Читать книгу A Bride of Allah - Сергей Бакшеев - Страница 17

Viktor Chervyakov stepped into the room and stared at Aiza. Vlasov came in behind him.

“Where are you going? Let’s get out of here!” Andrei literally pushed his neighbor into the hallway and closed the door. “What did you want?”

“I, um – » Viktor brought up the vodka bottle, “think we should have a drink.”

“Some other time.”

“Sure, some other time and now!” Viktor proceeded to the kitchen as if he owned the place. The bottom of the bottle plopped on the kitchen table’s plastic surface. The neighbor smiled. “Why put off until tomorrow what can be done today? With all this terrorism, I am in such a foul mood, I just don’t want to live!”

“You too, huh?” Andrei looked at his neighbor gloomily. “Then strap on some explosives and go see Basaev. A symmetric response.”

“Huh? I mean, what the hell is happening in Moscow? First, an airplane, now the metro. I’ve got to have a drink.”

“And everything will be alright?”

“You can’t blow up a metro station with vodka,” Viktor concluded seriously.

“Okay, let’s drink. Today was a stupid day indeed.”

Andrei pulled out two glasses and put them on both sides of a salad bowl. Forks chinked as he put them on the table, kitchen stools creaked, skillfully measured vodka gurgled.

“Okay, to health?” Viktor offered.

“Yeah.”

The buddies drank and ate some salad. Andrei cut up the bread he brought.

“Now we found a use for the bread,” Viktor smirked.

“Yeah,” Andrei gave another indeterminate answer. The troubled expression on his face made it obvious that his mind was elsewhere.

“Turn on the TV, the news is about to start.”

“Don’t want to; I’ve had enough. I’ve seen it live. Let’s have a quiet time,” Andrei answered quickly, putting away the remote.

Viktor poured another round. When they drank, he smiled slyly and asked, “Who’s that broad you got there?”

“Nobody,” Andrei shrugged. “I just met her today.”

“And right away, you dragged her home? A brave one. But she looks strange.”

“She’s sick.”

“Not in the head, accidentally?”

“Haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Wow! What’s her name?”

“Aiza,” Andrei signed calling out the unusual name.

“So she’s not Russian after all; I thought so! She’s not Chechen, is she? She looks like one!”

“So what if she is?” Vlasov flared up. “What do you care?”

“I can’t stand them, you know.”

“Who? Girls?”

“Of course not! The nosy Caucasians.”

“While working for Armenians?”

“I am a delivery driver. What am I to do if they took over the vodka business?”

“Find a job delivering sausages.”

“The best sausage is vodka. It feels you up and makes you happy. And Armenians aren’t like Chechens or Azeris. But I don’t like them, either. And I take my revenge on them! In my own way. They suffer!” He flicked on the bottle. “I get by.”

“You’re stealing?”

“Not from the government; only from the Armenians. May they rot in hell!”

“And if your company gets bought by Russians tomorrow, will you stop pilfering?”

“Let it go, okay? I don’t bring home swarthy women.”

“And I just did! Okay, let’s have another drink.”

“That’s better.”

Vityok tossed back another one, leaned forward, and squinted, “Have you forgotten how you wanted to kill all Chechen women? It wasn’t that long ago. Back when the Nord Ost thing went down. You even asked me for an address. Remember? For the first victim.”

Vlasov slowly wiped his moist lips with a palm of his hand; he dropped his head onto his interlocked fists. Little knots of muscles bulged on his wrists. While in service, he realized a terrifying truth: killing people is not very difficult.

One can actually get used to it.

I have to avenge! They killed, and so must I! I’ll kill! Vlasov kept telling himself on his way home.

He didn’t remember coming home from the theater held by terrorists after leaving a threatening note on the TV van. In his empty head, only one thought rolled around ringing like a steel ball, They’ve killed Sveta! I’ll avenge her! I’ll avenge!

His eyes saw the number on his apartment door, but the hand holding the keys went back into his pocket. His hard-to-control body rocked hesitantly and turned to the neighbor’s door. His tense finger kept pressing the doorbell button even after the door opened.

Viktor Chervyakov, the neighbor, looked at Andrei hardly recognizing him. His buddy’s dull eyes, it seemed, looked inward; his stooping figure oozed cold like a stone statue. Chervyakov’s hand took Vlasov’s wrist and pulled the petrified hand off the doorbell button.

“Are you crazy?”

Vlasov’s eyes lost some of their sticky dullness; he recognized his neighbor and gloomily came closer. His hand grabbed at the shirt on Viktor’s chest; his sunken stubbly cheekbones started moving nervously.

“Where is she? Where is that bitch?”

“Who? You really need to sleep it off.”

“That Chechen woman. With the kids. Where is she?”

“What Chechen woman?”

“She used to live in our building.”

“Let go, will ya?”

“She was renting an apartment here. She’s been driven out after the house explosions in Moscow. You brought your truck to help her move.”

Andrei lowered his hand. Viktor straightened his shirt and flexed his neck.

“Oh, that one. She hired me all right.”

“Where is she now?”

“What do you want with her?”

Andrei suddenly exploded.

“They kill, so I will kill, too! Baraev spilled blood first! Now it’s my turn.”

“Quiet, you! Don’t yell.” Viktor stuck his head out, looked around, and pulled Andrei into the apartment. The door lock clicked. “This is serious; you can’t do it on the spur of the moment.”

He carefully looked over his neighbor, as if trying to figure something out, then asked quietly, “You want your revenge?”

“Yes,” Vlasov exhaled.

“Kill?”

Andrei nodded curtly. Viktor rubbed his hands nervously; his eyes shifted around looking for something usual and necessary.

“Come into the kitchen. Let’s talk.”

In the kitchen, Viktor took an opened bottle of vodka out of the refrigerator and poured generously into the glasses. They drank in silence, without clanking the glasses.

“Good decision, Andryukha. I would do it myself! But you’d be better at it.”

“Where does she live?”

“Why do you want her?”

“I don’t care, as long as she’s Chechen.”

Viktor took a pause, but not a long one.

“Okay, I’ll tell you. But don’t get me involved.”

“I can handle it myself.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. If something goes wrong… don’t tell on me.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not a baby.”

“Good deal; now listen.”

Viktor gave detailed directions on finding the building and apartment to which he moved the Chechen single mother with children.

“Just don’t do anything rash! Do it properly,” the neighbor urged before saying goodbye.

“I’ll manage,” Vlasov promised heading out.

“When?”

“Now.”

“Maybe – » Chervyakov started to worry.

Andrei turned around abruptly and pulled Victor closer.

“He started it. Now it’s my turn.”

“Of course,” Viktor mumbled, shivering as he took in his buddy’s insane look.

The neighbors said their goodbyes at the apartment’s front door. Viktor Chervyakov stood still and listened to the heavy stomping of his old buddy Andrei Vlasov’s shoes. The footsteps were getting more distant, but not dying down. Then, the building entrance door slammed resonantly. In the silence that ensued, Viktor, trying to control the shivers of excitement, knocked on the wood of the doorframe three times; he wanted Andrei to succeed.

If everything goes right, he’d throw another address his neighbor’s way. After all, the swarthy did take over mother Moscow!