Vodka Read Free

fast. “But you refuse to listen to me—you slap me.” He shrugged extravagantly. “What choice do I have? I’m walking out of here, and the only way to stop me is to kill me.”
    “Banzai, you’re being ridiculous,” Testarossa said.
    “Kill me,” Banzai repeated. “And Testarossa, it’s you that’ll have to do it.” Lev could have snapped Banzai’s neck like a bread stick, but
vory
tradition dictates that the senior man present can’t dirty his hands. “So!” Banzai’s voice was almost jaunty.
“Do
you dare, Testarossa? Do you dare kill a fellow
vor
for nothing more than disagreeing with you? Hah! The system’s been dead two days, and already you’re acting like the KGB.” He pushed his chair back and it fell with a crash.
    The bodyguards were outside, facing away from the windows. What went on within the dacha was not their business.
    “This is getting out of hand,” Lev said, realizing too late that he had miscalculated badly in expecting Banzai to understand that his proposals were motivated not by self-interest but the good of the
vory.
The thieves’ code had much to commend it—indeed, they would never have survived the Soviet system without it—but a creed that dated back to the days of bandits and highwaymen was inadequate to the demands of these changing times. The very inflexibility that had been its greatest strength would doom the
vory
to destruction if Lev failed in his bid to drag the brotherhood toward the 21st Century. Banzai was willing enough to ignore the ban on drug trafficking, but any alliance with the state—even when the
vory
had the upper hand in the partnership—was anathema to him. Now he was prepared to challenge Lev and risk death over a mere slap, because the code demanded it. And if Lev’s progressive leadership were to survive the challenge, he must deal with Banzai according to the code.
    “You leave, Banzai, and you’re compromising the very future of the brotherhood,” Lev said.
    Banzai started for the exit as if he hadn’t heard. Hewalked at normal pace, allowing Testarossa to reach the door and cut him off two paces short. Testarossa was four inches taller and twenty-two pounds heavier than Banzai; it would hardly be a fair fight.
    “You really want me to do this?” Testarossa asked, pushing himself back against the door.
    “Do you dare?”
    Lev was sitting at the head of the table. Testarossa looked to him for guidance, as if seeking the emperor’s verdict on a gladiator.
    “You have your knife with you?” Lev asked.
    Testarossa tapped at his right hip. “Always.”
    Lev’s head rose and fell: a simple movement, a death sentence.
    Testarossa placed his hands on Banzai’s shoulders and began to spin him around, slowly at first, as Banzai resisted, and then with increasing ease. A full circle took away the victim’s soul and supposedly made it easier for him to accept death; it was the point of no return in the
vory
death ceremony. When he next faced Testarossa, Banzai’s eyes were wide, as though he’d been playing a game and only now saw that his brinkmanship had backfired. Testarossa maneuvered Banzai against the wall; he was firm, but took care not to be rough.
    Lev watched from the table, five paces away and as remote as Vladivostok.
    “Die like a
vor,”
Testarossa said, only marginally more statement than question.
    Banzai gripped his own collar with sweat-slimed palms, knuckles drained white, and ripped his shirt open. Neither he nor Testarossa was watching Lev; had they been, they’d have seen his face twitch in a momentary wince.
    “Take my soul,” Banzai said, and Testarossa drew the knife from his belt and plunged it into Banzai’s throat, right up to the hilt, the way they’d used to kill people in the gulag.
    Ilmar stood by his limousine and indicated his watch. “I’ll miss prayer if I don’t hurry,” he said.
    “Good for you,” replied Karkadann. “I don’t know how you manage it. I can never fit in my