Better Off Dead: (Victor the Assassin 4) by Tom Wood Read Free Book Online Page B

expression was blank. He knew how to hide his thoughts as well as Victor. He had been a good intelligence officer before turning to organised crime. He could have been scared or delighted or anything in between. Victor wouldn’t know until he started talking. Maybe not even then. He reminded himself that Norimov was perhaps the best liar he had ever known.
    The Russian acknowledged Victor with a slight raise of the chin. ‘You’re earlier than I expected.’
    ‘Naturally.’
    ‘Even after your call, I didn’t think you’d really show.’
    ‘Neither did I.’
    Norimov nodded, thoughtful. ‘Thank you for doing so.’
    Victor said nothing to that.
    Sergei stood close by, behind Victor. Within grabbing distance, should he need to.
    To Norimov’s right, a young woman at least twenty-five years his junior slouched on the cushioned bench. She was barely clothed and heavily made up. Her chin was close to her chest. She didn’t look up but Victor could see the struggle it was for her to keep her eyelids from closing. A few millilitres of a cosmopolitan with a sliver of burnt orange rind sat in the bottom of a martini glass on the table before her.
    ‘Give us some privacy,’ Norimov said to Sergei.
    He hesitated. ‘Are you sure, boss?’
    ‘I said so, did I not?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘And take Nadia with you.’
    Victor stepped aside to let Sergei pass, one arm wrapped around Nadia’s tiny waist and carrying her as effortlessly as Victor would an attaché case. She made a low murmur, but no words passed her lips. Her arms and legs hung as loose as her hair.
    ‘Charming lady,’ Victor said as he slid on to the padded bench opposite Norimov.
    The Russian sat back, and in doing so gave Victor the first indication of his mindset: he was instinctively creating distance, because he was afraid. Or pretending to be. Scared or calculating and manipulative. There was no way of knowing.
    ‘I hate bars like this,’ Norimov said. ‘We’ve adopted the West’s pretension with a disturbing amount of relish. A bar should be a hole. It should be a dark, squalid place full of stinking, hairy men. You should go there to get drunk and talk nonsense and fight, not sip cocktails and pose half-naked.’ He sighed. ‘I didn’t think you would come.’
    ‘You’ve already said that.’
    ‘Take it as an indicator of my surprise that you’re here. I never thought I’d see you again.’
    ‘You said something similar when last we met.’
    ‘I did?’ He sighed again. ‘You don’t know it yet, and no one ever told me at your age, but eventually you’ll reach a point in life where you have no new thoughts; you experience no new sensations. Everything you do, everything you say, you’ve done and said a thousand times before. And then you have the indignity of spending the rest of your days as a broken fucking record.’
    He pushed the martini glass to one side, using the back of his hand out of the same habit as Victor had. There were no other glasses on the table.
    Norimov said, ‘I apologise for the language.’
    ‘There’s no need.’
    ‘I forgot how you feel about it. I truly am sorry.’
    ‘It doesn’t matter.’
    ‘What was it you used to say? Swearing is an expression of anger. When we swear we’re admitting we’ve lost control. Something like that, right?’
    ‘Something like that.’
    ‘Sounded like rubbish then. Now, I’m not so sure. You might have a point. Your Russian is still excellent, by the way. I thought it might have suffered with your absence.’
    Victor didn’t comment. He caught the gaze of a waitress who had finished serving a nearby table and motioned her over. He said to Norimov, ‘You don’t mind if I eat, do you?’
    The Russian looked shocked, but shook his head. ‘You never cease to amaze me, but be my guest.’
    ‘Hi,’ the waitress said.
    Victor said, ‘Can I trouble you for a steak, please?’
    ‘Of course you can. How do you want that cooked?’
    ‘Extra rare.’
    The