The Mountain Shadow

‘I completely get you,’ Oleg shouted. ‘Give me a hug.’

He dragged me to my feet, stronger than I’d guessed, and hugged me.

Fate never fights fair. Fate sneaks up on you. The world splashed through lakes of time, and each lake I fell through took me closer to a hug, wild and tender, from my lost brother, in Australia.

I shrugged free, and sat down again. He raised his hand to call for more beer, but I stopped him.

‘You’re unemployed?’ I asked.

‘I am. What are you offering?’

‘Three or four hours’ work.’

‘Starting when?’

‘Fairly close to now,’ I said.

‘What do I have to do?’

‘Fight your way in, maybe, and fight your way out, maybe. With me.’

‘Fight my way into what?’ he asked. ‘I don’t do banks.’

‘A house,’ I said.

‘Why do we have to fight our way in?’

‘Because the people inside don’t like me.’

‘Why?’

‘Do you give a shit?’

‘That’s beside the point.’

‘What point?’

‘All that money I lost tonight, in the bet,’ he said. ‘Double.’

‘Oh, that point. Fine. Are you in?’

‘Are we going to get killed?’

‘Do you give a shit?’

‘Of course I give a shit. I give a shit about you, and I only just met you.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘I’m Russian. We bond quickly.’

‘I mean, I don’t think we’ll get killed.’

‘Okay, so how many guys are we going up against?’

‘Three,’ I said. ‘But one of them, an Irishman named Concannon, is worth two.’

‘What nationality are the other two?’

‘What the fuck do you care?’

‘Nationality figures in the price, man,’ he said. ‘Everybody knows that.’

‘I didn’t do a census, but I heard a while back that he’s working with an Afghan, and an Indian guy. They might be there.’

‘So, there are three guys?’

‘Two guys, maybe, and an Irishman worth two.’

‘An Irishman, an Afghan, and an Indian?’

‘Could be.’

‘Against a Russian and an Australian,’ he mused.

‘If you want to see it that way.’

‘Double again.’

‘Double again?’

‘Chert, da.’

‘Why?’

‘An Afghan and a Russian in the same room, right now, is worth extra.’

‘Twelve grand to fight with me tonight? Forget it.’

Didier began to walk back toward our table. There was a spatter of applause, and he bowed to dinner patrons a few times before he sat.

‘Tell you what,’ Oleg said, leaning close, ‘I’ll come along, and if I don’t deliver, don’t pay me anything at all, but if I do, pay me my price.’

‘Didier, meet Oleg,’ I said. ‘You’re gonna love this guy.’

‘Enchanté, monsieur,’ Didier preened.

‘You don’t mind that I’m sitting here, monsieur?’ Oleg asked politely. ‘Considering that I came into your bar with a lunatic?’

‘Who has not walked into Leopold’s with a lunatic?’ Didier demurred. ‘And Didier can spot a man of character from fifty metres, and shoot him through the heart from the same distance.’

‘I can see that we’re going to get along very well,’ Oleg said, resting his arms on the table comfortably.

‘Waiter!’ Didier cried. ‘Another round!’

I raised my hand to stop the waiters.

‘We’re leaving, man,’ I said. ‘Are you okay?’

‘But, Lin!’ He pouted. ‘How can I share my triumph? Who will drink with me now?’

‘The next lunatic that walks through the door, brother,’ I said, giving him a hug.

Chapter Sixty

We rode to Parel, and the abandoned mills district. The information from the Tuareg put Concannon’s drug operation in a vacated factory complex, rented out in small private spaces.

The place was a ghost town at night, meaning that many people reported seeing ghosts in the vast network of factory huts after dark. Men and women had lived, worked and died in those acres for two generations, before the mills closed. You know what ghosts are? Johnny Cigar once said to me. Poor people, who die.

‘It looks deserted,’ Oleg said, as we parked the bike and walked toward the rows of grey, silent factories.

‘It mostly is, at night,’ I said. ‘He’s working from the fourth building. Factory 4A. Keep your voice down.’

We were keeping to a chain-link fence line, shadowed by billboards advertising get-broke-quick schemes for property and the stock market.

‘At the very least,’ Oleg whispered, ‘it’s damn good material for my writing.’

I stopped, and stopped Oleg with a palm on his chest.

‘Writing?’ I whispered.

‘Yeah.’

‘Are you a journalist, Oleg?’

‘Chert, net,’ he whispered.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means Hell, no, in Russian. It’s like the opposite of chert, da.’

‘You’re teaching me Russian, now?’ I whispered. ‘Are you a fucking journalist or not, Oleg?’

‘No, I’m a writer.’

‘A writer?’

‘Yes.’

‘A Russian writer? You’re kidding, right?’

‘Well, I’m a writer,’ he whispered. ‘And I’m Russian. So, I guess that makes me a Russian writer, if you want to think about it that way. Are we still going to the fight?’

I had my hands on my knees, leaning forward into a decision. I was trying to decide if I’d rather face the two-plus-two in factory 4A on my own, or with a Russian writer. It wasn’t an easy decision, but maybe that was just a writer thing.

‘A Russian writer,’ I whispered.

‘You’ve got something against Russian writers?’