“Fine.” Petrovitch dragged his legs aside and slapped both his palms down on the tabletop. The vodka bottle jumped. “You want to know why I did it? Kindness. That’s why I did it. Because I was being kind. Just once. Just to show the world that a complete bastard like me still has a shred of human decency left inside.”

The gangster’s jaw worked as if he was trying to gag down something so wholly unpalatable that it stuck in his throat.

“You don’t like that, do you?” crowed Petrovitch. “You don’t understand it. It doesn’t compute. Maybe you’ll understand this: eede vhad e sgadie kak malinkey suka!”

Marchenkho swept the tabletop clean with one movement. Everything crashed to the floor—desk set, photo frame, paperweight, bottle, shot glasses. The air thickened with alcohol fumes.

“I should kill you now, and to hell with the consequences.”

“All half a million euros of consequences? You haven’t got the yajtza.” Petrovitch sat back and folded his arms.

Marchenkho started to smile, his mustache twitching. Eventually, he was helpless, roaring with laughter, tears streaming down his face. The gun slapped back down on the table, and Marchenkho fell wheezing and gasping into his chair.

“Are we done now?” asked Petrovitch.

Marchenkho wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “You: a few more like you and the Soviet Union would never have fallen.” He looked past him to Sorenson. “Kill the American instead,” he told Grigori.

A foot in Sorenson’s back sent him sprawling. He made it to all fours, quickly for a big man, before he felt the gun at the back of his head. He froze, staring up at Petrovitch, who adjusted his glasses and leaned back even further.

“Yeah, you could do that. But what you should get through your radiation-addled skull is that if you hurt Sorenson in any way, he can’t fit me with my new heart. I’d die, and you’d be back to worrying about those little laser dots bouncing all over your chest. What do you reckon, Yuri? Shall we see how keen you are to follow your boss’s orders?”

They all waited on Marchenkho, who eventually said in a quiet voice. “Get out.”

“Good call.” Petrovitch reached down to help Sorenson back to his feet, then levered himself upright. “I’d like to say it was a pleasure meeting you—but I can’t. I had loads of important stuff to do this morning and you’ve gone and ruined it all.”

“Get out now.”

Sorenson took hold of Petrovitch’s arm and steered him irresistibly to the door. He almost wrenched the handle off in his haste to leave. When he’d finally got him outside, he turned on him.

“Say nothing, you said! You nearly got both of us killed, you lunatic.”

“I nearly got you killed? I saved your life, farmboy, and don’t you forget it.” Petrovitch started down the staircase. “And we wouldn’t have been in this position if you hadn’t come banging on my door this morning.”

“I could have bargained with him. We could have got Oshicora together.”

“You want to work with Marchenkho? Be my guest. He ordered you dead on a whim not sixty seconds ago.” He was a whole landing away. “Go on. Go back. See how long you last, you zhopa.”

“Is it true about your heart?” called Sorenson.

“Yeah. Now, come on. I’m taking you back to Oshicora, then I’m going to wash my hands of this whole stupid pizdets.” He waited for him to catch up, then negotiated his way around the pallets of building materials lying between him and the front gate.

Sorenson fell in beside him. “So it was just a coincidence: my business, your heart?”

“Yeah.”

“Lucky. Lucky for me.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you really need a new heart?”

“What is this? Twenty questions?” Petrovitch scowled up at Sorenson. “Give me an ulcer as well, why don’t you?”

Sorenson dug his hands in his back pockets. “I can get you a new heart.”

“I don’t need your help. I’m not owing you anything.”

“New hearts are pricey. I can do it for cost.” Petrovitch didn’t respond. “Discount, then.”

“I don’t need your help,” he repeated.

“Where are you going to get that sort of money?” Sorenson suddenly threw his head back and gave a cry of triumph. “That’s why! Oshicora’s daughter for a new, top-of-the-range heart. Tell you what—I’ll do it for nothing. Donate the heart, pay for the surgery.”

“Perestan bit dabayobom.”

“I wish I knew what you were saying.”

“No you don’t. Really, you don’t. Your ears would melt.” Petrovitch stood on the curb and tried to orient himself. He turned north. “This way.”

“I’m just saying it was smart thinking. I can trump that, though.”

“You will not buy me, Sorenson, just in the same way that Oshicora won’t buy me either. Now, please, just shut up and walk.”

“But where are you going to find that sort of money?”

“You know, I should have let Marchenkho shoot you. It would have been quieter.” Petrovitch walked away, and after a few moments of indignation, Sorenson followed.

As they walked away from the empty East End toward the heights of Stepney, the pavements slowly filled up until it was as dense with people as it was in the center of the city. Petrovitch slipped between the bodies with practiced ease, leaving Sorenson to crash into everyone and spend his entire journey apologizing.

Whitechapel was the closest tube station: when Petrovitch turned around at the entrance, he found that Sorenson was still dogging his steps.

“Where are we going?” He was breathless, sore, and looked ridiculous in his shirt and shorts.

“Your hotel,” said Petrovitch. “What’s it called?”

“The Waldorf Hilton. You know it?”

“Yeah, I go to the tea dances every week. District Line to Temple. Go and get a ticket and meet me on the other side of the screen.”

Sorenson stepped closer as people streamed by, in and out of the station. They were in the lee of one of the pillars, a tiny island of stillness.

“I’m sorry,” he started to say.

“Good. You should be. Thank whichever god you pray to that Marchenkho is a skatina who wouldn’t know the truth if it gave him a minyet.” Petrovitch sighed, and let his shoulders sag. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I really did just want to help her. Do the right thing for once. And now look: I could die any moment, and it’s either an assassin or my heart. I’ve got things to do, things that I can only do alive. The mysteries of creation don’t discover themselves.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“And I said I won’t help you. I won’t help you, or Chain, or Marchenkho, or any combination of you, do anything to the Oshicoras. Got it?”

“I get it.” Sorenson felt in his pocket for his credit chip. “But I don’t buy your story about the Oshicora girl. Where else would someone like you get the money for an implant?”

“Yeah, well. I’m going organic.” Petrovitch assumed his usual shrug.

Sorenson breathed in sharply. “How the hell…?”

“None of your business,” said Petrovitch, and stepped out into the concourse where he let himself be swept away.

12

They were walking down the street in front of the Oshicora Tower. Sorenson had showered, changed, and set his face hard.

“I’ll find some way to get me out of this.”

“Whatever pizdets you’re in is only going to get worse if you fight against Oshicora. He’ll flay you alive if you cross him.” Petrovitch looked up to the pinnacle of the glass dome; the park was lost behind the reflection of the sky. “If you serve loyally, he’ll be more merciful than if you get antsy about it. You’re nearly done, right?”

“Another day, or two. Debugging the beta version. I’ve never run it on a quantum platform before.”

“What’s it like?”

“The hardware? It’s a box a yard square on each side.” He looked across at Petrovitch. “That’s not what you mean, is it?”