No Tomorrow (5 page)

T
he air was hot and heavy and loud. There was no music playing, but the dense mass of people, discretion eroded by alcohol, all shouted to be heard over each other. It was warm, heating on full blast to fight off the winter outside, and several dozen people were packed inside, drinking and eating bar food. Coat stands near the main entrance were overloaded. A barman mixed cocktails while flirting with a group of young women in heels that could easily kill if employed with a modicum of skill. He wore a bow tie. An ice sculpture of what Victor guessed used to be a naked woman melted slowly behind the bar. The patrons wore stylish clothes and business attire, now wrinkled and disheveled after a few hours of postwork partying. Victor had never had a day job. He'd never worked nine to five. He knew he would go insane confined in an office all day. Assuming he wasn't already insane.

There were no unoccupied tables and only enough room at the bar itself for one elbow. That wasn't an accident. The man he was here to meet could have selected
any number of quieter locations. He wanted to be surrounded by people. This time it was purely for his own protection and nothing to do with trying to convince Victor his intentions were not angled toward violence.

Experience suggested to Victor this wasn't a setup. Had he any intimation that it was, he wouldn't have come this far. But he maintained a heightened vigilance. He kept himself ready to act—to fight and run. In his line of work it was the unexpected that was most dangerous. There was nothing to lose if taken by surprise by innocent actions.

Dropping the two outside had been insurance. If he had to make a fast exit he would not be interrupted going out of the rear entrance. Or, should things go bad before he had the opportunity to get out, there would be two fewer Goliaths to flank him. A quick scan of the room revealed another four guards. They were all as big and serious-looking as the two standing out front or the two prostrate ones out back had been. That made a security detail of eight. A serious display of strength, but Victor had expected more. If there were others here he hadn't identified or if they were hidden elsewhere, things could get ugly. But if eight was the total, then so far the situation was manageable. He'd already disabled twenty-five percent of the opposition.

The closest stood up, surprised and unsettled as he noticed Victor without a heads-up from the sentries outside the rear entrance. The guard called out to be heard over the din of patrons and gestured to a nearby guard, who then did the same to another. Within twenty seconds all four were standing and staring Victor's way. They were aggressive and ready to attack, but restrained—attack dogs behind a fence.

Victor made eye contact with each in turn so they knew he was aware of them and approached the corner booth they shielded in a loose semicircle. He weaved his way through the crowd and between tables. He was intercepted by one of the guards. He was a giant, even compared to the rest of the security detail. He was a shade off six-six and almost three hundred pounds. He'd been around twenty pounds lighter when Victor had first met him a couple of years beforehand. He'd also been somewhat less ugly.

“How's the ear, Sergei?” Victor asked.

To his credit, Sergei maintained an even expression. He pivoted his head to the right so Victor could see his right ear. It was twisted and unsightly where it had been sewn back together, with a ragged knot of discolored scar tissue across the center.

Victor said, “You can't even tell.”

Sergei frowned. The bunched-up jaw muscles looked as though they might pop through the skin. He gestured for Victor to raise his arms.

“I was searched outside.”

“And now we are inside,” Sergei countered. “So raise your hands. Please.”

Victor did. He stood motionless while he was patted down. Sergei's hands were huge and his technique was rough but also effective. He now knew Victor had no weapon and to which side he dressed.

Sergei said, a measure of surprise in his tone, “You're clean.”

“Then why do I feel so dirty?”

Something resembling a smile creased Sergei's face. “Some of the boys had a bet on whether you'd show.”

“Did you?”

“I don't gamble. I'm not stupid. But I didn't think you would.”

Victor waited a moment in case Sergei had anything else to say, then asked, “Are we done?”

“I want to tear your face off.”

“You'll have to join the queue, I'm afraid.”

He stepped past Sergei, who did nothing to stop him, and approached the booth where Aleksandr Norimov sat.

N
orimov was nearly as big as the guys guarding him but he was more out of shape than Victor had ever seen him. The once huge shoulders now relied on the pads of the good suit to square his posture. That suit did its best to conceal the excess bulk stored elsewhere but couldn't disguise the white shirt stretched taut across his stomach. Light pooled on the Russian's bald head. The face beneath was lined and pale. His expression was blank. He knew how to hide his thoughts as well as Victor. He had been a good intelligence officer before turning to organized crime. He could have been scared or delighted or anything in between. Victor wouldn't know until he started talking. Maybe not even then. He reminded himself that Norimov was perhaps the best liar he had ever known.

The Russian acknowledged Victor with a slight raise of the chin. “You're earlier than I expected.”

“Naturally.”

“Even after your call I didn't think you'd really show.”

“Neither did I.”

Norimov nodded, thoughtful. “Thank you for doing so.”

Victor said nothing to that.

Sergei stood close by, behind Victor. Within grabbing distance, should he need to.

To Norimov's right, a young woman at least twenty-five years his junior slouched on the cushioned bench. She was barely clothed and heavily made up. Her chin was close to her chest. She didn't look up, but Victor could see the struggle it was for her to keep her eyelids from closing. A few milliliters of a cosmopolitan with a sliver of burned orange rind sat in the bottom of a martini glass on the table before her.

“Give us some privacy,” Norimov said to Sergei.

He hesitated. “Are you sure, boss?”

“I said so, did I not?” He didn't wait for a reply. “And take Nadia with you.”

Victor stepped aside to let Sergei pass, one arm wrapped around Nadia's tiny waist and carrying her as effortlessly as Victor would an attaché case. She made a low murmur, but no words passed her lips. Her arms and legs hung as loose as her hair.

“Charming lady,” Victor said as he slid onto the padded bench opposite Norimov.

The Russian sat back, and in doing so gave Victor the first indication of his mind-set: he was instinctively creating distance because he was afraid. Or pretending to be. Scared, or calculating and manipulative. There was no way of knowing.

“I hate bars like this,” Norimov said. “We've adopted the West's pretension with a disturbing amount of relish. A bar should be a hole. It should be a dark, squalid place full of stinking, hairy men. You should go there to get
drunk and talk nonsense and fight, not sip cocktails and pose half-naked.” He sighed. “I didn't think you would come.”

“You've already said that.”

“Take it as an indicator of my surprise that you're here. I never thought I'd see you again.”

“You said something similar when last we met.”

“I did?” He sighed again. “You don't know it yet, and no one ever told me at your age, but eventually you'll reach a point in life where you have no new thoughts, you experience no new sensations. Everything you do, everything you say, you've done and said a thousand times before. And then you have the indignity of spending the rest of your days as a broken fucking record.”

He pushed the martini glass to one side, using the back of his hand out of the same habit as Victor had. There were no other glasses on the table.

Norimov said, “I apologize for the language.”

“There's no need.”

“I forgot how you feel about it. I truly am sorry.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“What was it you used to say? Swearing is an expression of anger. When we swear we're admitting we've lost control. Something like that, right?”

“Something like that.”

“Sounded like rubbish then. Now I'm not so sure. You might have a point. Your Russian is still excellent, by the way. I thought it might have suffered with your absence.”

Victor didn't comment. He caught the gaze of a waitress who had finished serving a nearby table and motioned her over. He said to Norimov, “You don't mind if I eat, do you?”

The Russian looked shocked, but shook his head. “You never cease to amaze me, but be my guest.”

“Hi,” the waitress said.

Victor said, “Can I trouble you for a steak, please?”

“Of course you can. How do you want that cooked?”

“Extra rare.”

The waitress raised her eyebrows at him. “
Extra
rare?”

“If it's not still mooing, then I'm sending it back.”

She smiled, but he didn't know if she thought he was funny or crazy. Either was acceptable. “Anything to drink with that?”

“Black tea and a large bourbon—whatever's cheapest. No ice.”

She scribbled the order down on a little pad. “Sure.”

Norimov shook his head when she faced him. After she'd left, he said to Victor, “There's no reason to slum it. Drink whatever you want. I'll get the bill. I'd planned to cover all your expenses. You can have a bottle, if you want.”

“That isn't necessary.” He gestured to the empty tabletop before Norimov. “It's not like you to be without a Scotch.”

“I don't drink.”

“Since when?”

Norimov shrugged. “I don't know. A while.”

“Then why meet in a bar?”

“You know why.”

“I know two reasons why,” Victor said. “But they're not mutually exclusive.”

“Then why even come if you're convinced I want you dead?”

“Let's call it curiosity.”

“Curiosity?”

“You know me well enough to know I'd expect an ambush. And the last thing you want is for me to think this is an ambush. It's far too soon for you to have forgotten what happened when you helped organize that attempt on my life.”

Norimov shifted on his seat. “You must know I had no choice.”

“You mean when you set me up? There's always a choice.”

“If you really believe that, then why are you here?”

“I have nothing better to do.”

“If that's true, Vasily, then I feel sorry for you.”

Victor started to rise from his seat. “I'm happy to go and find something more fun, if you're so concerned about me. The manager of my hotel finishes her shift soon.”

Norimov tensed. His eyes widened. “No, no. I'm sorry, Vasily. . . . Please stay.”

Victor sat back down. Test complete and a little more knowledge of the situation acquired.

“It is still Vasily, isn't it?” Norimov asked.

“You know it's not. I haven't used that name for a long time.”

Norimov placed his palms on the tabletop and shuffled into a more comfortable position. “You should stick with it. I like it. It suits you.”

“It served me well enough in its time, but that time has passed. A name is just a tool and no tool endures forever.”

“I don't know how you do it. Who do you see when you look in the mirror?”

“I see the specular reflection of light.”

Norimov huffed and almost smiled. A few years ago
he would have laughed. Victor was curious as to what had changed.

“Let me pay for your meal. Please. It's the least I can do after you've come all this way to see me. I know you've put yourself at risk.”

“Every day carries risk. This is no different.”

“Regardless, I appreciate it.” When Victor didn't respond, Norimov said, “So, what shall I call you?”

“Vasily, of course.”

“‘Of course,' you say, as though there is no other option, as if there is no other name you go by, as if there are not a hundred of them.”

“One name is as good as any other.”

“Tell that to my father,” Norimov said. “He named me after Alexander the Great. He believed that a name defines who we are. He believed naming me Alexander would mean I strived for the greatest.”

“And did you?”

Norimov smirked a little. “Maybe once. But it was a heavy mantle to wear across one's shoulders. Maybe I . . .” He stopped himself and regarded Victor for a moment. “I wonder what your father thought when you were named.”

“I don't believe I had a father.”

“Mother, then.”

“I don't believe I had one of those either.”

Norimov smiled. “How's that uncle of yours?”

“I buried him a long time ago.”

“Did you . . . ?”

Victor shook his head.

Norimov said, “You should have.”

Victor didn't respond.

“If I remember correctly you chose Vasily because of
the sniper. Yes? Vasily Zaytsev, wasn't it? I seem to recall you always had your head in some book about some old war or soldier.”

“Reading is exercise for the mind.”

“People used to be terrified of the name Vasily. Sometimes just saying it was enough to get what I wanted. You were a legend, my boy.”

“The reason I left.”

“I know.” Norimov's gaze seemed to peer through him, as if he could read the lie as easily as he could lie himself. Then the Russian's face softened and he said, “It was the right thing to do. That reputation, that infamy, was going to get you killed eventually. Good that you realized that before it was too late.”

“A lesson I'm never going to forget.”

“You enjoyed it for a while, though, didn't you? Vasily the Killer. Death himself.”

“The arrogance of youth.”

“The young should be arrogant. If we're not full of ourselves when we don't know any better, then when can we be?” Norimov sat back. “You're a little bigger than when I last saw you. In a good way, I mean. You look good generally. You look healthy.”

“You don't.”

The Russian turned up a corner of his mouth. “I stopped drinking. I stopped taking care of myself. I stopped doing a lot of things.”

“No wonder you look so happy.”

He grunted. “And what about you, my boy? How are you spending your life? And don't say work. Even you take time off now and again.”

“In the solace of wine, women, and the certain knowledge that life is pointless.”

“That sounds uncharacteristically melancholy of you.”

“You haven't seen the women.”

Norimov chuckled—a deep, throaty sound.

Victor said, “I thought you'd given up laughing too.”

The smile slipped from Norimov's face. Victor stared at him for a moment. Norimov looked old. He was some ten years Victor's senior, but in that instant he seemed double that. His skin had always been pale, but now it was also thin and fragile. His eyes, small and permanently shadowed in deep sockets, were dull. The only sign of life in them was pain and fear.

“What's this about, Alek?”

Norimov didn't answer straightaway. His lips parted and he inhaled, but only a sigh escaped them. He tried again, and said, “Someone wants me dead.”