David Nickle - Rasputin's Bastards

“Stephen Haber. Jean Kontos-Wu.”

“No rooms here,” said the desk man. He was clearly terrified. “P-please. D-don’t.”

Montassini looked in the old man’s eye. There was something there at the back — a hard thing, a powerful will. Montassini felt his breath hitch. He slid down off the table.

“Fuck this,” he said. “We got what we need. Fifth floor. Thanks.”

The four of them hurried to the elevator. They jostled each other to get inside, and waited there uncomfortably as the doors slid shut.

Mrs. Kontos-Wu had been sleeping for the better part of the afternoon — ever since she’d downed the vodka-lemonade Stephen had brought her. At first, he’d supposed that she needed the sleep — after everything she’d been through. But there was something about the particulars of this sleep that made Stephen uneasy. Her breathing was too shallow — she didn’t stir or move at all.

In truth, however, he didn’t mind that old Kolyokov’s chief sleeper operative was, well, asleep. At least not for a while. While she slept, Stephen had been busy. He’d called the number for Pitovovich; fired off an email to the address; even checked airline schedules to Odessa. Mrs. Kontos-Wu may have been Kolyokov’s main field operative. But he was the one who was really best-equipped to get them out of this mess.

And even if he wasn’t best equipped — even if he wasn’t sure exactly what to do next: Stephen was rightfully Kolyokov’s heir; Kolyokov had said so.

And that counted for something.

Stephen was standing over Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s sleeping and possibly comatose form, pondering this truth, when the phone rang. It was flashing the security extension. Stephen lifted it from its cradle.

“Miles?” he said crisply. “What is it?”

The phone was quiet on the other end. Quiet but for a slow, raspy breathing. Stephen tapped on the earpiece.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

“Miles,” said Stephen — his own breath catching in his chest, “what’s going on? You okay?”

“I haven’t been paid.”

It was Miles. But his voice sounded oddly flat.

“What?”

“I’ve been living in this little shit-box of a hotel room for what — five years now?”

“You all right?”

“And it’s just occurred to me — I haven’t been paid,” said Miles.

“Miles, what’s—”

“Not ever,” said Miles. “I left a paying job… my family… to come here to work for you and Mr. Kolyokov. But you never got around to paying me. It only just occurred to me — isn’t that funny?”

Stephen swallowed. He looked over at Mrs. Kontos-Wu. He looked at the phone, and put it back to his ear. Miles was breathing again, waiting for an answer.

And Stephen knew at that point, that he didn’t have a good answer, other than the obvious.

Kolyokov was gone.

And the work he’d done, to amass his network of people and assets and cash — it was gone too, or nearly so.

It explained Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s coma-sleep. And it was why Miles suddenly woke up to the fact that he didn’t have a house in New Jersey or a job at the United Nations building any more.

“Go lie down,” said Stephen — concentrating. “You need some rest.”

“Fuck you,” said Miles. “What did you do with my house?”

Stephen looked over his shoulder at the bathroom door, and found a simmering resentment of his own. If Kolyokov had had an ounce of trust for him — if he’d really treated Stephen as an heir — he would have shown him how to use that thing; how to manage the network to which only he had access. Miles wouldn’t be going through this now; Mrs. Kontos-Wu would be up and running; and Stephen would be able to do something other than sit here and wait for a phone call.

“Well?” said Miles. “What? It was a good place! I had a gym in the basement! I had satellite TV! What did you do — sell it?”

Stephen took a breath. No — they hadn’t sold it. The old bomb shelter in Miles’ back garden contained a cache of weapons big enough to overthrow a state legislature — a cache that had been purpose-assembled for that eventuality. Where in New Jersey are we going to find a hideaway half the size, and a quarter as safe? Kolyokov had wondered, when the question of listing Miles’ bungalow came up during a cash crunch. Find me a blind man for a tenant and I’ll be happy .

“We didn’t sell it,” said Stephen.

“Well I want it back,” said Miles. “I want it — ah, fuck it. What am I talking to you for anyway?”

The line disconnected.

Stephen’s hand was shaking as he put the telephone back in its cradle. He stepped to Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s bedside.

“Hey!” he snapped. “Wake up!”

He lightly slapped her cheeks, and repeated. “Up! Come on!”

At that, Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s eyelids fluttered. The pink end of her tongue darted out between her teeth and over dry lips. She made a sound like a moan.

“Good!” Stephen slapped again, harder. “Upsy-daisy. Come on.”

Now her lips were moving. She was whispering something.

“What?” Stephen leaned closer.

“ … Vasilissa ,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu. “ Baba Yaga .”

Stephen pulled back. He saw that tears were welling in the corners of Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s eyes as she stared sightlessly toward the ceiling. She coughed, and repeated:

“ Manka. Vasilissa. Baba Yaga .”

Stephen felt a sympathetic ache in his middle as Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s fingers bent into claws. The cords on her neck stood out, as though she were having a seizure.

“ Manka !” She was shouting now. “ Vasilissa! Baba Yaga !”

As though she were O.D.’ing, Stephen thought. Watching her, he was drawn back to that time five years ago, bottoming out in the crack-house in Queens. He was going through some bad times, then — the heroin flowed free in his veins; he fucked anything with a dick and a wallet. And there in the night, came the ghost of the old man, stepping over the sleeping bodies, ducking underneath intestinal droops of wiring and insulation. Those three words had entered Stephen’s mind like a torrent of spring water, opening and cleansing him at once. When they’d passed, the old man was in his face, close enough to kiss him on the mouth.

You are not alone , he’d said.

Here in the hotel room, Mrs. Kontos-Wu was coming to the understanding that she was alone — possibly, for the first time in her life.

Stephen leaned close to her again, and awkwardly at first, wrapped his arms around her shoulders. He could feel the breath ratchet in Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s chest.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You’re not alone.”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s shoulders twitched again, and her arms came up around Stephen’s shoulders. When her face buried itself in his chest, he felt the heat of her tears like steam from an iron.

The elevator door opened on the 14th floor, but Montassini and his crew did not emerge from it immediately. Jack was ready to bolt, but Montassini put a finger to his lips and motioned to wait a second. He reached into his coat and pulled out his Glock. Nino gave him a look — the gun so soon ? — and Montassini gave him a look back. Questions, questions…

Truth was, Montassini didn’t like the idea of getting out on the 14th floor of a hotel that he hadn’t known existed until he stepped through its door three minutes ago. He didn’t like the crying guy behind the front desk. He didn’t like the quiet of this place — like it was cut off from the world, in a little Manhattan snow globe all its own.

With one hand on the elevator door to keep it from closing on his neck, Montassini stuck his head out to take a look.