Ice Trilogy (35 page)

23:42, Moscow Suburbs, Mytishchi, 4 Silikatnaya Street, building 2

The new warehouse of Mosregionteletrust.

A dark blue Lincoln Navigator drove into the building. Stopped. The headlights illuminated: a concrete floor, brick walls, boxes of transformers, reels of underground cable, a diesel compressor, sacks of cement, a barrel of tar, broken wheelbarrows, three milk cartons, a scrap heap, cigarette butts, a dead rat, and two piles of dried excrement.

Gorbovets leaned on the gates. Pulled. The steel sections aligned. Clanged. He slid the bolt shut. Spat. Walked to the car.

Uranov and Rutman climbed out of the car. Opened the trunk. Two men in handcuffs lay on the floor of the SUV, mouths taped.

Gorbovets came over.

“The light turns on somewhere here.” Uranov caught the string.

“Can’t you see?” Rutman pulled on a pair of gloves.

“Not too well.” Uranov squinted.

“The main thing is we hear it!” Gorbovets smiled.

“The acoustics are good here.” Tired, Uranov wiped his face. “Come on.”

They dragged the captives out of the car. Moved them over to two steel columns. Tied them tight with rope. Took up positions around them. Silently stared at the bound men.

Five people were visible in the headlights. All of them were blond and had blue eyes.

Uranov
: 30 years old, tall, narrow shoulders, a thin intelligent face, a beige raincoat.

Rutman
: 21, medium height, skinny, flat-chested, lithe, a pale unremarkable face, a dark blue jacket, black leather pants.

Gorbovets
: 54, bearded, not very tall, stocky, sinewy peasant hands, barrel-chested, crude features, a dark yellow sheepskin coat.

The bound captives:

1st
: around 50, stout, ruddy, well-groomed, wearing an expensive suit;

2nd
: young, puny, hook-nosed and pimply, black jeans and a leather jacket.

Their mouths were taped with semitransparent packing tape.

“Let’s start with this one.” Uranov nodded toward the heavy guy.

Rutman took an oblong metal case out of the car. She placed it on the cement floor in front of Uranov and opened the metal locks. The case turned out to be a mini refrigerator.

Ice hammers
, two of them, placed head to tail, lay inside: long, rough wooden shafts, attached to cylindrical ice heads with strips of rawhide. Frost covered the shafts.

Uranov put on gloves. He picked up a hammer. He stepped toward one of the bound men. Gorbovets unbuttoned the fat man’s jacket. He removed his tie and yanked his shirt. The buttons popped and scattered, exposing a plump white chest with small nipples and a gold cross on a chain. Gorbovets’s coarse fingers grabbed the cross and jerked. The fat man gave a low moan. He began to make signs with his eyes. Rolled his head back and forth.

“Respond!” Uranov cried aloud.

He swung the hammer back and hit him in the middle of the chest.

The fat man moaned louder.

The three stood still and listened.

“Respond!” Uranov commanded again after a pause. And again he hit him hard.

The fat man’s insides growled. The three froze and listened.

“Respond!” Uranov hit him again, harder.

The man moaned and wailed inside. His body shook. Three round bruises appeared on his chest.

“Lemme whack the fucker.” Gorbovets took the hammer. He spit on his hands. Swung it back.

“Respond!” The hammer crashed into the chest with a juicy thud. Splinters of ice scattered.

And again the three stood stock-still. They listened. The fat man moaned and shuddered. His face grew pale. His chest began to sweat and turned purple.

“Orsa? Orus?” Rutman touched her lips uncertainly.

“That’s his guts grumbling.” Gorbovets shook his head.

“Lower, lower down.” Uranov nodded in agreement. “He’s empty.”

“Speak!” Gorbovets roared and hit him. The man’s body jerked. It hung feebly from the ropes.

The three moved very close. Turned their ears to the purple chest. Listened carefully.

“Guts growlin’...” Gorbovets exhaled sadly. He swung back.

“Reee-spooond! Reee-spond! Reee-spoond!”

Bang. Bang. Chips of ice flew out from the hammer. Bones cracked. Blood began dripping from the fat man’s nose.

“He’s empty.” Uranov straightened up.

“Empty...” Rutman bit her lip.

“Empty, the motherfucker...” Gorbovets leaned on the hammer. He was out of breath. “Oof...goddamn...how many of you empty ding-dongs they gone and multiplied?”

“It’s just a bad streak,” Rutman sighed.

Gorbovets slammed the hammer on the floor with all his strength. The ice head shattered, shards of ice flying everywhere. The torn straps of rawhide fluttered. Gorbovets threw the handle into the refrigerator. He picked up the other hammer and passed it to Uranov.

Uranov wiped the frost from the handle, staring gloomily at the fat man’s breathless body. He turned a heavy gaze to the young man. The two pairs of blue eyes met. The captive thrashed and began to wail.

“Don’t be scared, kid.” Gorbovets wiped drops of blood off his cheeks. He held one nostril, leaned over, and blew his nose on the floor. He wiped his hand on his sheepskin coat. “Sheesh, Iray, it’s the thicksteenth thumper we’ve bashed, and it’s another beanbag! What kinda friggin’ luck is this? It’s a regular evacupation, I tell you. The thicksteenth! Another empty dingaling.”

“Could be the hundred and sixteenth.” Uranov unbuttoned the jacket of the second captive.

The young man whined. His rickety knees knocked together.

Rutman began to help Uranov. They tore open the black T-shirt with the red inscription
WWW.FUCK.RU
. Shivering under the shirt was a white bony chest covered with spotty freckles.

Uranov thought a moment. He handed the hammer to Gorbovets.

“Rom, you do it. I haven’t had any luck for a while.”

“Okeydoke...” Gorbovets spat on his palms. Pulled himself up. Swung back.

“Re-SPOND!”

The icy cylinder hit the frail chest with a whistle. The captive’s body jerked from the blow. The three listened closely. The young man’s thin nostrils flared. Sobs broke from them.

Gorbovets sadly shook his shaggy head. He drew the hammer back slowly.

“Respond!”

The whistle of air splitting. A sonorous blow. A spray of ice splinters. Weakening moans.

“Something...something...” Rutman listened closely to the black-and-blue chest.

“Just the upper part, the upper...” Uranov shook his head.

“It’s thumbsing...I don’t know...maybe it’s in the throat?” Gorbovets scratched his reddish beard.

“Rom, again, but more precise,” Uranov ordered.

“How mush more precise can ya get...” Gorbovets swung back. “Ree-spond!”

The chest cracked. Ice scattered on the ground. A bit of blood spattered from the broken skin. The young man hung limp from the ropes. His blue eyes rolled back. The black eyelashes fluttered.

The three listened. A weak staccato grumble sounded in the boy’s chest.

“It’s there!” Uranov twitched.

“Lord almighty, bless the Light!” Gorbovets tossed the hammer aside.

“I was sure of it!” Rutman laughed joyfully. She blew on her fingers.

The three pressed against the young man’s chest.

“Speak with your heart! Speak with your heart! Speak with your heart!” Uranov spoke in a loud voice.

“Speak, speak, speak, come on little man!” Gorbovets mumbled.

“Speak with your heart, with your heart; speak, with the heart...” Rutman whispered joyfully.

A strange, faint sound came and went from the bloody, bruised chest.

“Speak your name! Speak your name! Speak your name!” Uranov repeated.

“Your name, little fella, tell us your name, your name!” Gorbovets stroked the young man’s fair hair.

“Your name, say your name, speak your name, name, name...” Rutman whispered to the pale pink nipple.

They froze, transfixed. They listened closely.

“Ural,” said Uranov.

“Ur...Hurrah, Ural!” Gorbovets pulled on his beard.

“Urrraaaal...Uraaaaal...” Rutman’s eyelids closed in joy.

They began fussing about happily.

“Quick, quick!” Uranov pulled out a coarse knife with a wooden handle.

They cut the ropes. Tore the bandage from his mouth. Placed the young man on the cement floor. Rutman dragged a first aid kit over. He found the smelling salts and brought them over. Uranov placed a wet towel on the battered chest. Gorbovets supported the young man’s back. He shook him carefully.

“Come on now, little guy, come on now, little one...”

The boy’s whole puny body jerked. His thick-soled boots thudded against the floor. He opened his eyes. Inhaled with difficulty. He passed gas and whimpered.

“Now — there, there. Go ahead and fart, little one, go ahead and fart...” In a single swoop, Gorbovets lifted him off the floor. He carried him to the car on his sturdy, crooked legs.

Uranov picked up the hammer and knocked the ice onto the floor. He tossed the shaft in the mini refrigerator, closed the top, and picked it up.

They settled the young man on the backseat. Gorbovets and Rutman sat on either side, propping him up. Uranov opened the gates. He drove out into the dank darkness. He climbed out and closed the gates, got back in behind the wheel, and steered the car along the narrow, uneven road.

The headlights illuminated the roadside and remaining patches of dirty snow. The glowing clock face showed 00.20.

“Your name — is Yury?” Uranov glanced at the young man in the rearview mirror.

“Yu...ry...Lapin,” he said with difficulty.

“Remember, your true name — is Ural. Your heart spoke that name. Up until today you were not living, just existing. Now you are going to live. You will have everything you want. And you will have a great purpose in life. How old are you?”

“Twenty...”

“You’ve been sleeping for twenty years. Now you’ve awoken. We, your brothers, awakened your heart. I’m Iray.”

“I’m Rom.” Gorbovets stroked the boy’s cheek.

“And I’m Okam.” Rutman winked at him. She pushed back a lock of hair from Lapin’s sweaty brow.

“We’ll take you to a clinic where they’ll help you and where you can rest.”

The young man cast an exhausted glance at Rutman. Then at Gorbovets and his beard.

“But...I...but when will I...when...I have to — ”

“Don’t ask any questions,” Uranov interrupted. “You’re in shock. And you have to get used to it.”

“You’re still just a weakling.” Gorbovets patted his head. “Get yourself some shut-eye, and then we’ll have a talk.”

“Then you’ll find out everything. Does it hurt?” Rutman carefully placed the wet towel on the round bruises.

“It...hurts...” The young man sniffled. He closed his eyes.

“Finally that towel came in handy. I keep wetting it and wetting it before every hit. Then — it turns out that it’s just one more empty. So you have to go and wring the water out!” Rutman laughed. She embraced Lapin carefully. “Listen...it’s so cool that you’re one of us. I’m so glad...”

The SUV banged over the potholes. The young man shrieked.

“Slower...don’t gun it...” Gorbovets fiddled nervously with his beard.

“Is it very painful, Ural?” Rutman spoke the new name with pleasure.

“Very...Oooowww!” The young man groaned and cried out.

“That’s all, that’s it. No more bumps from here on,” said Uranov. He drove on, carefully.

The car emerged onto Yaroslav Highway. It turned and took off toward Moscow.

“You’re a student,” said Rutman affirmatively. “Moscow University, the journalism school.”

The young man moaned in response.

“I studied too. In the economics department of the Pedagogical Institute.”

“Whoa, man alive!” Gorbovets pulled on his nose. “Messed yourself didja! Got scared, little one!”

A slight smell of excrement came from Lapin.

“That’s completely normal.” Uranov squinted at the road.

“When they hit me, I squeezed out some brown cheese, too.” Rutman looked straight at the young man’s thin face. “And I let go a stream of hot water, quietly. It was great. But you...” She touched him between the legs. “You’re dry in front. Are you Armenian?”

The boy shook his head.

“But there is something from the Caucasus?” She ran her finger down Lapin’s hook nose. “Maybe from the Baltics — no? You have a beautiful nose.”

“Don’t come on to him, you horny she-goat, he don’t care about his nose right now,” Gorbovets grumbled.

“Okam, call the clinic,” Uranov ordered.

Rutman took out a cell phone and dialed.

“It’s us. We have a brother. Twenty. Yes. Yes. How long? Well, in about...”

“Twenty-five minutes,” Uranov said.

“We’ll be there in half an hour. Yes.”

She put the cell phone away.

Lapin leaned his head against her shoulder. Closed his eyes. He sank into oblivion.

They drove up to the clinic:
7 Novoluzhnetsky Prospect.

They stopped at the guard booth. Uranov showed his pass, then drove up to a three-story building. Behind the glass doors stood two hefty orderlies in blue robes...

Uranov opened the car door. The assistants ran over with a gurney. They lifted Lapin out of the car. He woke up and moaned feebly. They placed him on the stretcher. Strapped him down. Rolled him inside the clinic door.

Rutman and Gorbovets remained by the car. Uranov followed the stretcher.

A
doctor
was waiting for them at reception: a plump, stooped man with thick graying hair, gold-rimmed glasses, a meticulously trimmed beard, and a blue robe.

He stood next to the wall, smoking. He held an ashtray.

The orderlies rolled the bed up to him.

“The usual?” asked the doctor.

“Yes,” said Uranov, looking down at his own beard.

“Complications?”

“It appears the chest bone cracked.”

“How long ago?” The doctor took the towel off Lapin’s chest.

“About...forty minutes ago.”

A
female assistant
ran in: medium height, chestnut hair, a serious, high-cheekboned face.

“Excuse me, Semyon Ilich.”