The Case of the General's Thumb by Andréi Kurkov Read Free Book Online

overdo it. He’s no fool. And make clear that after the share-out, you go your separate ways.”
    The blue BMW dropped them in the courtyard of a five-storey block, from where they made their way past washing lines and a children’s play area to where the Miller Ltd Suspended Ceilings minivan was parked.
    The monitors now showed a corridor, a kitchen and a bedroom. In the kitchen Sakhno and a slim girl with fair curly shoulder-length hair were eating a meal. The girl poured wine. Sakhno drained his at a gulp. The girl merely sipped. Putting another bottle on the table, she said something, Sakhno nodded, got to his feet, went into the corridor and disappeared through a door.
    â€œGone for a leak or a shower,” observed Ivan Lvovich.
    The girl stood listening for a moment, then slipped into the bedroom. From the wardrobe she fetched a shoebox which she put on the floor and did something to before shoving it under the disordered bed. She then undressed and put on a flimsy negligée.
    Sakhno came in wearing only a towel. They kissed. The girl removed the towel, pushed him playfully onto the bed, kissed him, pulled the coverlet over him, and went out, taking the towel with her. Sakhno lay, hands behind his head, staring foolishly at the ceiling.
    â€œThe moment of truth,” said Ivan Lvovich, passing Nik his mobile. “It’s keyed to the number. Bomb under his bed, tell him, and you’re waiting below.”
    As the phone on the bedside table rang, Sakhno looked at it in astonishment, then slowly and reluctantly reached for the receiver.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œSergey?
There’s a bomb under the bed
!
Meet you outside
!”
    â€œ
Blo-o-dy hell
!”
    Throwing the receiver aside, he pulled the box out, looked inside, and began to dress.
    A film-like sequence followed: Sakhno dragging the girl from the kitchen back to the bedroom, binding her with belts from the wardrobe, dumping her on the bed and shoving back the box before dashing from the flat.
    â€œSecond entrance along, Nik. Get a taxi,” Ivan Lvovich snapped. “Train’s in half an hour.”
    â€œThis way!” Nik yelled, as Sakhno appeared.
    Together they raced to the main road, where Nik flagged down a white Zhiguli.
    Only then, heading for the station, did it strike Nik that he and Sakhno were wearing identical denim suits.

15
    â€œWho the hell are you?” Sakhno demanded, when at last they sat breathless in the train.
    â€œI’m Nik. Explanations can wait.”
    Sakhno gave a feeble grin.
    The train moved off.
    â€œSheets?” inquired the portly conductress who collected their tickets.
    â€œPlease.”
    â€œWant anything hidden?”
    â€œHow do you mean?”
    â€œFrom customs,” she said scornfully.
    â€œNo thanks.”
    â€œOver to you, then.”
    Three hours later, Nik was woken by the train grinding to a halt. The lights came on, and there were shouts of “Passport control!”
    His, Nik saw with surprise, examining it for the first time, was of the new Russian Federation variety.
    â€œGot yours?” he asked, shaking Sakhno, who, unlike him, had undressed and was using his denim suit as a pillow.
    Sakhno rummaged, and throwing a dog-eared Soviet passport onto the table, went back to sleep. Nik opened it.
Family Status
– blank.
Place of birth: Donyetsk, 12 September, 1964
, overstamped in violet
Ukraine
.
    A hawk-nosed, green-uniformed blonde checked their photos against their faces, and moved on without a word. She was followed by a tubby, trim-moustached customs man.
    â€œLuggage?”
    â€œHaven’t any.”
    â€œStand up.”
    He pulled out the drawer under Nik’s bunk. An ancient newspaper and two cockroaches frozen into immobility by the sudden exposure to light were all it contained.
    â€œCash? Currency?”
    â€œA little.”
    â€œThis bloke with you?”
    â€œWe’re both for Sarny.”
    â€œBelarusian