CHECHNYA
Before Conners paid off Gribak, he made sure he understood how to work the starter and ignition on the truck, which had been modified to discourage thieves. Then he dropped the Chechen off at his father’s store and drove a few blocks to an empty lot where Gribak had said it was safe to leave the truck. He left the rifle under the front seat but took a few of the grenades from the back and walked to the hotel. When he reached the rooms he was a little surprised not to find Ferg there, even though they weren’t supposed to meet for another half hour; Ferguson was always showing up places ahead of schedule, the kind of guy who met you at the end of the bar a drink and a half ahead. Conners checked both rooms, then sat in his, waiting. The TV was old, the picture was fuzzy, and the only channel it seemed to receive was some sort of Russian cooking show. He left it on anyway.
Three hours later, Ferg still hadn’t appeared. Driving back into Groznyy to look for him was out of the question, but Conners felt as if he had to do something. He walked to the truck and started it up, driving around the town before realizing he was running a good chance of getting lost. It took twenty minutes of left-hand turns for him to find his way
back to the lot. Frustrated and needing sleep, he parked and walked back to the hotel, where once again he was surprised that Ferguson wasn’t sitting there waiting for him.
“Well God,” said Conners, pulling off his shoes. “I’d make you a deal—I’ll give up drinking if you take care of the little bugger. He’s full of himself but in a good way, the bastard.”
He pushed under the covers, his clothes still on, his pistol in his hand. After a while, he fell asleep.
When he woke, Ferguson was sitting in the chair next to the bed.
“Jesus, Ferg,” said Conners, opening his eyes. “What happened to your face?”
“Before or after I got the shit knocked out of me?” said Ferguson, rising. His neck hurt like hell, but otherwise the wounds were mostly cosmetic.
As long as he didn’t breathe.
“Hey, Ferg, you OK?”
“Yeah.” Ferguson took a swig from the vodka bottle in his hand. “First I got robbed, then the police rolled me. Good thing I had a money belt.”
“’Cause they didn’t find your cash?”
“Because there was cash for them to find.” The police had used some sort of pepper spray on him. Fortunately, the men were either locals or too intent on robbing him to check with the ministry office; they’d even left his fake passport on the dirt next to him.
“It’s part of the plan,” said Ferg, rising. “Get dressed. They have a strict dress code where we’re going—no jammies.”
“Where’s that?”
“Jail,” said Ferg.