It was no more than thirty meters to the mansion itself. Killing distance. I took the five bottles of incendiary mixture out of the bag and, lighting the fuses, began throwing them one after another onto the tiled roof of the little mansion. The bottles flared up and spread pockets of ignition around themselves. A splendid fire was growing before my eyes.
With great satisfaction I followed the work of my own hands (well done, master, well done, son of a bitch), then took the telephone out of my pocket and dialed 01:
– Hello, miss, there’s a fire here at the neighbors’. Yes, they’re burning. The address? I don’t know, I happen to be here as a guest. It’s in the dacha settlement next to Kushchino. Yes, yes, come out.
The firemen arrived at the scene of the fire ten minutes later. In that time I managed to change into the uniform of a police captain, assume an important, inquiring air and, along with the arrival of the fire engine, find myself right by the gates, those same ones, upholstered in copper.
I, like the firemen, was let through unimpeded. I entered the grounds, settled myself proprietorially in the spot most convenient for observation and set about following the coordinated actions of the fire crew. Mamon, dressed in a dressing gown and slippers, was attempting to direct them. His direction was muddle-headed and superfluous. The firemen knew their business tightly. As did I.
I attentively examined the reality surrounding me in the form of:
First. Eight of Mamon’s guards
Second. The residence’s service personnel – an elderly fellow with a woman
Third. Lenochka.
Fourth. Assorted gawkers. Where had they come from at one in the morning? Amazing!
Point number three interested me most of all. I went up to my companion and put a mute question with my eyes: «Well?»
The answer followed without delay:
– In the tan bag.
I understood everything. I remembered the words of the briefing: “Before twelve midnight you will find yourself at the agreed place «X». You will have an hour’s time to find yourself in the bedroom. At one hundred hours a fire will occur, the upper floors will burn. The fire will present no danger to you. The bedroom is presumably located on the second floor (if everything at Mamon’s is as it is with decent people, which I doubted, but showed no sign of it to Lena). At one hundred and one hours the guards should give the danger signal in the form of shouts of «Fire». As soon as the aforementioned signal is heard, the main business will begin. First, you need to behave as naturally as possible, that is, to be frightened. Second, to watch the client’s actions. The actions are expected in the following sequence: he will put on his underwear, take the key to the safe in his hands, go up to the safe, transfer the contents of the safe into any suitable receptacle and leave the bedroom. On the client’s performance of the aforementioned points, proceed to a safe place together with the client. On reaching the safe place, await the arrival of the main forces in my person and do not take your eyes off the receptacle into which the client loads his belongings. In the event of the client’s non-performance of the aforementioned points…” Such a variant was not considered. What is he, an idiot?
The magic words about the tan bag I heard with great agitation. The client was no idiot. The millions were wandering about somewhere close by. I knitted my brows and asked:
– Where is it?
– Over there.
Someone tall and thin in a leather raglan coat was holding the bag in his right hand and not taking his eyes off the blaze. I examined his face closely. It seemed vaguely familiar. Or unfamiliar? I didn’t start guessing. I reckoned in businesslike fashion that there would be time to sort the beanpole out at close quarters.
– Go to the car. It’s beyond the fence, – I ordered Lena and handed over the keys. – Start it and sit on the back seat. Leave the driver’s door open. I’ll be there soon.
The fire meanwhile was slowly gathering strength, spreading along the attic. The flames were already licking rapaciously at the fourth floor.
– Carry the things out! – Mamon gave the command in a hysterical falsetto.
Everyone who had been standing motionless in the yard until then rushed for the doors. The firemen dashed to intercept them: «Stand still!» Nobody obeyed them. They shoved them aside and surged into the building. Disorder! Confusion! Just what was needed.
I grabbed by the scruff of the neck a lad running past and, lifting him slightly, asked:
– What’s the surname of that fellow with the tan bag?
– Timokhin, – he answered.
– Good lad, – I praised him and unclenched my hand. The lad got to his feet and immediately disappeared inside the mansion. Raced off to save property or to loot. And I scratched the back of my head in some doubt: “Ah-ha. A familiar surname, seemingly. The director?”
Nothing else for it. I went up to the citizen in the raglan and asked sternly:
– Are you Timokhin?
– Yes, why?
I raised my palm to my temple and introduced myself:
– Captain Budraitis. Who is the owner of the house?
– I am.
My jaw dropped in surprise. What’s all this? The momentary incomprehension passed. “Mamon’s little son, perhaps? – a guess flashed through my head. – Doesn’t look like it. Most likely a sitz-chairman and paper owner of Mamon’s real estate.”
The true owner was running about around the belongings being carried out and trying to dart inside the house. I continued the conversation with the gentleman fictitious householder:
– A package has been discovered inside the house. We need to go and look. If the package isn’t yours, we call in the sappers.
– Call them in, – Timokhin was imperturbable. He held the tan holdall firmly.
I turned to the firemen and commanded quietly:
– Cease extinguishing.
None of the firemen heard me, of course. But the words reached Timokhin:
– How do you mean, cease? – he flew up.
– And what if there are explosives in there? Everyone must be led out of the building.
– Devil knows what this is! – Timokhin boiled over. – Where is this package?
– Still a long way from the fire zone for now, in the study on the second floor. If you want to look, let’s go. Only don’t touch it with your hands.
– Let’s go, – he flung out, already on the move, and entered the house, shoving aside in commanding fashion those running past.
At a quick pace I followed the tan bag in the bony hand. Simple, severe thoughts were hammering in my head.
Strike the base of the skull with the edge of the palm!
Snatch the holdall out of his hands!
And vanish!
Not the time. We’ll wait. Aha,
Timokhin climbed confidently to the second floor and went along an empty corridor. I thrust my hand under my armpit for the pistol, then changed my mind. Drew my hand out empty. There was strength and health enough for sorting the client out by hand. Not the first time, after all. As soon as Timokhin went into some dark room, I laid into his body and head with a short series of blows from both hands. Folding up threefold, he toppled sideways onto the floor, covered his head with his hands and went still. The holdall fell beside him. I quickly slammed the door behind me, then looked around. A desk, two cupboards stuffed with books, one almost empty with lever-arch folders, a television, another desk with a computer and a fax, a rocking chair, on the floor somebody is stirring… Aha, has shown signs of life… At a run I stamped my boot into the face of Mister Timokhin. He went still, his head thrown back. Thrown back badly, it seemed for good. A corpse?
I sighed, went over to the cupboard with the papers, torch in hand, and shone it on the spines of five folders. Nothing interesting turned out to be there at first glance. I took one little folder in my hands, opened it and leafed through the papers clipped inside. Definitely nothing. Then I dealt with the second, with the third. In the fourth folder there were English-language texts and the word “Heidemann” flickered past. Contact! Into the fifth folder, as into the first three, nothing interesting had been clipped either. With folder number four under my arm I went over to the writing desk and opened the top drawer of the pedestal… The middle drawer… The bottom drawer… The middle drawer again. Only there were some papers kept, which I, without examining them, raked into a heap and pulled out. We’ll examine them later. I went over to Timokhin, lying as before insensible, lifeless. Picked the holdall up off the floor, opened it, stuffed the papers from the writing desk inside, then somehow crammed the Heidemann folder in there too. It seemed that was all. Or didn’t it?
My gaze, roving about the room, ran up against an aerosol can for freshening the air or deodorizing bodies. No difference. Taking the can in my hands, I pressed its head with my thumb and brought a flame from the lighter up to the jet of gas. The jet flared up with a noisy blue-green fire, which was immediately directed at the cupboard, at the second cupboard, at the third, at the desk, at the chair, at the carpet.
All of Mamon’s study establishment blazed up in a bright flame. Covering our tracks!
I threw the can aside and sprang out into the corridor with the holdall in my hand. Empty, smoky, dark. A bad corridor. Racing along it and down the stairs like a bullet, I found myself in the fresh air. Nobody paid any attention to me. The folk, seized with the enthusiasm of the burnt-out, darted about the dacha grounds to no purpose. They carried the weightier loads out of the house and stacked them by the fence. They were occupied with local matters. Mamon alone bustled about the whole area of the plot. He appeared beside me out of nowhere, howled «A-a-ah, the second floor’s burning!» and was gone. Tore off somewhere else. It seemed he was keeping warm that way. Outside it was a little above zero, and the clothing on him was of the very flimsiest. He’d run about and shout for half an hour and then calm down.
At a calm, even pace I walked up to the gates. There were no guards there. I had to open the wicket gate myself.
Having left the fire with a feeling of deep satisfaction, I got to Fedya and Lena, tossed the holdall into the car and sat down behind the wheel. The car, its engine roaring, moved off – no, tore away from the spot. Faster, faster, faster…