David Nickle - Rasputin's Bastards

Amar Shadak took the phone away from his ear and shook his head. He had to focus. Perhaps, he said to himself, the answer to the riddle lay in another place.

With Stephen perhaps? Why not? He liked that better. He returned the cell phone to his ear, and let his smile broaden a little, the better to transmit his goodwill across the ocean.

“Tell me what you know, then,” he said, glancing back the way that he’d come. “But be quick about it — I’m in the middle of… a meeting and I’m anxious to get back to it.”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s wrists hurt from being tied, but overall she was feeling better. Stephen had let her take a shower and clean up in one of the adjoining suites, and ordered her a plate of pasta and seafood from room service. So she was clean and bandaged and well-fed. She would have liked a drink. But she knew better than to get one now.

Across the room, Stephen was dealing with Shadak. Veins stood out on his neck as he spoke into the telephone receiver, and dark bands of sweat were painted across his back.

He should be sweating. Stephen was trying to explain to Amar Shadak that both sets of cargo had gone missing: the children that he was supposed to be supplying to them, and the individual that they were to be supplying to Shadak. It was a task made more difficult because Stephen was under instructions to keep much of Kolyokov’s activities — in particular, his death — a secret from the Turkish gangster. Yet he had to convey enough useful information to entice Shadak to give up a list of people who were involved in the transaction.

Kolyokov’s death . Mrs. Kontos-Wu was still trying to get her head around that one. Fyodor Kolyokov had been with her longer and more completely than her own subconscious mind. All the lies that made her life bearable… and there were many… he had been at the core of them, making them live and breathe.

When Stephen had told her the truth about what had happened to Kolyokov, it was as though he’d yanked the foundation from beneath those lies. She’d closed her eyes, trying to will herself back into the metaphor of Bishop’s Hall that she now knew to be nothing more than a metaphor. In reality, she’d taken her early education in the Urals. Kolyokov had been her master since before she’d graduated, and everything about her had been dictated by his presence: her likes and dislikes, her daily habits; and ultimately, her own personal morality.

In the end, Mrs. Kontos-Wu took Stephen’s account of Fyodor Kolyokov’s death as more of a theological problem than one of grief and acceptance. So she opened her eyes again and, according to her training, put it all aside. There were more important things to worry about.

Like this phone call with Amar Shadak. At this point, Stephen was down to one-and-two-word answers, interspersed among the long silences as Shadak presumably berated him: “No… That’s what… Right… No…”

Finally, Stephen held the phone away from his ear so Mrs. Kontos-Wu could hear Shadak’s deep Count Dracula voice made into a tiny squawk by the phone receiver. Mrs. Kontos-Wu mouthed: Do you want me to try ?

Stephen nodded resignedly, and handed her the phone.

“—bullshit a bullshitter,” Shadak was saying. “I’ll rip you—”

“Amar,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu. “Slow down.”

Shadak stopped talking, and Mrs. Kontos-Wu heard a sharp intake of breath.

“It’s me,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu. “Remember — from Istanbul?”

Shadak chuckled over the phone. “Why hello,” he said. “What happened to that little dancing monkey Kolyokov keeps? Not that I want him back on the line, mind you…”

“He’s taking a break,” she said.

Shadak’s voice was all wounded innocence. “From what?” he asked. “We were simply going over some details. I trust I did not upset him?”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu gave a flirtatious laugh. “I can’t imagine you upsetting anyone, Amar. Now tell me: how can we fix this?”

“Ah, my beautiful Flower of Manhattan, I fear that matters are damaged beyond repair. The monkey-boy will reveal to me no clue as to what has happened to my ship — my submarine — my people in America… my cargo, and yours also. They have vanished without a trace, all of them. Little Stephen is, as ever, no help at all.”

“Well really, Amar,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu. “How can you expect him to be? He’s been here in Manhattan all this time. He knows nothing of what happened to us at sea.”

“That is right. You were at sea. With Kilodovich, yes?”

“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu. “Until very nearly the end.”

“Ha!” There came the sound of a clap, or perhaps a snap, from the other end of the line. “Most excellent! Oh my Beauty! Then you can tell me what precisely happened to my ship and submarine and all of it!”

“Well,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu, smiling a little, “I can. But…”

“Yes?”

“You first, Amar,” she said, and mouthed to Stephen: Get out . She pointed at the door. Stephen threw up his arms, turned around and left.

Good boy , she thought. If she were going to work Amar Shadak properly, she’d need a little privacy.

Stephen headed down to the lobby for a smoke. Take the lead , Kolyokov had told him. What a fucking joke. There was nothing he could do to intimidate that fucker Shadak. That had been clear from the moment he picked up the phone and Shadak had started cussing him out. The fundamental problem was one of respect: Shadak just didn’t respect Stephen. As far as Shadak was concerned, Stephen was just a little harem-boy for old Kolyokov, who took the old man’s phone messages when he wasn’t sucking his dick. Never mind that that wasn’t the case — sexual preferences aside, Kolyokov wouldn’t touch Stephen for fear of catching his AIDS cooties — that was how Shadak saw things, so that was how it was.

The elevator door opened on the lobby — which was, as usual, nearly empty. Stephen strode out and went to one of the threadbare sofas near the front desk. He sat down, yanked a cigarette from his pack with his teeth, and lit up. Behind the counter, poor old Richard fussed over some file cards. He looked up and smiled tentatively.

“Goo-ood afternoon, si-ir,” said Richard.

“Fuck off.” Stephen lit his cigarette with one of the 2,500 Emissary disposable lighters Kolyokov had made him order a couple of years ago. He took a deep drag.

“Ri-ight, sir,” said Richard.

Stephen let the smoke curl out his nostrils and up into his eyes, and he regarded Richard through the stinging blue haze. The guy was a wreck — he could barely sign his name, he had so little confidence in himself. It was what made him such a good whipping boy, which is how Stephen used him most days. Stephen would tell him to fuck off and order him around. He would let the shit he took from Kolyokov flow downhill onto Richard. He would try to mind-read him, and maybe even succeed once in a while. And every time he did one of those things, Stephen would feel like a pretty effective guy.

But the fact was, all this time Stephen had been sparring with a crip. There might have been a time when it was different — Richard had been Kolyokov’s main sleeper at M.I.T., and he must have been some use there all those years, stealing technology secrets and sabotaging research.

But now? The only thing Richard was good for was taking reservations for the hotel, and giving Stephen an inflated sense of his own importance.

In the real world — where Amar Shadak moved millions of dollars of merchandise across Europe with a word, and Fyodor Kolyokov moved an army of sleepers with his dreams — Stephen was less than an insect.

And yet…

You take the lead , Kolyokov had said. It seemed like a joke now, but the fact was that Kolyokov had ordered it. Not, as it turned out, in the tank — he’d gone back and given it another try after Kolyokov’s little ghost-message, but as the first time, he got nowhere in the smelly old tank. And he’d done terribly with Amar Shadak outside the tank; it was true that Shadak didn’t respect him. So he couldn’t deal with him as an equal.