Maxim hated places like this, places that were once steeped in an aura of history or cultural tradition. Now that Moscow had stuffed itself with oil dollars to the point that it was about to explode and send pus flying in all directions, places like this were identified in his mind with unwashed, stinky socks.
Of course, he could have pretended to be a machine and slipped off to his base, which long ago had been the Jatarang Indian restaurant. He might have moved on by, blind, deaf, and paying no attention to anything. But he was another type of machine entirely. And his capabilities and functions were very different. He had survived to the age of forty thanks only to his capacity to observe the details of his surroundings, any of which might prove a lethal threat to him.
Before, in the mountains of Afghanistan, death could lurk in the swaying movement of a twig, or the suspiciously smooth (not by the hand of the wind, but the hand of a minelayer) dust on the road.
Later, after he’d finished his service and killing became both his trade and his boss, with a big fat wallet, a lawyer, and a manager, the bony face of death could be hiding behind the dark tinted windows of a jeep, in a crowd, around the corner … anywhere. There was no front line anymore, no rear guard, no fortified base. The front line was wherever Max happened to be.
Now that he had chosen to play big time—which he did not so much for the money (he had enough already), but rather to prove to himself and to others that at the age of forty he could still be a match for any little twenty-year-old chump—he was surrounded by death on all sides. Theoretically, guns with silencers could be aimed at his forehead, and at the back of his skull, at his temples, right side, and left, simultaneously. It couldn’t be ruled out that at that very moment someone was aiming an infrared beam at the top of his head. Despite the enviable virtuosity of his five human senses, honed to perfection, he remained vulnerable. He needed his animal instinct. And it had not once betrayed him. Although just once would be enough.
Three weeks ago, Maxim had accepted an invitation to play an amusing game. The jackpot was ten million. The last player (out of twelve) left alive would be declared the winner. The rules were simple. The game board was the Moscow area, within the limits of the beltway. Each player chose his own weapon. You could hook a howitzer to the back of your jeep and drive around town with it, or carrry a sharpened nail file in your pocket. Players were to kill competitors in any way possible, filming the process on a webcam that was connected to an online server. The game’s powerful organizers refused assistance to contestants taken into police custody during play. Such individuals would be put on trial, hence disqualified from the game. They were allotted one month. If there was more than one player left alive when the time was up, the referee would draw lots and the unfortunates would be shot in the head.
The contenders were told that a group of around twenty millionaires were behind the game. They were the ones at the bottom of the
There were only six days left, but he was already bone-tired. He had killed not only five of his opponents, but nine others as well. Collateral damage, it’s called. Three of them were merely the victims of a misunderstanding. A case of mistaken identity. But they had acted suspicious too. And it wasn’t like he had a lot of time to make sure. In that situation, it’s just a matter of who pulls the trigger first. None of them pointed a gun at him, but then, not one of those poor suckers had even had a gun on him to shoot with. Tough luck.
