the next little bit

Zdravko made his way through the third floor calmness of Sofia Central Police station and opened the door to Lieutenant Gomenko’s office. The clock above Gomenko said 10.48am. Rusim was standing by the wall to the left, next to a pinned-up picture of the Lieutenant himself on holiday somewhere in the islands with a cocktail in hand. Zdravko walked straight for Rusim.
“You’re not really late,” said Gomenko in his Russian kind of way. Zdravko ignored that.
“Vladimir told me you’ve been on leave,” said Rusim after they’d given up hugging. “Some place down in Africa. I heard you gave up drinking.”
Zdravko shrugged. “Non-stop from Mozambique. I’m shattered. Good to see you,” he said.
“Maybe we should get to it,” suggested Rusim. Rusim was usually right. Or used to be. Maybe now he was just some alcoholic quarter-gypsy with hardly any hair except for a greying beard who lived with his wife and stepkids in Lower Malina. Now he was probably making gravestones in his spare time, or whatever it was people did in Lower Malina. Zdravko looked at Gomenko. Vladimir Gomenko looked back, a couple of folders in his hand. Zdravko took the files and handed one across to Rusim, taking the chance to squeak another good look at his old friend.
“I thought it would be a good idea to put you two together. Organise a small reunion,” said Gomenko. “And here we are.” He looked at his sleeve. “So gentlemen. Middle aged man escapes from Pazardjik prison. Two years into three for theft. Robert Gjoeb. Hungarian national resident in Bulgaria. Walks straight through the pine trees. Disappears like a brilliant idea in America.” Gomenko placed both his hands on the desk and half stood up. “Come with me,” he said. Then he stood up properly.