the next department. The funny thing is that we even look quite alike. In the office, they joke that it’s the job that smooths out the differences in appearance. And he and Pasha are almost neighbours, live on the same staircase. Galperin must have left him in the yard on purpose to guard the car. He had a point, I guess, although what exactly could Demyan do against even one armed man? We quickly load up my stuff and get into the car. It’s warm inside. Pasha’s even kept the engine running, with the heater working all this time.
“I’m thirsty,” whines Slootskiy.
“Well, I’ve got mineral water upstairs. And we’ve got a long road ahead of us.”
“Just get it fast, then. And what are you taking your jacket for, for Christ’s sake?”
Good point. I even managed to work up a sweat with all this running around. Why would I put it on?
I dash back into the building, up in the lift, through the door, and there’s the water on the table.
I grab the bottle and slam the door. The lift sings its little song, and I’m back on the ground floor. I run towards the steps. Shit, my laces! I almost went arse over tip. I crouch down…
Bang! Bang!
“Aaaaa!” A wild shriek sweeps in from the yard. It bounces off the glass and echoes deep in the entryway.
“Shut him up!”
Two more shots cracked dryly.
“Now they’re done twitching.”
“Check their documents. Bags, coats. Go through everything.”
I press myself into a niche in the foyer. There were supposed to be flowers here, but no one ever got the money together.
“That’s Galperin. His photo’s right here on his license.”
“Who’s the other one?”
“He’s got nothing with him.”
“Then get up those fucking stairs! Karasev should live here, too, and he’s on the list. Third floor, flat 15. No hanging around.”
I hear steps and try to make my spine grow into the concrete. True, there’s no light in the entryway, thanks to the unknown lightbulb thief. But they might have a torch with them…
“Boss, there’s a pass card here. It’s Karasev.”
“So that’s who he was hurrying to see. I guess he made it that far. Makes no difference, we still have to search the flat. Who knows what he’s got up there?”
Again I heard boots on tarmac. Now they’ll come through the door and shine their torches around. But then, why would they? What do they need light for in here? It’s not that dark outside yet, they may not have torches, and the lift door is always lit up with LEDs. You can’t miss it. And that’s exactly what happened. A couple of the bad guys made straight for the lift without hesitating, and only at the last minute did one of them shine a light on the call button for some reason. The lift played its little tune, and the cabin rose to my floor.
So far, so good. Now they go up there, break into my flat somehow, take a look around, and then what?
I don’t know exactly what they’re looking for, but it’s going to take them all of five minutes to turn everything in there upside down. I don’t have that much furniture in the flat – it’s all modern minimalism. And then… Then they come back down. Makes no difference how they come, on foot down the staircase or back in the lift. Either way, they’ll see me. My niche is easily visible from the bottom of the staircase and from the lift door. And now I know they have a torch.
So, I’ve got five minutes left, have I? Well, maybe six or seven. They’ll bury me here. Should I run outside? Yeah, right. How many of them are there out by the car? Perhaps they’re all deaf and blind? No, it’s really not funny.
I don’t know quite what got into me, but instead of looking for a safer hiding place, I took off running up the staircase. The stairwells in our house are also all modern and minimalist, too, with no recesses or twists. Wherever you go, you can see everything. And there’s no need for a torch, the lights are still on. I did at least have the brains to keep quiet, even taking off my shoes and climbing the stairs in my socks. First floor, second floor. Above me there was a crash and a screeching sound. My poor door!
“You are illegally entering private property. I will now call the police.”
My alarm system! I installed it myself. Fat lot of good it’s going to do me now. The police won’t even come out for murder.
“Stupid bitch!” swore somebody upstairs. “I almost started firing. Take that!”
There was a smash and the voice of the alarm fell silent.
“That’s more like it!”
Having reached my floor, I take a careful peek round the corner. My door is wide open and the hallway light is on, though I remember turning it off. There’s nobody in the doorway, but voices can be heard from inside the flat.
Let’s go!
Pressing my shoes to my chest and trying to make as little noise as possible, I cross the passage and turn on to the flight of stairs going up. And that’s where I lose my nerve. I flop on the floor right where I am. I just can’t go any further up. It was all I could do to get to the landing.
The voices sounded louder. It seemed clear the bad guys had found nothing and were now leaving.
“Rig up something there just in case.” It’s the same guy who was scared by the alarm system.
“What the fuck for? The owner’s lying downstairs!”
“You never know… One of his friends might drop by.”
“Ha! Like they’ll live that long. And what if his neighbour pokes his nose in?”
“What do you care about his neighbour?”
“Yeah, fair enough,” agrees the second bad guy.
There’s some scratching and scraping. While he’s waiting, the first guy has a smoke, judging by the smell rising up the stairwell.
“There we go. Just like they taught us. They’ll never put those bones back together.”
“With any luck the smartarses who hired us won’t give a fuck about the little details.”
The song of the lift doors opening rings out, and I’m left all alone.
What would the hero of an action film do now if they were in my place? They’d run down, find the tripwire, disarm it, and throw the grenade after the bad guys. As far as I know, they use grenades to make that sort of trap. Which means you could throw it just as the bad guys were coming out of the front door. No doubt that’s what an action hero would do, but I’m not in a film and I don’t know how to disarm a tripwire. During my year of military service, I only fired an assault rifle twice, and I’ve never even seen a grenade except in the movies.
So, I stay sitting there on the staircase. I heard doors slamming in the yard, and the roar of the motor pulling off. Then something flickered across the window. I didn’t need to look outside
