Stuart Kaminsky - Blood and Rubles

“Then let’s begin,” said Elena, removing a notebook from the red bag she carried.

“Shall I make tea?” Natalya asked. “That would be nice,” said Elena.

In Alexei’s dream he had been looking out a window in the old printing house at 15 Nikloskaya. He had a sense that he was looking from his office building. Below on the sidewalk a man paused to look up at him. The man’s hands were in the pockets of his lightweight coat. The eyes of the two men met, and Alexei knew he was looking down at himself. Suddenly a car stopped behind the man on the street. People hurried by, other cars passed. Two men emerged from the stopped car, their faces covered with black ski masks.

Alexei tried to shout a warning to himself. The two men in ski masks were carrying weapons. The Alexei who stood on the street did not seem to understand. The Alexei in the window pointed, gesturing in helpless desperation while his doppelganger was hauled into the backseat of the waiting car.

Alexei Porvinovich opened his eyes. He was sweating. He dimly remembered where he was and was surprised that his hands were now unbound and that he could wipe his own forehead with a warm palm. Pain throbbed in his cheek and he could feel the swelling.

He looked up at a familiar face in an unfamiliar room.

The man with the familiar face was Artiom Solovyov, big, broad, clean-shaven, forty-three years old, and very tough-looking. He had been a boxer in the 1968 Olympics, but that had been in a much lower weight class than he would now occupy.

Alexei knew a great deal more about Artiom Solovyov as well.

“Rules,” said Artiom. He drank some hot liquid from a large mug. “You understand me?”

Alexei nodded.

“Good,” said Solovyov nervously.

His captor still wore the black uniform.

Alexei had a question. He almost asked it and then stopped himself. “Why am I still alive?” he almost said, but then his sense of survival and hope took over and he said nothing.

“You see the carpet?” Artiom said without looking down.

Alexei looked. It was not a bad Persian, he couldn’t help thinking. A bit worn, but at least eighty years old.

“Answer,” Artiom demanded.

“I see the carpet,” Alexei croaked, feeling the dryness in his throat, the pain in his cheek. He could hear his speech slurring from the damage to his face. In addition Alexei’s eye was beginning to swell and close.

“If you step past the middle of the carpet, my friend at the door will shoot you,” Artiom went on after another sip.

Alexei looked across the large living room. On a chair at the door a thin man in black sat with a handgun in his lap, a very large handgun. The man in the chair wore a black ski mask, which struck Alexei as pointless and probably uncomfortable. Alexei’s eyes scanned the rest of the room. His area of the rug included a pair of chairs, the badly worn sofa on which he now lay, a pair of closed windows, and a small table, on which was a pile of what looked like old magazines.

“My friend will watch you for a certain period and will be relieved. A series of friends will watch you until our business is done. Do not talk to my friends. Do not make them shoot you. Would you like some tea?”

“Yes,” said Alexei, who was now sitting up and was making an effort to stop the room from vibrating.

Artiom shook his large head as if to indicate that it was a reasonable request. He moved across the room to a table in the corner where a bright green plug-in water heater bubbled away. The table was definitely not on Alexei’s side of the room.

“Sugar?” Artiom asked.

Alexei was looking at the armed man at the door.

“What? Sugar? Yes.”

“Lumps,” said Artiom. “I have regular English lumps. How many?”

“Two,” said Alexei.

“Two,” Artiom repeated, dropping in the two lumps and stirring with a spoon, which he placed back on a white napkin on the table.

“Thank you,” said Alexei as he took the hot cup. It felt good. It felt more than good, and it tasted strong and sweet, though it hurt to open his mouth.

Artiom sat across from him and watched him drink.

“You have a question you don’t want to ask?” Artiom said.

“Why don’t you keep me tied to a chair or-”

“We want you to be reasonably comfortable. We are not going to torture you. We are not political terrorists. But that was not the question you were thinking of.”

Alexei shrugged and drank.

“You were thinking,” Artiom asked, “‘Why don’t they kill me?’ Am I not right?”

Alexei shrugged again.

“You know who I am. You can identify me. I can shoot you and still ask for the ransom, but you know and I know that your wife is too smart to take my word that you are alive. You will talk to her on the phone. You will tell her or your brother that you are well and unharmed.”

“And when you get your money, if you get it?” Alexei asked, drinking more tea.

It was Artiom’s turn to shrug.

“We will see,” he said with a smile. “Are you almost awake now? You have your senses?”

“Almost,” said Alexei.

“Good,” said Artiom with a smile. “Then make your offer. Not the details. I’m sure you haven’t worked them out yet, but the general offer.”

“What do you plan to ask for? How much?” asked Alexei.

“Three million American. Nice round number,” said Artiom. He had finished his tea and now crossed the room for a refill.

“I’ll give you two million and a promise that the police will not look for you,” said Alexei. “Providing we can work out a way for me to be sure I will be set free alive.”

Artiom had crossed the room again to Alexei’s side. He looked at the man seated at the door. The seated man’s eyes rolled to Artiom, but revealed nothing behind his mask. Artiom settled into the same chair he had left, thought for an instant, and said, “You know who I am. You will tell the police.”

“No,” said Alexei.

“Why not?” asked Artiom.

“Because the two million will be to perform a job, a quite illegal job, and I will put it in writing that I am paying you for that job. You will hold the document for protection.”

“You are thinking quickly, Alexei Porvinovich,” said Artiom. “I can’t think this quickly.”

“It is how I have stayed alive and gotten wealthy,” said Alexei.

“The document, the job …?”

“I will hire you to murder my wife and brother,” Alexei said. “If I try to betray you, you can go to the authorities yourself. You kill them and I write the document.”

“Why do you want to …?”

“Because my wife and brother planned this,” Alexei said, the pain surging sharply. “Didn’t they?”

Artiom was reasonably clever but had lived by his rugged looks and his strong body. Alexei was already far ahead of him.

“I’ll think about it,” said Artiom, getting up. “You hungry?”

“No,” said Alexei as he examined the leaves at the bottom of his cup. “Of course the plan needs refining-many details need to be worked out.”

Artiom said nothing.

The plan had been to demand the ransom. Alexei’s wife and brother would gather it and get it to Artiom. The police would know all about it. Alexei Porvinovich would be found dead on the street.

For this Artiom would keep the money and continue his affair with Alexei’s wife. But the plan had troubled him from the first. Anna’s interest in him was waning. Artiom knew this, knew that he was just a novelty for her, knew that another novelty would appear. He wasn’t even certain that she would let him survive to be a possible witness against her.

But then again, Alexei Porvinovich, who sat before him clutching a tea mug, was certainly not to be trusted either.