Every bit of ash has a life of its own. Gets brushed off. Flies along. Runs away. Disappears. Joins an army somewhere.
Maybe Antonov knew where he was going.
And none of those folk-dancing kids were in any way related, if you believed that kind of shit from above.
Maybe Gjoeb was the sound guy, slash chauffeur, researching adolescent folk-dance.
And maybe Gomenko wasn’t really an asshole.
Maybe that log seat was awake and could remember the entire thoughts of a forest.
Maybe the barman knew nothing.
The Bentley was a fake.
And people were allowed to escape from prison.
One thing though. Georgieva was right to be a legalised sociopath. That way, she put the lie to reality.
Zdravko waited in the Opel, parked up in ul. Gurko not fifty metres west of the Grand Hotel, and facing away. It was near one o’clock in the morning. So as not to attract attention, Rusim smoked a cigarette with the window down. He also had the stereo on. Eighties Iranian club sounds. Or something like that.
“La Pulga,” said Rusim looking in the mirror. “Here he is.”
Zdravko checked the passenger side mirror but the hotel entrance was empty.
“Two girls and a cigar,” said Rusim.
“Let’s give him a second then.”
“I’m gonna take a look,” said Rusim. He got out of the car and flicked his cigarette into the night. Zdravko kept his eye on the side mirror. Antonov was walking in The Grand Hotel with a girl on either arm. “Antonov’s here,” Zdravko said talking into his microphone. “Couple of girls.” He got out and ran. For a round shouldered, phlegmatic forty two year old, his movements were surprisingly graceful and quick. Within a few seconds he was beside the hotel entrance. Rusim was dancing across the street.
The purple-uniformed doorman stepped aside at the sight of two pistols pointed slightly forward of his shoes.
Inside the lobby, things were getting tense. Antonov and the two girls were motionless facing the lift. Georgieva was in the lobby, Petrov in front of reception. Both had their weapons trained on Antonov. The reception staff had miraculously disappeared. One of the hookers had her face in her hands. Antonov and the other girl had their hands wavering behind their heads.
“Get out of here, ladies,” said Georgieva. Rusim, his Makarov still levelled at the floor, shifted in the direction of the lobby. Zdravko stayed at the entrance door. For some reason, the two ladies stayed put.
“Don’t shoot,” said the girl who didn’t have her face in her hands.
“What’s your name, honey?” said Georgieva.
“Nadejda.”
“That’s a lovely name. Tell your friend it’s gonna be alright. We need everyone just to be alive. Why don’t you reach over, take the…” The lift door opened. “Grab your friend and walk into that lift.”
The girl with the name reached over, took the other girl’s hand out of her face, and together they walked into the lift.
“Now press the button that says two. You’ll be OK.”
The lift door closed.
“Now turn around slowly,” said Georgieva to Antonov in a more serious tone.
Antonov stood motionless.
“Turn around or I’ll put a bullet in your back.” Georgieva’s voice had taken on the tone of the lift.
Petrov raised his gun a fraction higher. “Turn around and on the floor, motherfucker.”
Then Antonov did a strange thing. He lowered his arms to the horizontal. Like Jesus on the cross, except he was back to front and dressed in a tuxedo. And then he swivelled round so fast that Petrov got a fright and let off a round. Antonov crashed sideways onto the tiled floor.
Petrov swivelled around like there might be someone looking. Georgieva walked up to take a closer look. She prodded Antonov’s ribs with her boot, blood pouring from his head like an expanding red speech bubble.
“Goddam idiot,” she said.
