liverpool. Nikolai came close to overlooking the tattoo. He just happened to notice it on the man's forearm. A blue heart with a scroll across it inscribed with one word: MATb. That the man had the word “mother” in Cyrillic on his arm and a Charles Smith passport in his pocket was certainly incongruous, and cause for thought.

CHAPTER

27

“
AN APOLOGY SEEMS SO INADEQUATE
.”

“It shouldn't,” Savich said. “Not when it's truly offered.”

“What matters is that you realize your confidence in me wasn't entirely misplaced.”

“Nikolai, why don't you come to Moscow? For a day or two. I know how much you dislike being away from your Vivian, but it might help if we could see each other's eyes while we speak.”

“You already know the motive for my actions.”

“I believe I do.”

“Obviously I have no vindicating excuse. However, there are certain circumstances that I'd like to bring to light.”

“So, come.”

Nikolai was tempted. He imagined recapturing the feeling of being special and secure that he'd had when he'd visited Savich two weeks ago. He also imagined being met at Sheremetyevo Airport again. This time, however, not by Savich's limousine and driver but by a khaki-colored Volga sedan and two or three MVDs. A flight to Moscow now might never be a round trip. He came close to telling Savich that. Instead he told him: “I was hoping you might be coming to London soon.”