Vodka Read Free Page A

three-times-a-day.”
    They hugged sideways, Chechen-style. “It’s five times a day, actually.”
    “Oh well …” Karkadann’s voice was bright. “The more the merrier.”
    The television schedules had been cleared for Gorbachev to announce his resignation—with the union gone, there was nothing for him to be president of anymore—but when the television crews were allowed into his Kremlin office, they were greeted by an empty chair.
    “It’s all come as a bit of a shock to him,” one of the presidential staff explained. “He needs time to get used to it, that’s all.”
    They showed the empty chair on TV until it was time for the next program.

2
Tuesday, December 24, 1991
    T here is in central Moscow an island shaped like a walrus mustache, bound to the north by the river that shares its name with the city and to the south by the Vodootvodny drainage canal, originally dug to prevent the city center flooding in spring when snowmelt swells the river. The island follows the river’s extravagant sweep past the Kremlin and down to Moscow’s oldest monastery, the Novospasskiy. It’s so narrow that the bridges on the north and south sides almost run into each other.
    The river was frozen, of course; had it not been, Karkadann would have come by speedboat rather than his Mercedes 600, for it was much safer to travel on an empty river than on Moscow’s increasingly congested roads. There was less traffic on the river, less chance of being ambushed by attackers who would pluck a Mafia boss’s car from its escort as easily as one would pick lint from a lapel.
    Karkadann’s Mercedes was book-ended front and rear by Land Cruisers with tinted windows, and it wallowed low under the weight of its armor plating. Mercedes had been happy to carry out the modifications free of charge, recognizing a growing market when it saw one; its 1992 forecast predicted more orders for 600-class limousines in Moscow and St. Petersburg than across a region stretching from Dublin to Berlin.
    Each door of Karkadann’s Mercedes was painted with a wolf’s head, the symbol of Chechnya. Chechens see the wolf as they see themselves: fierce, brave and untameable. No matter how long a wolf is kept penned up, it will always howl at the moon for its freedom.
    When the convoy reached its destination, Karkadann’s bodyguards piled out of the Land Cruisers, scanning rooftops, doorways, windows and traffic. They formed a human wall between the limousine and the restaurant’s front door. The restaurant where Karkadann and Lev were meeting had no street sign, just a bell. When they rang, the owner, an elderly woman, opened the door herself.
    “Good afternoon,” she said, showing neither surprise nor trepidation; the Mafia used her premises for this purpose quite regularly.
    Baltazar Sharmukhamedov, Karkadann’s chief bodyguard, opened the door of the Mercedes, and Karkadann limped out. He was wearing shoes crafted of alligator skin, to emphasize that he didn’t have to step in the filth of Moscow’s streets.
    The old lady led her visitors through a room lit only by candles. After the brightness of the winter sun, it took a few moments before their eyes adjusted. Patterned carpets from the southern republics and oil paintings from St. Petersburg covered the walls. It was late afternoon, and the place was empty; the lunchtime crowd had gone, the evening diners were yet to arrive, and the guitarist who usually strummed Georgian folk songs had been given the day off. It was the kind of place where, when the waiter asks how many bottles of wine you want, he means each. Georgian restaurants are like that. Even the Russians admit—grudgingly, of course—that Georgians know how to drink.
    The dining room gave way to a corridor, and the corridor in turn to a wooden door. For a moment, Karkadann seemed to be scratching himself like a Barbary ape, so fast were his hands moving around his body. He handed his guns to Sharmukhamedov. Karkadann always