Page 76 of Savage Warrior

“I do not know. Do you think I am crazy? I stayed inside, didn’t interfere. What could I have done?” she demands belligerently.

“Well, who were they?” I ask. “Police?”

She shakes her head. “Not police.”

“Then—"

She snatches the notes from Ethan and slams the door. Clearly, our conversation is over.

We could boot her door in, I suppose, but there seems little point. She’s told us all she’s going to, and our quarrel isn’t with her. We jog back down to the ground floor and head back to the car.

Tony and Grigor arrive a couple of minutes later. The street kids drove a harder bargain, and they had to invest almost five hundred rubles, but gathered more information that we did.

“The girl was taken by one of the gangs,” Tony tells us. “The lads were very tight-lipped but saw things our way when we offered the money. They wouldn’t confirm it, but when I mentioned the Sokolovs they started to panic and clam up, so I reckon that’s the firm we’re dealing with. But we think we found the boy.”

“Right. Where?”

“A woman in the next street. Apparently, he was wandering about outside, crying, and she took him in.”

“A Good Samaritan?” I wonder aloud.

Grigor shakes his head. “More likely she means to sell him on. Childless couples will pay, and the boy is young enough…”

Fuck!

We pile back in the Trabant.

CHAPTER 18

Rome

The next street is no more salubrious than Arina’s was. Grigor directs us to the apartment building where apparently Yuryl is now living on the ground floor.

“So, what’s the plan?” Tony mutters.

“Same as before,” I suggest. “I’ll say we’re from the school authorities and ask to see Yuryl.”

There are no better suggestions, so Ethan and I exit the vehicle and march over to the door. It’s answered after the first knock.

A man of perhaps forty-five peers at us from within the apartment. “What do you want?” he demands.

I produce my driving licence and flash it briefly before him. “We are from education welfare,” I announce. “We understand you have a child here. Yuryl Kovalyov?”

He coughs and spits on the ground. “No kid called that here.”

A woman’s raised voice reaches us from further within the flat. “Who’s that?” she yells. “Tell ’em to fuck off.”

“It’s the social welfare,” the man replies. “Lookin’ for some kid.”

A door inside slams. She appears behind the man and squints suspiciously at us. “Who did you say you were?”

I repeat my cover story. “We need to come in. We have reason to believe the child is here.”

“You’re not coming in my house,” the man asserts. “I shall have the law on you if you try.”

I seriously doubt he wants the local police anywhere near his home. Time to get pushy. I produce my handgun and invite the couple to reconsider their decision. “Either we come in with your agreement, or we shoot the pair of you and step over the bodies.”

The man blanches. His wife is made of sterner stuff and refuses to back down. The muzzle of my gun applied directly to her forehead convinces her, and we enter the house.

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