David Nickle - Rasputin's Bastards

“Those bastards,” he said. “Those clever, vicious little bastards.”

He meant it as a compliment. For trapped in what he was now sure was the baby girl’s metaphorical belly, his body inert in a dark tank hundreds of miles to the west, Fyodor Kolyokov found that he wanted all the children with him, more than he ever had.

While the yacht followed its escort of Romanian-piloted Zodiacs, Alexei ran through what seemed like dozens of schemes for killing Holden Gibson. A push, a squeeze, with his Asp, a sharp tap! , in any one of five places on Holden’s body. Or more simply, a bullet.

None of them satisfied him. There were too many witnesses about, and too many of those witnesses were carrying guns.

And in any case, he had more to think about than Gibson’s impending doom. The presence of Romanians, for instance. Were these the same Romanians with whom Mrs. Kontos-Wu was planning her rendezvous? It seemed at once the most likely and unthinkable prospect.

Which led to another obligation — one that would almost certainly override his pledge to kill Holden Gibson. If these were the same Romanians as had abducted Mrs. Kontos-Wu, Alexei would have to deal with them too, and extricate Mrs. Kontos-Wu from whatever trouble she’d found with them.

And then there were the children on board Ming Lei 3 — were they the ones that Gibson intended to lock in his children’s brig? Was he buying them from the Romanians in some kind of child slavery deal? They knew how to mix a drink and bring a blanket when it was cold — that was certainly a selling point — but, fingering his tender scalp, Alexei wondered if Gibson knew what he was getting into.

Some of the others in the lounge had gotten up and were milling around, so Alexei joined them. He stepped around the projection TV, and squinted out the windscreen. There was something up ahead — the yacht’s prow obscured any direct view, but Alexei could make out peripheral activity on the water — a distant churning. Nearer, he saw their escort was beginning to fan out on either side of the yacht, and he felt the motor throttling down under his feet. The deck lurched as the motor yacht slowed down.

Holden strode across the room and stopped beside Alexei, near enough to strangle. “So what are we meeting here? Where’s their Goddamn boat?”

Alexei peered ahead at the water, which was boiling like a soup. He’d seen water like that before.

“Underwater,” said Alexei softly.

Holden didn’t seem to have heard Alexei. His face began to redden. “This is not good,” he hissed, and he glared down at Alexei. “You watch my back, Russkie.”

“Do not worry,” said Alexei, and meant it: Holden’s worrying just made him a more difficult target. “But tell me who it is you are meeting?”

Holden snorted. “None of your business,” he said.

Alexei stood and walked to the fore section of the lounge. Ahead, the churning water boiled and broke as the conning tower surfaced.

Alexei leaned against the railing below the windscreen. “Shit,” he whispered.

“That’s a submarine!” said Holden.

“Yes,” said Alexei. It was a Soviet Project 641 Attack Submarine. Diesel-electric powered, and too noisy by half, which was why the Soviet navy had decommissioned the last of them in the late 1980s. He didn’t see any point in sharing that insight with Holden just now though.

“A submarine!” Holden cupped his hands together and shook them like he was rolling dice. “Shit and hell, shit and hell.”

The sky overhead was a flat grey, and the light it threw added not a hint of colour to the black gleam of the submarine’s hull as it followed the tower into the air. Water fell from it in sheets, making froth that festered like infection along the length of its hull. The motor yacht pitched noticeably on the displaced ocean, and Alexei noticed with a chill that there were no markings on the submarine — at least none above the water line. Holden’s crew lined the edge of the lounge, gaping. Evidently they weren’t expecting this any more than Alexei was.

Or Holden. He grabbed Alexei’s shoulder. “You better tell me what’s going on,” he said.

Alexei shrugged — in so doing extricating himself from Holden’s grip.

“How should I know?” he said. “You won’t even tell me what you’re up to.”

“I’m going to buy some children,” he said. “Haven’t you worked that out for yourself?”

Alexei opened his mouth and closed it again. Did Holden know that he’d found the smuggler’s hold? He dismissed the thought quickly, though. Holden was on a different tack.

“Even if they own a submarine, which I wouldn’t have thought possible, why have they got it doing this kind of work?” Holden’s face was reddening again. “It’s like putting up a fucking flag — look at us, Mister U.S. spy satellite! We’re selling children off the shore of the fuckin’ United States! They could kick off a fuckin’ nuclear war!”

Much more of this, and my troubles are over , thought Alexei. He’ll give himself a coronary .

“You are purchasing children?” he asked innocently. “Do you buy them for fucking, or just to change your linen when you jerk yourself off?”

Alexei had hoped to push Holden that little bit farther — if not to a heart attack, then at least toward some further indiscretion. But the words had the opposite effect. Holden’s face drained of red and he regarded Alexei calmly.

“I’ll kill you, you keep talking like that — you know that?” he said. “Remember whose boat you’re on.”

Holden jammed his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker and turned away from Alexei, watching the submarine rise. Which was good. Alexei wasn’t sure how the old man would have interpreted his smile if he’d seen it.

The Zodiacs were wheeling back around now, making sharp smacks as they crossed the waves made by the surfacing submarine. Behind them, the door to the lounge swung open. Alexei turned and saw two of the Romanians from the bridge. Both had their AKMs slung over their shoulders. One of them caught Alexei’s eye and motioned him over. Holden, preoccupied an instant longer than Alexei by the spectacle of the unanticipated submarine, hurried to catch up.

“You come with us,” said one of the Romanians. He pointed at Holden, and then at Alexei. “You also, heh?”

“And her,” said Holden. He pointed to Heather. “And him.” He pointed to James. “And—”

“Enough,” said the other Romanian. “She may come also. But no more than that.”

“Fine.” Holden patted Heather — on the shoulder this time, but it might as well have been her ass to Alexei — and moved to follow the Romanians. Alexei gripped the asp in his pocket and followed them all onto the deck.

The submarine’s captain was a slight woman, with black hair cropped short and eyes wide as a fawn’s. Alexei thought two things about the captain: first, he recognized her from somewhere — where, he couldn’t say, but familiarity stuck in him nonetheless. And second, to his eye, she was no older than twenty. She would not have been born when this submarine was taken from service.

Alexei shivered. The submarine was growing nearer the bow as the Zodiac turned once more towards it. The young woman who behaved like the submarine’s commander was looking out at the Zodiac now, her arms crossed, black hair blowing in the ocean wind while her crewmen stood still around her.

God, he recognized her from somewhere. But where? The memory was locked from Alexei.

The Zodiac’s outboard throttled back, and Holden sat back, folded his hands conspicuously on his gut. Alexei met Heather’s eye, and he shrugged. What do you want me to do ?