forward. "Also inside is an  address.  You'll meet people  there  who should
help you get explosives and whatever else you need. The best way to Narva is
by train. Hiring a car is more  trouble than it's worth. And Nick" she fixed
her eyes on mine "these people in Narva, do  not trust them. They're totally
unreliable, the  way they  conduct their drugs  trade is disrupting business
for all of us. But they're the  closest Valentin can offer you to support on
the ground."
     I gave her a smile that let her know I wasn't born yesterday.
     "Also remember, do not  mention Valentin at all when dealing with them.
There must be no connection between him and any of this. None whatsoever. If
they make a connection, the deal  will be off, because they will simply kill
you."
     Her hands  went  back  together. "Also  in there is  a" she  hesitated,
trying to find  the  right word,  but didn't come up with one that satisfied
her. In the end  she shrugged  "letter from  a friend, the same one that has
the contacts in  Narva.  It  will  ensure you get what  you need  from these
people, but  only use it  if you  need  to, Nick.  It was  obtained at great
personal expense to Valentin and shouldn't be abused."
     I asked the obvious. "What's in it?"
     "Well, it's a bit like an insurance policy." She smiled rather bleakly.
"A Chechen insurance policy. I told you before, he likes you."
     I didn't need to ask any more about it. I'd see it for myself soon. For
now  there were more important matters. I  needed the answer to the  bayonet
question again. "How many people are there on site?"
     She  shook her head. "We don't have  that  information, but it will  be
more than last time. This  is their most  important asset, which is why it's
in Estonia the geography is the best defense system there is."
     Something  else  needed  answering.  "How   will  you  know  I've  been
successful?"
     "You're worried that Valentin  will not  pay without  proof?  Don't. He
will know  within hours how isnoconcernof yours.  You  will get your  money,
Nick."
     I leaned closer. "How do you know Tom?"
     "I  don't,  Valentin does. When Tom  was caught at Menwith Hill  it was
Valentin  he was  working  for. You  British never discovered that, however,
because your threats to  him could never compare with  the one Valentin  was
capable of delivering."
     "Which was?"
     Her expression invited me to use my imagination.
     In my mind's eye I saw Tom, curled up in the back of the car after he'd
had the facts of life explained to him by the interrogation team.
     "Was Tom trying to access Echelon for Valentin at Menwith Hill?"
     She nodded. "When he was caught, he told British Intelligence only what
they thought they needed to know, then told the courts what they told him to
say. It was all very simple, really. Well, for everyone except Tom."
     "And how did you know of my connection with Tom?"
     "Valentin has access to many secrets. After your encounter in Helsinki,
he wanted to know a little more about you. It was easy enough to order  that
information from the Maliskia, thanks to Moonlight Maze. Even more incentive
to get in there and destroy that capability, don't you think?"
     Fucking right. I didn't like the sound of any of it.
     Liv patted the magazine with her hand. "Read it. Then  all we know, you
will know. I must go now. There are so many other things to do."
     I bet one of them  was to  report back to Val's go-between and tell him
that I was on my way to Narva.
     Liv and  I smiled  at each other like parting  friends, kissed  on  the
cheek, and did the farewell routine as she replaced her bag on her shoulder.
"I'll check the station every day, Nick, starting Sunday."
     I touched her sleeve. "One last question."
     She turned to face me.
     "You don't  seem  too  concerned about Tom. I  mean,  I thought you two
were, you know, close."
     She sat  down again  slowly. For  a  second or two  she toyed  with her
coffee cup,  and then she looked  up.  "Meaning  I had  sex with  him?"  She
smiled. "Tom is not someone I'd seek a relationship with. I had sex with him
because he was weakening and very unsure about
     what was expected of him. Sleeping with him  was .. . was" she searched
for a good expression, then shrugged "insurance. I had to keep him committed
to  the  task. He's the only one who could do  this  sort of thing. He is  a
genius with  this technology.  He had to  go with you.  That is also why you
must carry out your new  task  as quickly  as you can. His capabilities must
not be available to the Maliskia."
     She stood and turned with a small wave of the hand, and I slouched down
in my chair,  wishing  I'd had  that  information  a few  days ago. My  eyes
followed her as she headed for the escalator and slowly disappeared.
     I  took  a  small white envelope from inside the magazine Liv had  left
behind. It looked as if it  was made for a small greeting card; it certainly
didn't look as if there was much inside.
     I stayed  put  for  a while, not bothering to touch it,  and drank  her
lukewarm  coffee.  After about  ten minutes I piled  the  cups, saucers, and
plates onto the tray.
     Walking  away from  the  escalators, I  made my way  through  the  warm
clothing department and into the rest rooms. Safely in a stall, I opened the
envelope. Inside were three scraps  of  paper of  various sizes and quality.
The first was a Post-it, on which was an address in Narva  by the look of it
I was after a guy called Konstantin plus a long and lat fix. The Post-it was
stuck to half a ripped sheet of cheap and very  thin Xerox paper, with about
ten  lines of Cyrillic  script  written in pen. This had to  be  the Chechen
insurance policy, because the third item was a  sheet  of wax paper on which
was a penciled cross and, toward the bottom left-hand corner of the sheet, a
little circle. All I had to  do was line up  the  longs and the  lats on the
right map and bingo, the circle would be  around the  location where Tom and
the Maliskia were supposed to be.
     I listened to  the shuffle of feet outside, water splashing into sinks,
hand-driers humming, and  the  odd  grunt or  fart, and  started to laugh to
myself  as I folded up the bits and pieces of paper  and tucked them into my
socks, out of  the way.  I felt like Harry Palmer in  one  of those  Michael
Caine films from the sixties. It was ridiculous. I had more  stuff around my
feet than in my pockets.
     I  flushed  the  toilet and  opened  the door.  An  overweight Japanese
tourist was waiting patiently, his sides bulging with video and camera bags.
Leaving him to fight his way into the stall, I
     headed  to the condom  machine  by the urinals.  It  was decision time.
Dropping in some coins, I considered the banana- or strawberry flavored ones
and  those  shaped  like  medieval  maces,  but  in the  end  went  for  the
old-standard clear ones. All very missionary. Then, with the packet of three
in my pocket, I was out of Stockmann with any luck forever.
     Checking for surveillance by doing  a complete circuit of the store and
taking a few turns that meant I'd doubled back on myself, I felt confident I
wasn't being followed and headed for the  same bookstore where I'd bought my
guidebook to Estonia. I soon found the map that Liv had specified.
     Back at the hotel,  it was time  to study  it in detail.  Tallinn,  the
capital, was in  the west, on the Baltic coast. It faced Finland, which  was
fifty  miles across the  sea.  Narva  was  miles away, in  the  northeastern
corner, right next to Russia  and just ten miles inland. There  was one main
road that went from Tallinn to Narva, linking together  other, smaller towns
on  the 130  miles between the two. I  could also see the  black line of the
railway that  Liv  had  told me  to take, roughly paralleling the main road,
sometimes near the road but mostly a few miles south of it.
     Narva  was  bisected  by a river, and  the border  with  Russia was  an
imaginary line  running  down  the  middle of it. There  were  two  crossing
points, a rail bridge and a road bridge. On the  Russian side, the main road
and train  line kept going east,  with a sign on the edge of the map saying,
"Peterburi 138km." In other words, Narva was  closer  to St. Petersburg than
it was to Tallinn.
     I  took out  the sheet  of  wax  paper  and placed the  cross  over the
corresponding longs and lats, then looked at the circle. It  ringed  a small
cluster  of buildings a couple of  miles south of  a small town called Tudu,
which  was about  twenty-two  miles southwestish  of  Narva. Basically,  the
target was in the  middle of nowhere, the perfect place  for the Maliskia to
run their operations. That  was where those Finns should have gone to do the
job; maybe they didn't because there weren't any to-go pizzas to be had.
     There were still a few hours before the five-thirty ferry, so I got out
the guidebook and read about this northeastern corner of Estonia. It sounded
a  nightmare. During  Iron  Curtain  days Narva had been  one  of  the  most
polluted towns in Europe. Two huge power stations  produced enough kilowatts
to keep the massive
     wheels  of  the  USSR.  industrial  base  turning,  while  pumping  out
uncountable  tons  of  sulfur dioxide, magnesium this and aluminum that into
the atmosphere. There was a huge lake nearby,  and I made  a mental note not
to eat any fish when I got there.
     According to the  guidebook, 90 percent of  the  population in the area
were Russian speaking, and, in the eyes of  the Estonian government, Russian
citizens.  They  took  the line that  if  you couldn't  speak Estonian,  you
couldn't get  Estonian citizenship.  The upshot was  a  big gang of Russians
right on the border with Russia, holding  old Russian passports,  who had to
stay in Estonia, a country that didn't acknowledge them.
     Five trains a day left  Tallinn heading east.  Some went straight on to
St. Petersburg and Moscow, and some just stopped at Narva, about a five-hour
journey. No problem at  all; I'd  get the ferry tonight, check into a hotel,
sort my shit  out and  get the train  in the morning. That would be the easy
bit.
     I had  the  Narva contact  name  and  address  in my head;  an hour  of
repeating it while  reading had  sorted that out. I ripped the cross off the
wax paper, rolled  it in the Post-it and ate it. Everything else on this job
was like some spy  film, so why not go whole hog?  I kept the guidebook  and
map  because I  was  going to  be  a tourist. If asked, I was  exploring the
region's  immensely  rich  culture.  Well,  that  was what  it  said  in the
guidebook. I couldn't wait.
     As the  final preparation for the journey, I went into the bathroom and
ran a sink of warm water. Then, unwrapping the complimentary sliver of soap,
I proceeded with a little task I never looked forward to.
        28
     I  followed  the  herd  out  of  the terminal waiting room  and  up the
boarding ramp onto a massive drive-on, drive-off ferry. When I  saw that  we
all had to pass through a  metal  detector I felt relieved I'd left  the  P7
with  my  other stuff in  the  station's luggage lockers.  I  was using Nick
Davidson's passport. The woman who  swiped it at passport control was one of
the few immigration officers who'd ever looked at the picture.
     Few of my fellow foot  passengers  appeared anything like as prosperous
as the Finns I was used  to seeing. I guessed  they were Estonians. They all
seemed to be  wearing  fake-fur Cossack-style hats  and  a  lot of  leather.
Several  were in old and shabby full-length quilted coats. They  were toting
enormous plastic shopping bags, all stuffed to the brim with everything from
blankets  to  huge cartons of rice. In each case, the whole  extended family
seemed to have come along for  the ride,  kids, wives,  grannies,  everybody
going hubbahubba to each other in Estonian.
     My plan had been to keep out of the way and curl up somewhere quiet and
crash out, but once on board I realized there was no chance of that. The air
was filled with  the hinging and whirring of video games and one-armed jacks
overlaid  with kids screaming up and down the hallways, their parents in hot
pursuit.
     Sometimes, walking  sideways to get out of  the  way of kids and people
with their big  bundles  of whatever coming from the other direction,  I saw
where  the  main  crowd  was headed--toward the  bars  and  snack  bar. If I
couldn't sleep I might as well eat.
     The crowd thinned as the hallway opened up into a large bar  area. Like
the hallways, all the walls were covered with mahogany effect veneer, giving
it  a  dark, depressing feel. This area  seemed  to be full of  well-dressed
Finns, who had  driven  their cars aboard before us. They were laughing  and
joking noisily among  themselves,  throwing drinks down their  throats  like
condemned  men. I guessed they were booze cruisers, going over to Tallinn to
stock up on duty free.
     These guys  didn't have  shopping bags and reeked of disposable income.
Their ski jackets were  top-of-the-range  labels, and their thick  overcoats
were  wool,  probably  cashmere. Underneath, they  all  sported  big  chunky
sweaters with crew or  turtle necks. The only thing they  had in common with
the Estonians  was  a love of  tobacco. There  was already a  layer of smoke
covering the  ceiling, waiting its  turn to be sucked out  by the overworked
heating system.
     The currency desk  was just  the other end of the  bar. I lined  up and
changed  $100 U.S. into whatever the  local money was called. I  didn't even
bother looking at exchange rates to see if I was being  ripped off. What was
I going to do, take my business elsewhere?
     Eventually, fighting  my way to the snack bar, I picked up  a tray  and
joined the line. I wasn't particularly bothered about the wait; it was going
to be a long journey, and it wasn't as if I was itching to get back and join
the lushes in the bar.
     Twenty  minutes  later  I was sitting  with  a family  at a bolted-down
plastic table. The father, who looked over fifty-five but was probably under
forty, still had his wool hat on. His wife looked about ten years older than
him. There were four kids, each attacking a large plate of pale, undercooked
fries. Mine looked  the  same,  plus  I had a  couple  of scary-looking  red
sausages.
     The  sound  of  laughter   echoed  from   the  bar,  along  with  piped
muzak--badly performed cover versions of Michael Jackson and George Michael.
Thankfully the ship's safety briefing, which started then carried on forever
in about five languages, cut wannabe George off in his prime.
     As I tucked into my fries and franks, the husband  pulled out a pack of
cigarettes  and he and his wife lit up. They  smoked contentedly in my face,
flicking the ash onto  their empty plates, finally stubbing out their  butts
so they sizzled in the ketchup. I decided it was time for a walk. Their kids
could finish off my food.
     We  were  now  in open sea  and the boat rocked  from side to  side and
plunged up  and down. Children were having great fun  in  the hallways being
thrown  from wall to wall, and their parents were telling them off much more
quietly. In fact, many of them  looked  paler than the fries I'd left  on my
plate.
     I passed the newsstand. The only thing they had  in English was another
guidebook to Estonia; I decided to go back to the bar and read my own.
     The Finns, undeterred by  the heavy seas, were swigging back Koff beer,
or at least trying to. The swell meant there was as much liquid on the floor
as there was going down their throats.
     The only seat  was at the end of a  semicircular booth, where six Finns
in their late  thirties three men and  three  women all expensively dressed,
were smoking Camels and  downing  vodka. I gave  them a fuck-off smile  as I
settled down on the red, leather-look plastic and opened the guidebook.
     Estonia, I was  told, sandwiched between Latvia  and  Russia, was about
the  size  of  Switzerland  and only  two  or  three  hours' drive  from St.
Petersburg. It had a population  of 1.5 million, the size of Geneva, and  if
that was the best  they could  find  to say about  it, it  must be a  pretty
mind-numbing place.
     Estonians seemed to  have suffered all the rigors  of life  as a former
Soviet  republic. They'd  had food coupons,  breadlines, fuel shortages, and
inflation higher than the World Trade Center. All in all it sounded a pretty
grim  place,  a bit  like a giant  Baltic version of a  South London housing
project.
     The pictures of the old  city center of Tallinn showed  medieval walls,
turrets, and  needle-pointed  towers.  I couldn't  wait to see  the  "gabled
roots" which the guide extolled. When  I read  on I  discovered that most of
the country's investment  had  been in this one  tiny area,  and that almost
everywhere else they hadn't had gas or water since the Russians  left in the
early  nineties. But then again, tourists wouldn't go  that far out of town,
would they?
     I sat there with my  eyes  closed, deeply bored. There was no way I was
going to socialize  with the Finns.  I had work to do on the other side, and
besides, from what  I saw  I  doubted I could keep  up with  their drinking,
especially the women.
     I  sank as low as  I could  in the  seat to  avoid the rising cigarette
smoke, which was now a solid fog above me. The ferry was slewing
     about big time, and now  and  again the propellers roared as if  they'd
come right out of the water,  accompanied by a collective amusement park cry
of "Whooooa!" from the crowd in the  bar. There was nothing but darkness  to
be  seen from the  window,  but I  knew there  was  plenty of ice out  there
somewhere.
     I  crossed my arms over my chest, let my chin drop  and tried to sleep.
Not that it  was going to happen,  but whenever there's a lull, it  pays  to
recharge the batteries.
     An announcement over the  PA system sort of woke me up, though I wasn't
too sure  if I'd been sleeping. I guessed it was  telling us  what fantastic
bargains were to be had in the ferry's duty-free shops, but then I heard the
word  Tallinn.   The  system  carried  on  with  its  multilingual  address,
eventually coming to  English. It  seemed we had about thirty minutes before
docking.
     I packed the book in  the  backpack, along with  my  new woolen hat and
washing kit, and wandered down the corridor. People were walking like drunks
due to the swell, and now  and again I had to put my hand up on the  wall to
stop myself falling. Following  signs to the rest rooms, I slid aside a dark
wood-veneered door and walked down a flight of stairs.
     A  couple  of  guys were  chatting in the men's  room, zipping  up  and
lighting cigarettes as they left. There was as much alcohol on  the floor as
there was  on the  ground in the bar;  the only  difference was it  had been
through people's kidneys first. The room was boiling  hot,  making the smell
even worse.
     I trod carefully toward the urinals. Each one had a pool of dark yellow
fluid  slowly seeping past the piled-up cigarette butts blocking its path. I
found one that wasn't so full it would splash back on me,  got  my left hand
up  against the bulkhead  to steady myself  and  unzipped, listening to  the
relentless throb of the engines.
     The toilet door was pushed open and another couple of guys came  in. By
the look of their GoreTex jackets they were Finns. I was sorting myself out,
trying to  zip up  with one hand  while using the  other to stop me  falling
over. The boy in black headed for the vacant toilet stall behind me, and the
other lurked by the  row of sinks to my  left. His green jacket reflected on
the stainless-steel pipes that ran from  the water dispenser for the urinals
above my
     head. I couldn't see  what  he was  actually  doing  because the pipe's
shape distorted him like a fairground  mirror, but whatever it was,  it just
looked wrong. At the  same time I heard the rustle of GoreTex  and saw black
in the reflection, too.
     I turned just in time to see an arm  raised, ready  to do my back  some
serious damage with some kind of knife.
     Never let them come to you.
     I  screamed, hoping to  disorient him, while  charging the two or three
steps toward  him, focusing on his  arm. I didn't care  about the  other guy
yet. This one was the main threat.
     Grabbing  his raised  wrist  with  my right hand, I  kept moving.  That
turned his  body to his left, his  natural momentum helping me. My left hand
then helped to  spin him so he had his  back to me, at the same time pushing
him toward  the stall. We  stumbled into one  of them, the  thin chip  board
walls  rattling as  we grappled in the  confined space. He  went down on his
knees by  the  toilet. There was no seat; it  had  probably been ripped  off
years ago and taken home.
     Still gripping his right wrist, I leaped over his back and forced  both
my  knees straight down onto the back of his head. There was no time to fuck
about: There  were two of these guys to deal with. Bone crunched on ceramic.
I  heard  teeth cracking  and  his  jaw grind under my weight, mixed with an
almost childlike, muffled screaming.
     I saw him  drop the knife. My right  hand scrabbled around on the floor
in search, and closed around  it. Only it wasn't a knife, but an auto jet an
American one. I recognized the make and I knew what it did.
     Gripping  the automatic  syringe in  my right hand, I had  four fingers
clasped around the cylinder, which was about the size of a thick marker pen,
and my thumb on the injection button, ready to attack the splashing feet and
green rustling GoreTex behind.
     Too late;  the boy was right on  top of me.  He also  had an auto jet I
could  feel  the  needle  penetrate and then  its  contents emptying into my
buttock; it was like a golf ball was growing under my skin.
     I  threw myself backward,  crashing  as hard as  I could into his body,
pushing him toward the urinals.  The swell made us both stagger as the ferry
tilted.
     Once we'd  banged  against the  white ceramic, his fists started to hit
the side of my  face from behind me as I kept him pinned in position. He was
even  biting  into my skull,  but  I couldn't really feel the  outcome.  The
Autojet  was having its own effect on me: rapid heartbeat, dry mouth, vision
beginning  to go hazy. I  was  sure it  was  mainly scopolamine,  mixed with
morphine. When  it's  injected  into  a  body,  the  effect  produced  is  a
tranquilized state known as  twilight sleep;  this combination of  drugs was
formerly used  in  obstetrics,  but was now  considered  far  too dangerous,
except when, like the British and American intelligence services, you're not
too concerned  about the  patient's bill of rights. I'd done  a few  targets
with  this stuff, making  it easier to  drag them off  to a 3x9.  I'd  never
thought  I  would  get  the  good  news myself,  but  at  least now  I could
personally endorse the product.
     Everything was going into slow motion. Even his shouting against my ear
was blurred as he bucked and twisted, trying to free himself from between me
and a urinal.
     Ramming the Autojet against the leg that was kicking out on my right, I
depressed the button with my thumb. Automatically the needle sprang forward,
punctured  his jeans and skin, dispensing its juice. Now we  were  equal; it
was just a case of who dropped first.
     "Mother fuck!" Unmistakably American.
     I couldn't get up  enough strength to do  anything but pin  him  there,
using  my legs  to push  my  back against him. He dropped the Autojet, but I
kept pushing him back against the urinal, my feet slipping on  the wet floor
as the ship bounced around, hoping that he would be  the first to lose total
control so I could get away. His ass was in the urinal now, and its contents
were getting slopped over both of us as I fought to hold him there.
     He was  still trying to punch  sideways at my face, and might have been
doing serious damage for  all  I knew. The drugs  had  kicked in good style,
depressing my central nervous system.
     I bent my head  down to avoid his punches as he jerked  about as if  he
was having a fit. In front of  me, in the stall, a blurred, black figure was
slumped on the floor.
     The  toilet  door  must have opened.  Not that  I  heard  it--just  the
incomprehensible shouting as my legs started to  lose the ability to hold me
up in the swell.
     I took a  deep breath and must have  sounded like  a drunk as I  looked
round at the newcomers. "Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off!"
     Even the American joined in: "Fuck yooou!"
     Their hazy, shadowy figures disappeared.
     The  American's legs were wobbling as much as  mine  now.  My  head was
still trying to bury itself into my chest as  he made wild grabs at my face,
hoping to get at  my  eyes. He wasn't shouting any more  but giving off loud
moans, as if he'd lost the ability to form words  correctly,  and pulling on
my ears and hair with whatever strength he had left.
     I could hear his breathing above me. I threw my  hands in the direction
of the sound. He released his grip on my head and slapped them down. My legs
couldn't hold him in position any more, and I fell, first to  my knees, then
face down into the liquid swirling  around the  floor. Feeling it slurp into
my mouth, I knew I was on the way out. But as the American fell to his knees
to my right, splashing more liquid over my face and snorting like a wart hog
I knew I wasn't the only one. He sat  back on his heels, resting against the
urinal,  fumbling  to  get  his  jacket  zip undone.  I  couldn't  let  that
happen--he  could have had a weapon--so taking  a deep breath that  took  in
more swill off the floor, I started to crawl up him.
     His hands tried pushing me off as  he  growled down at me. At least his
hands weren't going for his pockets any more, just my face.
     I managed to get my hands around his throat, shaking his head from side
to side. He made a whining noise, like a two-year-old refusing food. If only
I  could press  one of my  thumbs  into the base of his throat, at the point
just above where the two collarbones met and just below  his Adam's apple, I
could drop him--as long as  his body was still  capable of  registering what
was going on.
     I got  my hand down the top of his jacket, probing inside with my thumb
until I found the bone  and then the soft spot, then I pushed in with all my
strength.
     At once he began to come down with me as I sank slowly to the floor. He
didn't like it at all. A quick,  hard jab with two straight fingers or a key
into this soft  point can drop someone  to  the ground as quickly as if he's
been given an electric shock.
     He hit the floor,  his  legs still under him, bucking to free them like
some frantic  insect as I lay on top of him.  He was  choking now. Wheezing,
gurgling noises issued from his nose and mouth.
     Trying to keep focus, and some sort  of coordination, I ran a hand over
his jacket pockets. Nothing.  I tried  to  unzip the jacket,  but my fingers
couldn't grip the tab. As I pulled down they just fell away.
     Still on top of  him, watching his hair soak up the spilled contents of
the urinal, I started feeling around his waist, wanting to find a weapon. My
hands couldn't register  if he was carrying or not; they refused to send any
type of message to my brain.
     I lay there  knowing that I must get up, sure that he  was thinking the
same.
     The other boy behind  me in the stall started moaning and coughing, his
boots  scuffing the floor as he tried  to move.  With  any luck he was  more
worried about his dental plan for the next few years than anything else.
     Dragging myself to my feet, I staggered on the spot above the American,
then my  knees buckled and I collapsed on his head.  Blood spurted from  his
nose as  I pulled myself up on a urinal. He curled up  on the soaking floor,
still trying to reach out and grab my leg.
     I had to get out of there and hide up for the next twenty minutes or so
until I could get off the ferry.  I wasn't going to black out: They wouldn't
have wanted  to carry a deadweight. The  drugs would just make me  like  the
Finns in the bar and make it easier to drag me to their car.
     Stumbling  up the  stairs, I seemed to  trip on almost every one. After
about six attempts at  pulling the  door open I was back in a  hallway.  The
smell of smoke, the shouts of children, and  the  jingle of video games were
all magnified  in my  spinning, dazed head. I was  zigging while the rest of
the world zagged.
     I had  to  find  myself a little spot where I could sit down and be  no
problem  to anybody. That wasn't easy; I'd been fighting and rolling  around
in  piss,  and  must  have  looked  in  a  terrible state.  Maybe  I'd feign
seasickness.
     Staggering into a seating area, I made my way into the corner, slumping
against the back of a  seat  before  falling into it. The Estonian whose big
bag had had to be whipped away before I fell on it shook his head knowingly,
as if this sort of thing  happened to him  every day. Flicking his cigarette
ash onto the floor, he carried on  chatting to his neighbor before they both
inched away. I must have stunk of piss.
     Trying to hum a tune, anything to look like a seasick drunk,  I decided
to take my backpack off. I must  have looked  stupid sitting with  it on  my
back. Slumped forward and with the coordination of
     jello, I made a complete mess of it. After fighting with the straps for
a while I just quit and collapsed.
     Announcements were being made  on  the PA. My head  was swimming.  Were
they talking about me? Were they appealing for witnesses?
     The man  next to  me stood  up  and  so  did his  friend. They  started
gathering together their bits and pieces. We must have arrived.
     There was a sudden migration of people,  all going  in one direction. I
just had to try  and  keep aware of what  was going on. I moved  off  behind
them, stumbling  among the crowd. Everybody  seemed to be giving  me  a wide
berth. I didn't know where I was going, and I didn't care,  as long as I got
off the ferry.
     My mind was in control but my body wasn't obeying orders. I bumped into
a Finn and apologized  in slurred English. He looked down at my wet  clothes
and glared aggressively. All I  was focused on was staying with the herd and
keeping the backpack on my back. I just wanted to get off the ferry and find
somewhere to hide while  all the shit in my body did what it had  to  do and
then left me alone.
     Following people  with  strollers and plastic  bags, I lurched  down  a
covered  gateway and joined the line for immigration. The woman said nothing
as she checked my passport. I swayed and smiled  as she eyed me, probably in
disgust, and stamped one of the pages. Picking it up at the second attempt I
staggered  on through to  the arrivals hall, focusing really  hard on making
sure it went back into my inside jacket pocket.
     Outside,  the cold  wind  buffeted my jacket  as  I staggered across  a
snow-covered parking lot. The whole area was brightly lit; most of  the cars
had a layer of snow, and a few were having  ice scraped off them as  bulging
plastic bags were forced inside and exhaust fumes filled the air.
     I  could see  the top half of the ferry behind me, beyond the terminal,
and could hear the metallic rumbling of cars and trucks leaving the ship. In
front of me was darkness,  then, in what seemed the far  distance, some very
blurred lighting. That was where I needed to go. I needed to find a hotel.
     Reeling against a line of vehicles, I got to the end of the parking lot
and hit dark, snow-covered waste ground.
     There were a number of well-worn tracks heading in the direction of the
lights in the distance. Way over to my right, a convoy of
     headlamps trailing back  to  the  ferry were  heading the  same  way. I
started  following  a  track and immediately fell  down, not really  feeling
anything.
     Carrying on as best I could, I was soon in darkness and walking through
trees. To my left was a  large vacant  warehouse. Stopping to rest against a
tree, I fixed my eyes on the lights ahead and could hear the faint noises of
cars and music in the distance. Things were looking up. I pushed myself  off
the tree trunk and staggered on.
     I didn't even see where the boys came from.
     All  I felt was two lots of arms grabbing me and dragging me toward the
decaying building. I couldn't see their faces in the darkness, just the glow
from a cigarette stuck  in one  of their mouths. My feet were dragging along
the ground  as my  attackers  crunched their way  through the  lumpy snow. I
tried to resist but put up the fight of a five-year-old.
     Fuck, next stop a 3x9.
     They  threw  me  against  a  doorway  which  had been  filled  in  with
cinderblocks. I managed to turn so I hit it with my back, but it knocked the
wind out of me as I slid down onto my ass.
     The kicks started to rain  in. All I could do  was curl up and take it.
At  least I  was aware  enough to know  that I'd be  too  slow to  escape or
retaliate. I'd have to wait until they'd finished the softening-up  process,
then  see what I could  do. No way was I  going to let these fuckers take me
away if I could help it.
     My hands were  up around my head  to  protect it, knees up by my chest.
Each  time a boot  connected  my whole  body  jerked.  The  drugging was  an
advantage  as I  couldn't  feel the  pain, at least for now. Tomorrow I'd be
suffering.
     Maybe I could get hold of one  of their weapons? At this range, even in
my condition, I couldn't miss,  so long as I could manipulate the thing once
I'd got it. You never know until you try, and I'd rather go down trying than
not try at all.
     The attack stopped as suddenly as it had started.
     The next thing  I  felt was  the backpack being pulled off my back, and
even if I'd wanted them to, my arms couldn't have resisted being pulled back
as the straps dragged down them.
     I was  pulled over, exposing my  front, and one of them leaned over  me
and started to unzip my jacket. His own was open; now was the time to react.
     Lunging forward, I pushed my hands  deep inside his coat. But there was
no weapon; he didn't even have one in his hand.
     Hands,  elbows, I didn't know what they were, hammered into me, pushing
me back against the wall, and there was nothing I could do to help myself. I
was back at square one.
     They both  started  laughing. Then it was a  few  more kicks  and  some
cursing  in Russian or Estonian. That quickly stopped as they pulled my arms
out of the way and finished undoing my jacket.
     I  was  lying  in  slush and could  feel the  freezing  wetness soaking
through my  jeans as  if the  piss wasn't enough. The jacket was pulled open
and I felt their hands  going  in,  pulling up  my sweatshirt  and  sweater,
feeling around my stomach, going into the pockets. These were strange places
to be searching for  a weapon, and  it took  a while for it to dawn on me. I
wasn't being weapons cleared, I was being mugged.
     From that moment on I relaxed. Fuck it, let them get on with it. I'd be
as passive as I could. There  was no need to mess  with these  people. I had
more  important things to do than  fight muggers. Besides, in my condition I
would lose.
     They  were pretty slick  for street thieves, checking around my stomach
for  a  tourist's  money  belt, with fast whispers between  them in whatever
language as they did their  work. The cigarette still burned in front of  my
face as they  hovered over me. Finally,  ripping Baby  G from my wrist, they
were off, their footsteps crunching in the snow.
     I  lay  there  for several minutes,  feeling relieved they hadn't  been
American.
     A truck  stopped on the other side of  the building, its engine idling.
There was a loud hiss of air brakes and the engine revved as it drove on. In
the  silence I heard  more music. Then  I just lay there, totally out of it,
wishing I was in that bar or wherever it was coming from.
     The most important thing now was  to not  let myself fall  asleep. If I
succumbed I might go down with hypothermia, just like drunks or junkies when
they collapse in the streets.
     I tried  to  get to my feet, but  couldn't  move.  Then I  felt  myself
drifting away. The urge to sleep was just too strong.
        29
     Friday. December 17, 199B
     I came round very  slowly. I  became aware of the wind blowing past the
doorway and  felt  some of it push its way into my face. My vision was still
blurred and I was feeling groggy. It  was like being  hungover, only several
times worse. My head still didn't feel completely linked with my body.
     Curled up  among  the beer cans and  rubble  I was  numb with cold  and
shivering, but  that  was  a good  sign. At least I was aware  of it;  I was
starting to switch on.
     Coughing and spluttering, I attempted to sort myself out, trying to zip
up  my jacket  with  shaking hands  to  trap  some  warmth.  I could  hear a
high-revving vehicle moving in the distance--I wasn't too sure how far away,
but it didn't  seem far. I  listened for the music;  that had gone now. Once
the  vehicle moved on there was  no  more noise apart from the wind  and  me
coughing up shit from the back  of my throat. The zip only got halfway as my
numbed fingers kept  losing  their grip on the small tab. I gave up and just
held the top half together.
     Attempting  to get  my head into  real-life  mode, I  checked inside my
jacket. I knew it was pointless; they'd taken  everything, both the Davidson
passport and the money I'd changed. It wasn't worth worrying about the loss;
it wouldn't bring them back. Knowing if the contents of my socks  were still
intact was  more important; feeling around with numb  fingers I pressed down
inside my boots and
     made contact with the dollars.  Even more surprisingly, I still  had my
Leatherman on my belt. Maybe they weren't  as slick as I'd thought, or maybe
it had no resale value unless it came with its case.
     Once onto my hands and knees, I slowly hauled myself to my  feet, using
the cinder-blocked doorway for support. I wanted to get moving, find a hotel
and  get warm;  I could  still  get that train in the  morning. But then, it
could already be morning, I didn't have a clue.
     I had  a shivering spasm. Slivers of ice had formed on my  jeans as the
piss on them had frozen. Feeling  in my jacket pockets  for my gloves  was a
stupid  idea: they'd taken those too. I needed to  get moving  and  generate
some heat.
     Freezing air blasted my face as I walked out. The wind was blowing  big
time, straight off the Baltic. Jumping  up and down on the spot, my hands in
my pockets, I tried to wake myself up  in the darkness but lost my  balance.
As I breathed in sharply the subzero air clawed at the back of my throat and
nose. I resumed my aerobics, but it was more of a shuffle than a jump.
     The loss  of my hat and  gloves made me bury my head into the collar of
my jacket and  my hands firmly  in  the pockets.  I started to pick  my  way
through small piles of snow, which I soon found had gathered round lumps  of
concrete and twisted steel. I took my time;  the last thing I wanted now was
to twist an ankle, and the way my luck was going that was quite likely.
     Eventually my hands got warm  enough to manipulate the zip, and with my
jacket done up completely I began to feel the benefit. A car slowly trundled
along the road about sixty to seventy  yards to my left. Ahead of  me, maybe
300 yards away, was the cloudy blue-and white  glow of a gas station. I bent
down,  taking my time so as not to lose my balance  again, and undid my boot
to extract a $20 bill.
     After  checking that the rest of the money was  secure, I staggered and
slid toward the  blue  glow beyond the trees.  My condition  was improving a
little,  but I knew I must still look loaded;  it was  certainly  how I felt
like  the guy who  believes he's  in  control when in fact he's slurring his
words and failing to notice that matchstick he just tripped up  on. Not that
I really gave a shit  what the people in the gas station  would think of me;
all  I hoped was that  they  served hot drinks  and food,  and that somebody
could give me directions to a hotel.
     I stumbled on, slipping and sliding on the ice, all the time keeping an
eye open for my new friends, or others who might be following  the fucked-up
foreigner for a few more dollars.
     Putting my hand out to rest against a tree for a while, it dawned on me
that  it was going to be  very difficult,  maybe impossible, to check into a
hotel. In a country like this they'd insist on passport details and possibly
even visas. The  Russians might have gone, but  their bureaucracy would have
stayed behind. I could hardly say I'd left my passport in the car. What car?
There was also something else; I wouldn't know until it was too late whether
the police made spot checks or the hotels had to report anything suspicious,
such as a man covered  in piss,  with no  passport,  trying  to  pay in U.S.
dollars. It depressed me, but I couldn't take that chance.
     Lurching off again toward the gas station, I was getting  nearer to the
road. There was  virtually no traffic or noise  from anywhere, just the  odd
set  of  headlights   and  the  rumble  of  tires  over  what  sounded  like
cobblestones  and   slush  in  the  distance.   Intermittent  street  lights
illuminated snow  swirling from the ground, making it look as if it was just
hanging there.
     There were about thirty yards  of snow and ice  left to cover  before I
hit the road beside the gas station; I didn't know what to expect when I got
inside,  but it  looked  very much  the  same as a  run  of-the-mill Western
European  one.  In fact, it  looked almost too new and shiny  to  be in  the
middle of such a rundown area.
     I stumbled across  to the road; it was indeed made of cobblestones, but
not  like  the ones in Finland.  These were old, crumbling or missing,  with
potholes filled with ice every few yards.
     Standing under the bright blue-lit  canopy, I banged my boots to  clear
the snow and tried to make myself look respectable, miming as if I'd lost my
glasses when I checked that it  was  in  fact a $20 bill. I wasn't  going to
risk a $50 or  $100; I could get fucked over again if  seen with that amount
of money round here.
     The wind hit the pumps with  a  high-pitched wail as I went through the
door. I entered a new world, warm and  clean, with plenty of goods  laid out
in  exactly  the way they  would be  in a convenience store anywhere else in
Europe.  I  wondered  if  I  was  hallucinating.  They  seemed to be selling
everything from motor oil to cookies and bread, but especially rows and rows
of beer and a pile of crates with  more liter bottles of  the  stuff next to
the spirits. The only thing missing and which  I'd been hoping for,  was the
smell of coffee. There was no sign of hot drinks at all.
     Two  guys in their late teens  looked up from behind  the counter, then
went back to studying their magazines,  probably feeling ridiculous in their
red-and-white striped  vests  and caps.  They  didn't look  too bright  this
morning as they smoked and picked their  noses, but  then, I wasn't  exactly
looking like Tom Cruise.
     I wobbled around the shelves,  picking up a  handful of chocolate bars,
then some shrink-wrapped cold cuts from the chilled compartment. I might not
have been  at my most alert, but I  still knew it was important  to get some
food in me.
     They both stared at me as I dumped my goods on the counter, and it took
me a  while to realize that I was swaying on my feet. Resting two fingers on
the counter to steady myself, I gave them a big smile. "Speak English?"
     The one with the zits saw my $20. "American?"
     "No, no. Australian."  I always said I was from Australia, New Zealand,
or Ireland;  they're neutral, easygoing  and  well  known as travelers. Tell
people you're  a  Brit or an  American and somebody somewhere is bound to be
pissed with you about whatever country you've bombed recently.
     He looked at me, trying to work that one out.
     " Crocodik Dundee f I mimed strangling a croc. "G'day mate!"
     He smiled and nodded.
     Handing him the bill, I pointed at my stuff. "Can I pay you with this?"
     He  studied  a folder  probably  the exchange rates.  Behind him, Camel
cigarette cartons were neatly arranged around a special-offer Camel clock. I
tried to focus my eyes on the hands and managed to make out that it was just
after three  thirty. No  wonder I was  freezing;  I must have spent hours in
that doorway.  At  least my nose was starting  to warm  up a bit in  here; I
could  feel  it starting to tingle,  a good  sign that the Autojet's effects
were wearing off.
     He exchanged  the bill  without a second thought.  Everybody likes hard
currency.  My cold fingers fumbled with the large amount of paper  and coins
he gave me  as change; in the end,  I just cupped one  hand and  scooped the
money into it with  the other. As he handed  me my  shopping  bag  I  asked,
"Where is the train station?"
     "Huh?"
     It was time to play Thomas the Tank Engine. I pulled the steam whistle.
"Oooo! I Chug chug chug!"
     They liked that and  started running at the mouth in what I guessed was
Estonian.  My friend with zits pointed to the right,  where the road bent to
the left before disappearing.
     I put  my hand up in a big Australian thank-you gesture, walked out and
turned right as they had directed. Right away the cold wind  hit me; my nose
and lungs felt as if I was inhaling tiny fragments of broken glass.
     The pavement taking me toward the  bend was covered with ice  the color
of  mud. This was  so  different from  Finland,  where sidewalks  were  kept
scrupulously clear. Here the stuff  had  just been trodden down,  turned  to
slush,  then  frozen.  Empty cans and other lumps of litter sticking out  at
crazy angles made me lift my feet high to make sure I didn't trip.
     As I followed  the  road,  looking  for  signs  to the station, I threw
chunks  of  very hard chocolate  down  my throat. I  must  have  looked like
someone walking home with take-out after a good night.
     After fifteen minutes of  swaying  down a dark  deserted street, I came
across railway tracks and followed  them.  Just a quarter of an hour later I
was going through heavy glass  doors into the dimly lit station. It  smelled
of fried food and  vomit, and like any other railway station in the world it
offered a full range of drunks, addicts, and homeless people.
     The interior was concrete with stone slab floors. It  must have  looked
great on the drawing board in the  seventies, which was when it was probably
built, but now it was badly  lit, neglected and falling apart, complete with
fading posters and peeling paint.
     At least  the place was warm. I  made my way  along the main concourse,
looking for a place to curl up and hide.  I felt as if that was all I'd been
trying  to do since getting on the ferry. All the  good sites  were  already
booked, but I eventually found an alcove and dropped down onto my ass.
     The smell of urine and decaying cabbage was overpowering. No wonder the
space  was vacant;  somebody obviously  ran  a  stall there specializing  in
rancid vegetables, then  had a piss against the wall every evening before he
went home.
     I pulled the food from my  pocket. I really didn't want  any  more, but
made myself eat the remaining two chocolate bars and the
     meat, then rolled  over onto my  right-hand side, bringing  my knees up
into a foetal position, with my face resting on my hands among the un  swept
dirt and cigarette butts. I was past caring; I just wanted to sleep.
     A couple of bums immediately started solving  the world's problems with
loud, slurred voices. I opened  one eye to check on them, just as a bag lady
wandered  over to join their  debate. They all had grimy  old faces, cut and
bruised where they'd been either beaten up or had got so drunk they'd fallen
over  and  damaged  themselves.  All  three were  now  lying  on the  floor,
surrounded by a rampart of  bulging plastic shopping bags tied together with
string. Each had  a can in  their  hand that  no doubt  contained the  local
equivalent of Colt 45.
     Another drunk shuffled over to my alcove, maybe attracted by my earlier
banquet. He started jumping up and down on the spot, grunting and waving his
arms. The best  way to  deal with these situations  is to appear just as mad
and  drunk  as  them--and  more.  I   sat  up  and  hollered,   "Hubba-hubba
hubba-hubba!" not bothering to try to make my eyes look scary; they probably
already did. Picking up a can, I yelled at it for a few  seconds, then threw
it at  him, growling like a wounded  animal. He shuffled away, muttering and
moaning. That was the  only  productive lesson I  learned in reform  school,
apart from the fact that I never wanted to go back.
     I  lay down again and fell  into a  semi daze with what seemed like ten
minutes'  sleep  here and five minutes there, waking every time  there was a
noise or movement. I didn't fancy being mugged a second time.
     I was jolted awake by a hard kick in the ribs. My head was still aching
badly, but  at least  my  eyes were focusing a lot better. I saw a frenzy of
men in black, looking just  like an American  police SWAT  team, with  black
combat pants tucked into their  boots, black baseball caps, and nylon bomber
jackets  festooned with  badges and logos.  In  their belt  kit they carried
canisters, which were almost certainly full of mace.  They were shouting and
screaming,   hitting   vagrants   indiscriminately   with   black  foot-long
nightsticks.  For the  homeless population of  Tallinn,  this was  obviously
their wake-up call.  It was certainly similar to some morning  calls I'd had
in basic training.
     Taking the hint,  I started to  pull myself up  onto  my feet. My whole
body  hurt. I must have  looked  like a ninety-year-old as I shambled out of
the  station with the rest of them, hoping it  wouldn't take too long before
my muscles warmed up and relieved some of the pain.
     The  cold early morning air gripped my  face and lungs.  It  was  still
pitch-black, but I could hear a lot more movement than  when I'd arrived. To
my right I  could see the  main drag, with intermittent traffic.  A solitary
streetlight was glimmering, but so  weakly it needn't have bothered.  Parked
in a row were five black, very clean and large 4x4s, possibly Land Cruisers.
Each vehicle carried a white triangular logo, the same as the largest one on
the back  of the team's bomber jackets.  There was still plenty of screaming
and  arguing  going  on, and I saw my three debating-society  friends  being
thrown  bodily into one of the wagons.  Maybe that  was where the  cut faces
came from.
     I  moved out of the way, round  to the other side of the station. There
was life of sorts going on here. I hadn't noticed  it on the way in, but the
building obviously doubled  as a bus station.  There was a large  open  area
with  shelters  and  fleets of dilapidated buses, covered  in mud. Plumes of
early  morning exhaust fumes rose  from the rear of some of them.  People at
the back of the lines were shouting at the ones  in front,  probably telling
them to  board before they froze to  death. Bags were being placed into  the
luggage  holds, along with wooden  crates  and cardboard boxes tied up  with
string. Most  of the passengers seemed to be old  women in  heavy overcoats,
with knitted hats and huge felt boots with zips up the front.
     The  only  proper  light  came from the  railway  station and  the  bus
headlights reflecting  off the icy ground. A streetcar appeared from nowhere
and moved across the foreground.
     The  station had windows missing  in the offices  above platform level,
and it was covered by  decades of grime.  It wasn't just this building,  the
whole place looked  in  deep decay.  The main street  was badly potholed and
entire areas  of blacktop had broken up like ice  floes to create  different
levels for vehicles to negotiate.
     The  men  in black  had finished their task.  Some of the street people
wandered across  the  road in  a  group, maybe  heading for the next  refuge
point, others  started  to beg by the buses.  When they stood  next  to  the
passengers it was hard to tell who looked worse off.
     Everybody seemed to  be  holding shopping bags, not just the  homeless,
but the  people boarding the buses as well. Not a single one was laughing or
smiling. I felt sorry for them--freed from Communism, but not from poverty.
     I waited while the black teams climbed into their wagons and moved off,
then I wandered back into the station. The place didn't smell any better now
it was cleared, but at least it was warm. I  thought I'd better clean myself
up. I eventually  found a rest room, though I didn't know if it was for  men
or women. It was just a set of stalls and a couple of sinks. A solitary bulb
flickered in the ceiling and the place absolutely  stank of  piss, shit, and
vomit. Once at the sinks I found  out where  all these smells seemed to come
from.
     Deciding to skip  the wash, I inspected  myself  in the mirror. My face
wasn't cut or bruised, but my hair was sticking out at all angles. I wet  my
hands under  the tap and ran my fingers through it,  then got out  of  there
quickly before I was sick myself.
     Wandering  around the station, I tried to find  out  train times. There
was plenty of information, all in Estonian or Russian. The ticket office was
closed, but a handwritten notice on a piece of cardboard taped to the inside
of the glass  screen explained that  there was something happening at  0700,
which I took to be the opening time. I couldn't see  if there was a clock in
the office as it was cut from view by a faded yellow curtain.
     Sheets  of  paper stuck  to  the glass also carried various destination
names,  in lettering I recognized, as  well as Cyrillic. I saw Narva and the
numbers 707.  It  seemed  there was  just seven minutes between  the  office
opening and my train leaving.
     My next priority was to get a coffee and find out the time. Nothing was
open  in  the station,  but  with any  luck there was some kind  of facility
outside  for  the  bus  passengers.  Where there are people,  there will  be
traders.
     I found a row of aluminum kiosks, with no unity or theme to what any of
them sold;  each of  them just  sold stuff, everything from  coffee to  hair
bands, but mostly cigarettes and alcohol.
     I  couldn't   remember  what  the  currency   was--things   were  still
blurry--but I managed to get a paper cup of coffee for a small coin that was
probably worth two cents. From the same kiosk I also treated myself to a new
watch, a bright orange thing with the Lion King  grinning out  at me from  a
face that lit up  at  the press of a but ton.  His paws rested on a  digital
display, which the old woman running the kiosk corrected to 0615.
     I stood  in between two kiosks  with  my coffee and  watched the  trams
deliver and pickup  passengers. Apart  from those yelling at each  other  in
line, there was very little talk from anybody.  These were depressed people,
and the whole ambience  of the place reflected their state of mind. Even the
coffee was horrible.
     I started  to  notice  people huddled  here and there in  small groups,
passing bottles among themselves.  One group of young men in a  bus shelter,
wearing old coats over shiny shell-suit pants, were drinking from half-liter
bottles of beer and smoking.
     In a strange way the place reminded me of Africa;  everything, even the
plastic toys and combs in the kiosk window  displays, was faded and  warped.
It  looked as if the West  had dumped  its trash  and it had  washed up with
these people.  As in Africa, they had stuff buses, trains, TVs, even cans of
Coke but nothing really worked  together. Basically it felt as if  the whole
country  was Made in Chad. When I was operating there, the republic  used to
be the byword for things that looked okay but fell apart in ten minutes.
     I thought  some more about  the ferry attack. The  guys in the  toilets
must have been NSA, but the only way I could have been spotted  was  by them
checking the ticketing, then taking and checking out this guy called Davies.
Once my passport had been swiped  they'd  cracked it: Davidson was on board.
The two who'd attacked me would be out  of commission, but would others soon
be on my trail?
     I bought another coffee to get  more heat inside me, as well as another
bar of  chocolate  and a bottle of twenty-four aspirin to clear my head  and
help with the  body pain, then I wandered around the kiosks looking for maps
as I washed down the first four tabs  with crap coffee. I found a Narva town
map,  but not one for the northeast of the country. Glancing at Lion King as
I paid for it, I realized I had to get a move on.
     On the way to the ticket office I brushed the worst of the dirt from my
jeans. My body heat was drying  them  out slowly, so  I hoped I didn't smell
too much. For all I knew they might have a rule about not selling tickets to
hobos.
     I was first in a line of three when the grubby bit of curtain got moved
away from the little window to reveal an iron grill behind
     thick glass, with a small wooden  scoop at  the bottom  where money and
tickets were exchanged. A woman in her midfifties glowered at me from behind
the fortifications. She  was wearing a sweater and, of course, a woolen hat.
She was also probably resting her feet on a bulging shopping bag.
     I smiled. "Narva, Narva?"
     "Narva."
     "Yes. How much?" I rubbed my fingers together.
     She got out  a little  receipt  book  and wrote  "Narva" and "707."  It
appeared the cost  was 707 hertigrats, or whatever the money was called, not
that it left at 7:07.
     I handed her a 1000 note. $20 U.S. was going a long way here. She moved
away from  the  glass, rummaged  around,  came back  and  dropped my  change
through the scoop. With  it was a  slip of paper as thin as tissue. I picked
it up, guessing it must be some kind of receipt. "Narva--ticket?"
     She babbled at me gloomily. It was pointless, I didn't have a clue what
she was on about. I didn't ask about the platform. I'd find it.
     Tallinn  station  seemed to be  the origin  for all lines.  This wasn't
Grand Central Station,  though;  the platforms outside the hall were  lumpy,
broken pavement, with ice where the water had puddled and frozen. In places,
exposed concrete had crumbled and rusting reinforcement rods protruded.  The
trains were old Russian  monsters with a big Cyclops light; they  all seemed
to be blue, but it was hard to be sure under all the dirt and grime. Hanging
on the front of each locomotive was a wooden destination board, and that was
all the help you got.
     I walked up and  down looking for  the word Narva, brushing past  other
passengers. I  found  the train,  but needed to confirm  it with  one  of my
shopping-bag friends.
     "Narva, Narva?"
     The  old man looked at me as  if  I was an alien,  muttering  something
without taking the  cigarette  out of his mouth, so the light  from  the tip
bounced up  and down. He then just  walked away. At least  I got a nod as he
pointed at the train.
     I carried on along the platform, looking for an empty car, to the sound
everywhere  of  the early  morning coughing up  of phlegm people holding one
nostril and snot ting out on the ground,  then putting  the cigarettes  back
between their lips.
     There didn't seem to be any completely empty cars, so I boarded anyway,
taking the first free  row of seats I could find. The car floor was  nothing
more  than welded steel  plates, and the seats were also made of steel, with
two small, thinly padded  vinyl sections, one for your back and one for your
ass. There were  a couple of forty-watt lightbulbs  in the ceiling and  that
was our lot. All very basic, all  very  functional,  yet surprisingly  clean
compared to the mayhem in the station outside. And at least it was warm.
        30
     The wheels rattled  rhythmically over the rails as I  gazed out  at the
darkness. I couldn't  see any  of the landscape,  just  lights  from what  I
supposed  were factories  and  from windows  of  row upon row of  prisonlike
apartment buildings.
     I was sitting by the sliding  door at the  front end, next to a window,
with, thankfully, a heater directly under my seat. According  to  the travel
guide I'd be here for at least the next  five hours, which was good news for
my jeans.  There were a dozen  other passengers spread about the car, all of
them male, most with shopping bags, and either deep in thought  or doing the
nodding dog.
     The door slid back with a crash and a woman in her mid-forties came in,
wearing  a man's gray overcoat that was far too big for her. Draped over her
arm  were a dozen copies of a tabloid. She started jabbering and was clearly
asking me  something. I waved my  hand politely  to  say  no thanks  but she
became  very  animated. When I waved my hand  again and shook my head with a
nice Australian smile,  she reached into her coat and out came the same sort
of book of receipts that Mrs. Glum had used in the ticket office. I realized
she  was  the  ticket  collector,  who  was  obviously  running  a newspaper
concession on the side. Like me, she  was  taking the  money where she could
find it.
     I fished out my slip of paper. She inspected it,  grunted, gave it back
and swayed with the momentum of the train on to the next passenger, no doubt
telling him that  the village  idiot was on board. Given what I was about to
try, she wasn't far wrong.
     We began  to slow, and finally  stopped. Through  the darkness  I could
just see a factory, complete with a series of enormous chimneys. The station
didn't have a platform; the factory  workers had  to disembark directly onto
the tracks.  Outside,  people  seemed  to wander all over  the  place,  even
between cars.
     The train set off again, stopping every ten minutes  or so to  disgorge
another group of workers. After each halt the old diesel engine would strain
to get up speed again, belching smoke which quickly merged with the junk the
factory chimneys  were pumping out.  The  railway system made Britain's look
positively  space age by comparison, but at  least  these  ran on time, were
warm,  clean,  and affordable. I thought of inviting  a few  Estonian  train
managers to the U.K. to show our guys how it should be done.
     The train snaked, shuddered,  and shook its way through  the industrial
wasteland.  After  half an  hour the lights  started  to die  out and I  was
looking into darkness again.  I decided  to follow the lead of the one other
passenger left in the car and get some sleep.
     It was shortly after  nine thirty and first light had just passed.  The
sky, in  keeping with everything else, was a gloomy gray.  Through the grime
on  the window  I  saw snow-heavy  trees  lining the track on  each side,  a
barrier  against  snowdrifts.  Beyond  them  lay  either  vast stretches  of
absolutely flat open ground, covered  in virgin white snow, or thick  forest
that stretched on forever. The electricity and telephone lines following the
track were just like the trees, sagging with the weight of the snow and huge
icicles that hung from them.
     The train was still moving very slowly between  stations, maybe because
of the weather, maybe because the track was in need of repair.
     An hour later, after  another couple  of stops, the chocolate  and meat
started to  take effect. I hadn't  seen any  signs for toilets and I  wasn't
even sure there were any. If not, I'd just  have to have a quick dump in the
hall and explain it was an old Australian custom.
     I walked the length of two cars, bouncing  from side  to side,  until I
eventually found one. It was just like the rest of the train, very basic but
clean, warm, and it worked.
     Ripping  hard sheets from  the roll I threw them into the bowl until it
was more or less blocked. As I pulled down my now dry jeans
     and sat on the bare ceramic bowl, I had a quick sniff of the denim. Not
that  bad, considering;  I could  always  blame it on a  tomcat. Bruises had
developed on both thighs now; they'd soon turn black, complementing the ones
I already had.
     As the chocolate and meat mix started to force  its way out I fought to
keep control, wanting to catch  the insurance policy, wrapped in two condoms
and inserted up my ass with the aid of some Helsinki hotel soap.
     This was something  else I'd learned  in reform school. It was the best
way to make sure my fifteen pence weekly allowance wasn't stolen. Saran wrap
hadn't been as good as these condoms, though.
     It was a bit of a  smelly affair retrieving it, but once I'd untied the
knot  in  the  first  condom, pulled  out  the  one  inside  and  washed  my
hands--there was even soap and water in these toilets--everything was  clean
and  fragrant again. I was still  enthusing  about Estonian railways when it
was suddenly  like being back on the King's  Lynn-to  London line: the flush
didn't work.
     I stayed a while and treated myself to a wash. Back in the carriage, it
was  time to study  my Narva  town map, working  out exactly where I'd  find
Konstantin. According to Lion King  there was about  an hour to go before we
arrived. I  sat  there feeling rather  pleased the  chocolate had worked and
that I wouldn't have to waste time in Narva waiting for nature to call.
     I dry-swallowed another four  aspirin and looked out of the window.  No
wonder people had been getting off before entering this part of the country.
This  must  be the start  of the  great industrial northeast the Soviets had
created during  their  reign.  Gone  were  the trees and open  spaces of the
wilderness; instead the view consisted entirely  of slag heaps, with massive
conveyor belts, and factories that churned out smoke from every corner.
     We trundled past forbidding blocks of apartments, with  TV aerials hung
from every window and sometimes enormous, outdated  satellite dishes.  There
were no yards or play areas, just two or  three cars  up on concrete blocks.
Even the snow was gray.
     The  scenery didn't  change  much as the  stops  became more  frequent,
except that  every spare  inch of ground  along the track  was covered  with
little  vegetable patches. Even the  spaces  under  electricity  towers were
turned  into makeshift greenhouses using  a patchwork of  plastic  sheeting.
Just when I thought it couldn't get any
     more  depressing, the  train shunted past three cars parked at the side
of the  road, nose to tail. They  were riddled  with bullet holes and burned
out. There was  no snow  or ice on them and shattered glass lay all over the
place. It looked  as if they'd only just been hosed down  and  flash lighted
For  all  I knew there might still be bodies inside. A couple of kids walked
past and didn't give them a second look.
     The train stopped with  a rumble and a loud squeal of brakes. We seemed
to be in a rail yard. Fuel tankers and freight cars appeared on either side,
all covered with Russian script  and caked in oil and ice.  I was back in  a
scene from a Harry  Palmer film  again,  only Michael Caine would have had a
suit and trench coat on instead of piss-stained jeans. The train just seemed
to have  driven into the yard and stopped, and  that  was it.  Going  by the
number of doors opening, it was time to get off. Welcome to Narva.
     I looked out of the  window and saw people jumping down onto the tracks
with their shopping bags. The only other remaining  passenger  in my car was
leaving.  I did  the  same,  traipsing through  the  snow  across a  massive
shunting yard, following  the others  toward an old stone  house.  I guessed
that it hadn't been built until after 1944,  because I'd  read that when the
Russians "liberated" Estonia from the Germans they flattened the whole town,
then rebuilt it from scratch.
     I went through gray-painted, metal double doors into the ticket office.
The room  was only  about twenty  by thirty feet,  with  a  few old plastic,
classroom-style  chairs around the sides. The  walls  were covered with  the
same thick shiny  gray  paint  as the  doors, onto  which  graffiti had been
scratched. I thought the floor was plain pitted concrete until I noticed the
two remaining tiles refusing to leave home.
     The ticket office  was closed. A  large wooden  board  was fixed to the
wall near  the sales window,  with plastic sliders upon which, in  Cyrillic,
were the names of various destinations. I looked for anything that resembled
the word  Tallinn.  It seemed that the  first  train back  was at 8:22  each
morning,  but  even  if they'd spoken English,  there was no  one around  to
confirm it.
     I stepped round the obligatory puddle of vomit and came out of the main
entrance.  Over to my  left was  what  I took to be a bus station. The buses
were of  1960s  or 1970s  vintage,  all battered and some even hand painted.
People were fighting to get aboard,
     exactly as they'd done in the capital; the driver  was shouting at them
and they shouted at each  other. Even the  snow was  exactly the same  as in
Tallinn: dirty, downtrodden, and viciously icy.
     Digging  my  hands  deep  into  my pockets  I  cut directly across  the
potholed road, following the map in  my head along  Puskini, which seemed to
be the main street. It wouldn't be far to Konstantin's address.
     Puskini was lined on either side  by high buildings.  On the left, what
looked like a power station  loomed  behind them and, bizarrely, electricity
towers were  set into the  street and pavements, so pedestrians  had to pick
their way round  them.  Russians seemed to  have sited all their  industrial
units as near as possible  to the stations that powered them; then, if  they
had any space left, they'd squeezed  in  accommodation for  the workers, and
fuck the people who had to live there. I'd seen enough to tell me this was a
miserable, run-down place. The newest buildings looked as if they dated from
the 1970s, and even they were falling apart.
     I headed  up the street, keeping to the right. It was  quiet apart from
the  occasional tractor  and  one or two  Russian-plated articulated lorries
surging past.  The roads and sidewalks were jet black with grease and grime,
with a good coating of slush from passing vehicles.
     Christmas hadn't arrived in  Narva yet.  I wondered if  it  ever would.
There were no street decorations, lights, or anything remotely festive, even
in  the windows. I walked past  drab storefronts which advertised everything
from second-hand washing machines to Arnold Schwarzenegger videos.
     Further  along, I came  to a small food store.  It was an old building,
but  had the  brightest  lighting I'd yet  seen spilling out  onto the  iced
pavement. I  couldn't resist it, especially as I hadn't had anything to  eat
since my chocolate and meat combo, from which I'd long since parted company.
     An old man was lying on top of a cardboard  box to one side of the main
entrance, sheltered by the shop's canopy. His head was wrapped in  rags, his
hands  covered with strips of  canvas. The  skin on  his face  was dark with
ingrained dirt  and he could have grown vegetables  in his beard. Beside him
was  a  wooden tomato  crate  turned upside  down, displaying  a  rusty  old
screwdriver  and  a pair  of pliers that were clearly up for sale. He didn't
bother looking up at
     me as I passed.  I must have looked as though I was all right for rusty
tools.
     The  store was laid out to  exactly the same  template as a  small town
corner  store  in the  U.K. It  even had  some  of the same  brands  Colgate
toothpaste, Kellogg's  Cornflakes, and  Gillette shaving  cream but not much
else apart from  crates of beer  and a large cooler that  had nothing  in it
except rows  of different sausages,  including the risky red  ones  I hadn't
eaten on  the  ferry,  strung  out in lines to make  the  display look  more
generous.
     I picked up a family-sized bag of chips, two packs of sliced, processed
cheese, and four cake-type  rolls. I didn't bother with a  drink as I  hoped
I'd soon  be  getting a hot one at Konstantin's. Besides,  there wasn't much
choice apart from beer  and half-bottles of vodka. I couldn't be hassled  to
get toiler tries or a toothbrush to replace  the stuff that had been stolen.
All that sort of  thing I'd grab  if I needed it, but I didn't plan to be in
the country  that long; and in any  case, no one I'd seen  so  far seemed to
give much of a shit about personal hygiene.
     As I  paid for my  goods I helped myself to  two shopping bags, putting
one pack of cheese and a couple of rolls into one, the  rest into the other.
Passing the old guy on the way out, I put the smaller bag down beside him. I
hadn't bought him any chips because I  didn't  think his  gums  could tackle
them. I knew what it felt like to spend hours outside in the cold.
     With hands back  in my  jacket pockets, the  bag dangling from my right
wrist  and banging  rhythmically against my thigh,  I moved on. I skirted an
electric pole that was half in the street  and half over the wall of a small
factory, and  more rows of miserable apartments came into view, identical to
the ones I'd seen from the train. There  were  no names on  the blocks, just
stenciled numbers. At last I'd found one thing that my childhood project had
over  this  place:  at  least  every building there  had  been  named  after
locations in  Chaucer's Canterbury  Tales. The rest of it, though,  was much
the  same rotting wooden window  frames  and  cracks in the panes taped over
with packing  tape. I remembered why I'd promised myself at the  age of nine
that I'd get out of shit holes like this as soon as I could.
     It  was only  about one  thirty in the afternoon, but  already the town
could have done with some streetlights on. Unfortunately, there just weren't
that many around to help out.
     Things started to liven up after another hundred yards or so. I came to
a  giant  parking lot, full  of buses  and  cars.  People  who  seemed to be
carrying everything from shopping bags  to  suitcases were shouting at  each
other,  trying to  be heard over the noise of  air  brakes and  engines.  It
looked like news footage of refugees moving through a checkpoint. The closer
I got, the more it started to look like somewhere Han Solo might go to get a
spare  part  for his  spacecraft.  There  were  some strange looking  people
around.
     I realized I was at the border crossing point, the road bridge into, or
out of, Russia. Harry Palmer would have been a regular here.
     The parking lot was clogged with new Audis, old BMWs, and Ladas  of all
sorts, shapes, and ages. It was the  Ford  Sierras that looked strangely out
of  place.  There  were  fleets  of the  things.  I now knew where  all  the
second-hand ones went when they weren't snapped up by cab drivers.
     Money changers plied their  trade  along  the edges of the parking lot,
and kiosks sold all other types of kit as fast as Chad could manufacture it.
I  walked over to a green-painted garden shed  with a small  sliding window,
dodging  the  arctic  trucks  that  thundered past  as  they  cleared border
control. If you didn't get out of the way, tough.
     Camel, Marlboro, and a million different  Russian brands were  taped to
the glass, together with  as many different styles  of lighters. An old  guy
who looked like a gypsy, dark-skinned with thick gray  curly hair, showed me
his  list of  exchange rates.  It seemed I could get about  12 EEK, whatever
they were, to the  U.S. dollar. I didn't know if that was good or  not, just
that  Duracell batteries were taped up at just  a couple of  EEKs  each,  so
either it was the bargain of the century or they were duds. I didn't want to
show that I had money, so I went and sat on a garbage can behind the  kiosk,
got a warm $100 dollar  bill  out  of my sock and  replaced the boot  pretty
quickly.
     Once  he'd carried  out about five  different  checks to  make  sure it
wasn't counterfeit, including smelling it, the old guy was very happy indeed
with his hard  currency,  and  so was I with my new EEK  wedge.  I left  the
refugee camp behind  and headed  further up Puskini, toward a traffic circle
which, according to the map in my head, led to the road I wanted.
     The only buildings that looked at all inviting were near the traffic
     circle. Flashing neon signs  told  me these were "komfort baars." Music
blared from loudspeakers rigged  up outside. Originally, I supposed,  they'd
been  ordinary bars  or shops, but  their  windows were painted  out now. It
didn't need much imagination to work out what was on offer the other side of
the emulsion, but for the benefit of anyone in doubt, there were pictures of
women and  Cyrillic stenciling, no  doubt defining exactly what was meant by
"komfort." The best picture of all was on a blue window,  showing the Statue
of Liberty with  Marilyn Monroe's face, pulling up her robe to reveal an ace
of spades between her legs. Underneath,  in English, it read, "America. Fuck
it  here." I wasn't  too  sure what  it  all meant, but the Russians who had
parked  all  the  trucks along  the road obviously didn't have  any  trouble
reading the menu.
     I'd just stopped by the traffic  circle to check which  road  I  wanted
next  when two white  Suzuki Vitaras with flashing red-and  blue  light bars
screeched to a halt outside Marilyn's.
     Three guys piled out of each, dressed exactly the same as the SWAT team
at Tallinn station, but with a different logo. Theirs was  also  sewn on the
back of their  bomber  jackets. I  couldn't  make out the wording  from this
distance, just that it  was all in red and  in the sort of  typeface used on
surf wear Pulling out smaller billy clubs than the lot at the station,  they
piled into the bar.
     I  stepped into a  doorway  to  watch, taking one of  the rolls from my
shopping bag. Pulling the bread apart, I threw in a few slices of cheese and
a handful of chips and watched as a very tired-looking green Lada police car
turned up and  parked near the Vitaras. Two fur-hatted figures inside didn't
get out. I stamped my feet to keep them warm.
     The  Vitaras  were  showroom  clean  and had  a  phone  number and logo
emblazoned  on the side  and what looked like the letters "DTTS." The police
car was falling to pieces and looked as if the insignia on the side had been
hand-painted.
     For  the  next few minutes nothing much happened.  A stream of vehicles
negotiated  the  traffic  circle  and I  ate my  roll, along with a few more
chips.  A few  of the  passing  cars were quite new--Audis, VWs, and  even a
Mere--but  not many.  The popularity  battle was  really  between rusted-out
Sierras and Ladas.
     I was still putting the finishing touches to my second cheese roll when
the black teams emerged from the bar, dragging out three
     guys  between  the  six of  them.  All three were  in suits, with blood
pouring down their faces onto  their  white shirts, while  their smart shoes
got scraped along the ice. They were thrown into the back of the Vitaras and
then given the good news with billy clubs. The  doors were closed and one of
the  team,  noticing the police car,  just  waved  them away.  None  of  the
passers-by even bothered to glance at what was going on; it was hard to tell
whether they were too scared or just couldn't be bothered.
     The police headlights came  back on and off they  drove,  exhaust  pipe
rattling, toward the border-crossing parking lot.
     The Vitaras  and their crews also left,  and I  finished the  roll as I
crossed the traffic circle and turned right, toward  the river. The  address
that  Liv had given me was on this road, which was  known  simply  as  Viru.
Still wondering what the three guys had done to  cause Marilyn such offence,
I started attacking the last roll and the remaining cheese and chips. Like I
didn't have my own stuff to worry about.
        31
     Viru  wasn't  any  more  uplifting  than the  rest of town, just  gray,
miserable blocks of  housing, more black  snow and  more un cared-for roads.
Then, bizarrely,  just up ahead was a burned-out bumper car, its metal frame
and long conducting rod charred and  twisted. God only  knows how it had got
there.
     The only thing moving was a  posse of five or six dogs, creating a haze
of steam above their bodies as they skulked around, sniffing at stuff on the
ground  then  pissing on it. I didn't even feel bad as  I dropped my plastic
bag, along with the chips and cheese wrappers. When in Rome .. .
     Now and again a patched-up Sierra  clattered  past on the cobblestones,
its occupants  looking  at  me  as  if  I  was mad  to be  walking  in  this
neighborhood. They were probably right, if  the sulfur  fumes I was inhaling
were anything to go by. There was obviously another environmentally friendly
factory near by.
     Slipping my hands deeper into my  pockets and  my head deeper inside my
collar, I tried to adopt the same miserable  body language as everyone else.
Thinking about what I'd seen at the "komfort baar," I decided not to  tangle
with private-enterprise security if I could help it. The State police looked
a softer option.
     Viru  started to bend to the right, and straight ahead I could  see the
icy riverbank, five or six hundred yards away. That was Russia.
     As I  neared the bend I  could see into the gorge, with the river Narva
about 200 yards below. Following it  around,  the  road bridge was about 400
yards away. Cars were lining up to leave Estonia, with
     foot traffic moving in both  directions,  carrying suitcases,  shopping
bags, and all sorts. The  checkpoint on the Russian side had barriers across
the road and guards checking papers.
     If  the numbering on the map was  correct, Number 18 Viru would soon be
on my right, a little past the bend and facing the river.
     It wasn't an apartment building as  I'd been expecting, but a large old
house that was  now a baar. At least, that was what the sign said,  in white
but  unlit  neon lettering above  a  rotten  wooden  door.  Big  patches  of
rendering were missing from the front of the building, exposing the red clay
brick underneath. It was three stories  high, and looked really out of place
among the uniform concrete blocks surrounding it on three sides. Most of the
upper  windows  were covered  by  internal wooden shutters;  there  were  no
curtains to be seen. There was another neon sign, also not illuminated, of a
man leaning over a pool table  with a cigarette in his  mouth and a glass of
beer on the side.
     According to the  sign next to  it saying "8-22,"  it  should have been
open. Trying the door handle, I found that it wasn't.
     Four cars  were parked outside. There was a  brand-new, shiny red Audi,
and two Jeep  Cherokees  that had seen better days, both dark blue and  with
Russian plates. The fourth vehicle, however, was  in the worst  state of any
I'd seen in  Estonia, apart from the bumper car. It was a red Lada that  had
been hand-painted and had to belong to a teenager. There were domestic music
speakers  clamped  on the  back shelf, from which wires hung like spaghetti.
Very cool, especially the pile of old newspapers on the back seat.
     I  looked through the grime-covered ground-floor windows. There were no
lights on and no sounds. Walking round to the other side,  facing the river,
I could see a light shining on the  third floor,  just a single bulb. It was
like finding life on Mars.
     Back at the wooden door I hit the  intercom button near the  baar sign.
The building  might be in as shit  state as  Tom's,  but the intercom was in
better condition. There was no way of telling if it was working, though,  so
I tried again, this time for longer.  There was static and crackling, and  a
gruff male  voice,  half aggressive,  half bored, quizzed  me. I didn't know
what  the  fuck  he  was  on  about.  I  said,  "Konstantin.  I  want to see
Konstantin."
     I heard the Russian or Estonian equivalent of, "Eh, what?" then
     there was more gabbing from him and voices shouting  in the background.
When he came back to me it was with something that obviously  translated as,
"Fuck off, big nose." The static ceased; I'd been given the brushoff.
     I buzzed again, working  on the theory  that if he got pissed enough he
might come down to  the door  to fill me in. At least then I had a chance of
making  some progress. There was more shouting, which I didn't understand; I
got the gist but carried on regardless.
     "Konstantin? Konstantin?"
     The machine went dead once again. I wasn't sure whether there was going
to be some action now or not, so I stayed where I was.
     After about two  minutes there was the sound of  bolts being  thrown on
the other  side of  the door. I moved out of the way as  it was pushed open.
Behind it was an iron grill door, still closed, and behind that was a guy of
maybe seventeen or eighteen, who looked like the style fairy had crept up on
him and waved her LA-street gang wand. I bet he owned the Lada.
     "Do you speak English?"
     "Yo! You want Konstantin?"
     "Yeah, Konstantin. Is he here?"
     He gave a big smile. "Yes, he sure is, for that's  me, man. You are the
England guy, right?"
     I nodded and  smiled, holding  back laughter as he tried to  match  his
speech with his dress sense. It just didn't work,  especially with a Russian
accent.
     He beamed  as he  looked me up and down. "Okay, smart guy, come on in."
He was  right, I didn't look as if I'd come  straight from the dry-cleaners.
Or maybe he'd been expecting a man in a bowler hat.
     The grill was secured from the inside  with two lever locks. As soon as
I'd walked in, both the  door  and  the grill were locked behind  me and the
keys taken out.
     He held up his hands. "Hey, call me Vorsim." He wiggled his fingers, or
rather, the ones that hadn't  gone missing, in the air. "Everyone does. It's
Russian for eight."
     He gave me another  quick once-over as we both smiled  at the joke he'd
probably cracked a thousand times. "Hey, follow me, England guy."
     I followed Eight up a narrow wooden staircase to the first floor.
     The banisters  and handrails  were  bare wood,  and  the  exposed steps
sagged  with age. There was no light apart from the dull glow coming through
the ground-floor windows. I could only just see where my feet were going.
     It was an old, once-grand house. I couldn't see  any evidence of a bar,
but  at least it was  warm and  dry--almost too dry. It had that dusty smell
places get when the windows  are never opened and the heating  is on all the
time.
     Our footsteps  echoed round the stairwell. Eight was about three  steps
above  me, wearing  a pair of  the  most  blindingly yellow and  purple Nike
sneakers I'd ever seen,  beneath a pair of  baggy,  blue hip-hop-style jeans
that were stone washed--the  kind with big horrible streaks of  white--and a
black leather  bomber jacket with the  L.A.  Raiders pirate logo stitched on
the back.
     We hit  a landing and turned for the next flight which would take us up
to the second floor.  Weak light  filtered through the slatted shutters. All
the doors leading off it were paneled, with faded flowers painted on ceramic
door knobs; it must have been a splendid place when it was first built.
     We passed the second and carried on up to the third  floor, then walked
along a larger landing. He opened one of the doors  toward the  river. "Your
name is Nick, right?"
     "Yeah, that's right." I  didn't return the eye contact as I walked past
him into the room. I was too busy checking what I was walking into.
     There was just one bulb in the center of the room, producing the dingy,
yellowy light I'd seen from outside. The very large room was in semidarkness
and  was boiling  hot. The only job the lighting did  was  expose a layer of
cigarette smoke that clung to the high ceiling. There was a glow from the TV
to  my left, its volume set at low, with a body in front of it.  Directly in
front of  me, about forty-five  feet  away, was a  single  sash window,  its
shutters open in the hope of letting in a little natural light. The shutters
on each side  were  still  firmly closed.  There  were  no  carpets or  wall
hangings, just empty space.
     To my right, near a  large marble  fireplace, three men  were seated on
fancy chairs around what looked like an antique table with ornate legs. They
were  playing  cards  and  smoking. Beside them,  and  to  the  right of the
fireplace, was another door.
     The three  heads at the table turned and stared as they sucked on their
cigarettes. I nodded without any reaction from them at all, then one of  the
guys said something and the other two guffawed and went back to their game.
     The door  closed behind me. I looked at Eight, who was  bobbing  up and
down with excitement. "Well, man" arms moving around like a rapper "you hang
here, Vorsim won't be long. Things to do." And with that he placed the grill
keys on the table and disappeared through the door near the fireplace.
     I looked over at the guy by the TV. The color picture  was a bit snowy,
perhaps because it was perched on a chair with a coat hanger for an antenna.
He  sat  on  a  chair opposite,  his  nose nearly  touching the screen,  too
engrossed to bother looking  round at me. His area was giving out more light
than  the bulb in the ceiling; it was a mystery how the other guys could see
their cards.
     No one offered me anywhere to sit, so I went over to the window to have
a look outside. The floorboards creaked  with every step I  took.  The  card
school,  now  behind me, just got  back to mumbling  to each other  as  they
played.
     It was easy  to see what went on  here. Two sets  of electronic display
pharmaceutical scales sat under  the table at this  end of the room. Next to
them  were  stacked  maybe  ten  to  twelve  large  Tupperware  boxes,  some
containing  white  stuff  that  definitely  wasn't  flour,   others  holding
dark-colored pills that similarly weren't M&Ms.
     Directly  beneath  the window  was  Viru,  dirty  snow and ice covering
overflowing  dustbins. At the corner  of the  building three scabby cats lay
perfectly  still  in the snow, gathered around a  drain, waiting  for  their
black furry dinner to serve itself up.
     Over the lip of the gorge the river on both banks was iced up,  but the
center third was carrying big chunks of ice and trash  sluggishly from right
to  left, toward  the Baltic about eight miles downstream. Further  upstream
the bridge was still jammed with cars and people.
     I turned back to  the  room.  It might be sweltering in here, but I was
desperate for a hot brew. The only drink I could see was a bottle of Johnnie
Walker on the  table, which was being emptied by the  card players. They all
had  black leather jackets  draped over  the backs of their  chairs.  They'd
obviously watched too many gangster
     movies" because they were all dressed in black pants and black crewneck
sweaters, with enough gold  dripping  off  their wrists and fingers to clear
Estonia's national  debt. It looked like a  scene  from Good Fellas Packs of
Camels and Marlboros lay on the table in front of them, gold lighters placed
neatly  on top. I made sure they couldn't see my Lion King watch.  I  didn't
want them to start by shitting me, as there might be a time when they had to
take me seriously. A smiling Disney character on my wrist wouldn't help.
     I  turned to the TV watcher as  he  clicked at his lighter and  lit up,
holding the  cigarette between his  thumb  and index  finger,  then  leaning
forward, elbows on knees, to get his nose back into some low-budget American
soap.  What was really  strange was that the dialogue was still in  English;
only after the actors had delivered their lines did the Russian dubbing take
place. There was absolutely no emotion in the translation; a woman with more
makeup than  Boy George gushed,  "But Fortman, I  love  you," then a Russian
voice translated it as if she was buying a pound of cabbage. I suddenly knew
where Eight got his English and dress code from.
     The  door opened and in he came.  "Yo, Nikolai!" The  bomber jacket was
now off to reveal a red sweatshirt with Bart Simpson karate kicking  another
kid  with  fistfuls  of  dollars. Printed  underneath  was  "Just take  it."
Dangling from Eight's neck was a thick gold chain that any  rapper  would be
proud of.
     He came and stood by the window with me. "Nick,  I've been told to help
you.  Because, hey, guess  what, crazy guy, I'm the only one here who speaks
English."  He  shuffled from sneaker to sneaker as he clapped his hands. The
Good Fellas looked at him as  if he was a basket case, and got back to their
game.
     "Vorsim, I need a car."
     "Car? Whoa, could be a problem, my man."
     I  half expected  to  hear his response  followed by  some bad  Russian
dubbing.  He turned to the Good  Fellas  spoke some very fast  stuff and did
some mock begging. The oldest one, maybe  in his  early fifties, didn't look
up from his hand but replied really aggressively. He must have been drinking
liquid nasty instead  of Johnnie  Walker. I caught  his drift, though: "Tell
the Brit to fuck off ski I wondered if I should produce the insurance policy
but decided not to. Better to save it until it really mattered.
     Another one of the three sparked up with an idea, pointing first
     at Eight, then at  me, and  made  out  he was hitting  something with a
hammer. The other two really liked that one. Even the TV addict joined in as
they all had  a good laugh.  It  was Merlin's laugh: King Arthur used to get
frustrated when  he made  a  kingly decision and  his  wizard just  laughed,
because Merlin  knew the future and the king didn't. I felt the same sort of
thing was happening here. Liv was right: Don't trust them an inch.
     Eight's  shoulders slumped. He  walked back  over to me. "I'll  have to
give you my car."
     "Is it one  of the ones outside?" I'd already guessed, but was hoping I
was wrong.
     "Yes. But hey, man, I need it for bitches. Will I get it back soon? How
long do you need it for? A couple of hours?"
     I shrugged. "Maybe a couple of days." Before he could react I added, "I
also want to see you later tonight. Will you be here?"
     "Cool, I'm always here. I live here, my man."
     He pointed up at the loft. Rather him than me.
     "OK, I'll be back later. Will your friends be here?"
     "Oh sure, Nikolai, they'll hang  for a while. Business to do, people to
see."
     I put my forefinger and thumb together and shook my hand. "Keys?"
     "Keys? Oh sure,  sure.  I'll have  to come with you, my  man.  Show you
something cool." He ran through to the other  room. The Good  Fellas ignored
me  completely  as I waited, concentrating instead  on throwing  more liquid
nasty down their throats.
     Eight reappeared,  pulling on his bomber jacket and zipping it up as he
took the keys off the table. We went downstairs and out into the cold.
     After locking the door and grill behind us, it turned out that the cool
thing he wanted to show me was that I'd have to hit the starter motor with a
hammer  before  it would  turn over. He said he  liked it  busted like  this
because no one could steal it.
     While  he was busying himself showing me what to  do, it was  pointless
talking  about licenses or  whatever if  I got stopped. I just wanted to get
away from here and do my job. I didn't have time to fuck about. The Maliskia
knew the NSA were out and about and would be moving location any day now.
     But Eight wanted to remove his speakers and music first. I
     looked at the  cassettes as he piled them on the  passenger seat. There
was an array of American rap bands I'd never heard of, all following Eight's
lead in the gold-chain department, plus some really hip Russian artistes who
looked as though they were on the way to a reunion of the Liberace fan club.
It was the white tuxedos that really gave them class.
     I was  waiting for him to disconnect the speakers when a 5 Series  BMW,
with a  hint  of  silver beneath  the dirt, cruised down  the  road from the
direction  I had  walked.  I  noticed the  plates  first  because they  were
British, and it was right-hand drive, then I looked at the driver.
     The subconscious never forgets, especially when it comes to trouble.
     Carpenter.  I  couldn't believe it. As if  he hadn't fucked up  my life
enough these past couple of weeks.
     He was slowing down  as a van approached from  the opposite  direction,
but it wasn't to let  him pass; he was heading over to where we were, and if
he saw me I bet I wouldn't be  getting the Russian for, "Hello, nice to meet
you."
     I jumped into the back of the car with Eight and made as if to help him
pull out the speakers, my knees badly creasing up his newspapers.
     The  BMW pulled  into  the  parking lot, its tires crunching louder and
louder  on the ice  the  closer it  got. I suddenly found the speakers  very
interesting  indeed,  and made  sure my ass faced very definitely toward the
BMW. I was feeling extremely vulnerable,  but not  as much  as I would if he
saw me.
     The engine shut down and the driver's door opened.
     Eight  was the  other side  of  me and  glanced  over  my  shoulder  as
Carpenter's door slammed, then turned back to his beloved speakers.
     After hearing the wooden door close, I was still pulling out some  very
risky wiring as I asked, "Who's the English guy?"
     "He's not England, you crazy guy!" He tutted into the air.
     "So why has he got an England car?"
     I'd obviously  said something very funny. "Because he can, my man! Some
England  guy isn't  going to St. Petersburgjust  to get his car  back;  that
would be crazy, man."
     "Oh, I see."
     In  this part of  the world  it obviously didn't  matter  if  you drove
around  with a hot car's plates on display. After  all, if you had the money
to have a BMW stolen to order, why  not flaunt it?  I could see the dealer's
sticker  in the rear  window;  it  was  a  firm in  Hanover, Germany,  which
probably  meant that some British  grunt  had been saving up for ages to buy
his tax-free bargain, only to get it lifted  so it could rumble around Narva
in the snow.
     The first speaker came free. I had no idea how he was  going to wire it
up again; it looked like a telephone junction box in there. The chain around
his neck  made a  curiously tinny noise  as  he moved around. The  rap bands
probably  had the  real thing, but I was sure  his  bitches  never knew  the
difference.
     "Who is he, then?"
     "Oh, just one of the guys. Business, you know."
     He must do a lot of business here to have his own set of house keys.
     "Don't  say anything about me  to  anyone, Vorsim," I said. "Especially
guys like him. I don't want people to know I'm here, okay?"
     "Oh sure, my man." The  way he said it was too blase for my liking, but
I didn't want to push the point.
     Once  the speakers were  out  I virtually threw the  cassettes  at him,
wanting to get away before Carpenter reappeared. The hood was still open and
I gave the starter motor a crack with thS hammer.
     Eight  stood  by  the  door holding an armful of  cassettes,  with  the
speakers on the doorstep. "Be careful with the bitch machine, Nikolai."
     Before he'd  even turned to unlock the  door I had  the hood down,  the
engine in gear and was away, heading back the way I'd come.
     My head  was churning over about Carpenter. What if he was still  there
when I came back  to  see Eight after I'd  done the recce?  Or if he arrived
while I was  in the  house? I had fucked up in my attempt  to get out of the
way so quickly. I should have told Eight I wanted to meet elsewhere.
     I had to  control a rage  that was brewing inside me as I thought about
Carpenter's drugged-up, fucked-up work  that night. It  had not only cost me
money, but nearly got me killed.
     Should I even go back and see Eight again? I had no choice: I
     was going to  need help obtaining explosives or whatever else I needed.
I  drove  past the "komfort  baars" thinking of my professional options  and
what I would unprofessionally really like to do about him. Fuck it; I pulled
into the border-crossing parking lot. It took about a minute to work out how
to secure the Lada, as the driver's door lock was busted.
     With the starter  motor persuader in my pocket I turned  and  began  to
walk back to the house. As  the saying so rightly goes, there's not much you
can't sort out with a two-pound ball hammer.
        32
     I  would  have to luck  it  nut and  wait for him to  leave  the house,
setting  myself a  cut-off of two  o'clock  the  following  morning. I still
needed time to get on with the recce; lifting Carpenter and keeping him tied
up somewhere until  the job was finished wasn't an option. There was no time
for that.
     Now I'd got  my bearings in this part of town  I cut between  apartment
buildings and  saw some of  the  worst conditions yet, sheds  burned  out to
match the cars and buildings that should have fallen  down years  ago. There
was still an hour and a half to go before last light at about  three thirty,
but the overcast sky was making everything darker than it should have been