For a long time I coughed, growled, cleared my throat, mumbled and grunted. In vain. The damned accent would not go away. Words native to me from childhood came crawling out of my insides warped. Eight years without active practice – zat, my frents, iss not fery goot. Bah.
In the end I stuck my finger into the telephone dial and dialed the number of Mamon’s office. Having waited out an energetic female “Rostekh-rata-tat-tat”, I asked in a quiet voice to be connected with Mister Okunsky. To the question “Who shall I say is calling?” I answered simply:
– State Fire Supervision.
– Pa-ra-ram-pam-pam, – the distant telephone apparatus tootled in reply, and immediately delivered: – Okunsky speaking.
– A fire inspector will be arriving at your premises after lunch. Kindly be at your workplace, – I boomed into the receiver in a good commanding voice.
– Oleg Ivanych, is that you? – apparently Okunsky knew every fireman in Moscow by sight and was now trying to guess whose gnarled bass was frightening him.
– Yes, Sergei Ilyich. And tell the guards that the inspector’s surname is Markin. All the best.
I put the receiver back in place, lay down on the bed and closed my eyes. A little hedgehog of pain immediately crawled into my head, pricked me a couple of times and vanished. The prickly animal left behind it a simple field daisy. I began mentally tearing off petals: “He’ll bite, he won’t bite, he’ll bite, he won’t bite, he’ll bite, he won’t bite…” I lay there guessing whether the facilities manager would fall for the banal ruse. The last petal torn off seemed to promise success. Promised that Okunsky would bite and would enter the surname I had given into the visitors’ log. That would be nice.
I relaxed.
I had neither the desire nor the time to work up and carry out a plan free of rough edges and surprises, one that provided for every possible way in and out. By the time you’ve worked it all up and thought it all through, your beard will have grown out. I ran a palm over the stubble on my cheeks. It seemed to prickle wonderfully. A light coating of unshavenness always aged me by five or ten years. Just the thing. The time for entering the office was approaching; I needed to think about my cover. The guard at Mamon’s office worked, as became known from talking with Lyokha, on a schedule of “a day on, three off”. Which meant the lads who had been minding Seryoga and me the night before would not be relieved until six in the evening. I intended to arrive at the office around five, the most agreeable time for penetration. The staff, worn out by waiting for the end of the working day, ought to be in a passive and distracted state. Nobody would pay any attention to me.
I got up, walked into the bathroom and began disguising myself. I squeezed some tanning cream onto a saucer, added a little red and brown gouache, thoroughly stirred the resulting rutabaga-colored muck with a finger and applied it in a thin layer to the surfaces of my face, neck and adjoining areas of my body. Gave my skin a weather-beaten look. Then I hooked a pair of big horn-rimmed glasses with plain glass instead of lenses onto my nose and peered at the alcoholic mug in the mirror. Handsome. Aged by about twenty years.
Back in the room, I pulled out of the desk and shoved into the shoulder holster the pistol extracted from Fedya the day before. Then I put on a warm black smock and got out from under the wardrobe a bag with various simple tools, mostly a locksmith’s. Also in the bag were a flashlight, three pairs of handcuffs and a few items of climbing equipment. I was as prepared as a Pioneer.
Saluting myself in the mirror, I went outside and caught a taxi. Fedya had already been parked that morning in some inconspicuous Arbat side street, not far from the mansion I needed.