Ted Bell - Tsar

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope.”

“When?”

“Like, uh, now.”

“Now. Where? Here?”

“Of course not here. In private. I’ll take you. Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“The music room.”

“Oh. The music room. Why didn’t I guess that?”

“He’s composing a fucking symphony. You believe that? For the Moscow Symphony Orchestra. But he’s going to stop right in the middle of that and talk to you.”

“Holy Jesus.”

“Let’s go.”

They left the bar and turned right down a softly lit corridor hung with what Paddy was pretty sure were paintings he’d seen in books. Each one had its own little brass light on it. Pictures of lily pads, et cetera, little bridges in gardens. French guy, what was his name? Monet or Manet or one of those.

“You’re lucky, Beef,” Popov said. “He’s in a good mood today.”

“Why is that?”

“He got a call from Stockholm early this morning. He’s going to get the Nobel Prize in physics this year.”

“Holy shit. What’d he do?”

“He’s an astrophysicist, you know, just one of his many hobbies. He discovered something called a black body, some kind of radiation that helps prove the big bang theory or something. Dark matter. What do I know? He thinks the real reason he got the prize is the Zeta machine. Making a computer all the Third World countries could afford. He says the Nobel committee loves that do-gooder shit over there. Look at Al Gore, Carter, f’crissakes.”

“Is he psyched? You gotta be, I mean the Nobel Prize, c’mon, jeez mareeze.”

“Yeah. He’s pretty happy about it. Here we are.”

Popov rapped lightly on another leather-padded door, this one unmarked. He then pushed it open and stuck his head inside.

“Let’s go,” Dimitri whispered, taking Paddy’s elbow. “Don’t say anything. We’ll just take a seat over there, and he’ll talk to you when he’s ready.”

Walking into that little room was like stepping back a couple of centuries. It was four white walls with gold moldings everywhere. There were four large paintings depicting fairy-tale musical scenes in heavy gold frames, one on each wall. In the near corner was a harp. There were two men in the room, and Paddy didn’t know who was who. Over in one corner by the window was a tall, gaunt man dressed in a black military uniform. He was standing with his back to the room, hands clasped rigidly behind his back, staring out the window.

The far corner was a kind of triangular bay window, containing a baby grand piano. The floor beneath the piano was glass. The other man, who was playing the instrument, did not look up and seemed unaware that anyone had entered his sanctuary. This piano guy, Paddy figured, had to be the man himself.

Korsakov, who had long snow-white hair, didn’t look at all like Paddy expected. He was seated very upright on the bench. He wore a dark red velvet robe of some kind with a hood draped behind his head. He was playing the piano with his left hand and scribbling furiously with his right in a large leather notebook. There was a light on the piano, shining on the keyboard and a silver bowl of fruit.

To the right of the piano, along a wall some fifteen feet away, were a small silk-covered sofa and two armchairs. The new arrivals sat down on the sofa beneath a painting of angels playing harps and listened.

Paddy didn’t know dick about classical music, but the notes Korsakov was playing sounded beautiful, or whatever. After a few minutes, Popov leaned over so he could whisper in Paddy’s ear.

“That piano he’s playing?”

“Yeah?”

“That was the piano on the Hindenburg. ”

“The what?”

“The Titanic of the Skies. The giant Nazi zeppelin that blew up at Lakehurst, New Jersey, back in 1937. You never heard of that?”

“Maybe. So, what, the piano didn’t burn up, too?”

“It wasn’t onboard. It was back in Germany at the Bluthner factory undergoing a tune-up. Made of aluminum and covered with pigskin. Hitler bought it and had it in his office at the Reichstag. The Russian Army smuggled it out of Berlin after the war. The boss bought it especially for this room.”

Paddy was suddenly aware that the music had stopped and that Count Ivan Korsakov was staring at them over the top of Hitler’s pigskin piano. He stretched his delicate fingers above the keyboard and clicked them like castanets.

“Good morning, Mr. Strelnikov,” he said good-naturedly, in English. “Welcome aboard. I trust you are enjoying yourself on our sky vessel.”

Without waiting for an answer, he stood up and walked across the parquet floor, taking one of the armchairs. He was tall and thin but muscled at the shoulders, and under the red robe he was wearing some kind of dark green velvet jacket. Very fancy buttons and piping on the sleeves. A smoking jacket, Paddy thought they were called. There was a gold pin stuck into one of his lapels.

At the top of the pin was a lapis lazuli crown with three red rubies, reminding Paddy that he was in the presence of true Russian aristocracy.

“You would like some Russian tea, perhaps? We have Kousmichoff, I believe.” Korsakov said.

“I’m good, sir,” Paddy said, crossing his legs and trying to hide his nervousness.

He didn’t know why he was nervous. The man was the opposite of what he’d expected, some beady-eyed businessman. But no. Handsome as a king in a storybook. His white hair reached his shoulders in curls, and his eyes were a pale watery blue. They looked right through you, but they didn’t seem to mean any harm on the way inside.

“Someday, you must tell me the saga of the Kishin Maru, ” Korsakov said, smiling at him. “I understand it got a little rough in the life raft. Unpleasant.”

“You know about that?”

“Mr. Strelnikov, I only have a few minutes. I am having one of my very rare musical inspirations, and if I let it expire without jotting it down, it may vanish forever. So, let me just say that I am aware of your recent activities and very pleased with the results. I’ve read your file. I thank you for your bravery and dedication to my cause. Do you know what that cause is?”

Paddy stared at him blankly. He didn’t have a freaking clue.

“My cause is simple. Order. I cherish order. Only with the cosmic forces aligned in order can the heroic human quest for the sublime flourish. You cannot compose a symphony, or a Declaration of Independence, or even design a simple airship, for that matter, in the midst of chaos. Today, more than ever in human history, I believe, order and chaos struggle for supremacy in our world. Do you follow?”

“I think I’m with you so far.”

“We are not involved in a clash of civilizations but in a clash between civilization and barbarism. Chaos.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I abhor chaos in any form. I am determined that order shall prevail. When I see countries ignoring the sanctity of our oceans, as Japan has done, I send them a signal. When a psychopathic monster wantonly murders newborn babies, I send a signal. I mention just two that you obviously know about. I send countless signals like the two I’ve just mentioned. All around the world. You are one of my messengers. So, you see, Mr. Strelnikov, how important men like you are to me personally. You sound my clarion call, you are my heralds of order. Some might say I seek nothing less than a new world order to come.”

“Well, thank you, sir. I guess I don’t know what to say.”

What the fuck is a herald?

“Say nothing. I suffered a grievous personal loss three months ago in Moscow. In less than a minute, Chechen assassins plunged my life into chaos. I understand Dimitri has informed you of this horror.”