David Nickle - Rasputin's Bastards

But the size was perfect for little kids.

“Shit,” Alexei whispered.

This room was a smuggler’s hideaway.

For smuggling children.

Before anyone could show up to make trouble for him, Alexei returned the door to the slightly-ajar position he’d found it in, and made his way back to the stairs. When he got there, the asp was back in his pocket. From above, he could smell the salt and rot of the sea air. Still putting it all together in his head, he climbed. Feigning amnesia, Alexei thought, was the smartest thing he had done in recent memory.

“You speak Russian?”

Alexei stood on the yacht’s prow, watching Holden Gibson approach. He had been standing alone there for a few minutes, watching the waves break against the hull, occasionally looking back across the deck, or glancing out to the horizon, which was grey and featureless under the thick cloud. He was thinking about what to do next — find a radio, try and contact the coast guard, call in the Marines on this fucking child smuggler, and let them know about Mrs. Kontos-Wu at the same time — when he spotted Holden Gibson. Alexei waited for the big man to make his way across the mist-washed deck.

“Of course you speak Russian,” said Holden. He was wearing a raincoat like Heather had worn last night, and he stopped not a foot away from Alexei. “I think I understand where my instinct is taking me now,” he continued. “It could be either way — telling me I should just kill you and dump the body in the drink. Or that you might be useful. I think maybe I shouldn’t kill you. I think it’s telling me to offer you some work.”

“What kind of work?”

Holden threw up his hands and rolled his eyes. “Christ’s sake, boy — what is with all the questions? Look, just tell me — do you or don’t you want to work? Because we are going to be there soon and I want to hedge my bets, all right? Now are you remembering things any better?”

“No,” said Alexei.

“Good. Do you remember your Russian?”

“ Da ,” said Alexei.

“What the fuck’s that?”

“Russian for Yes.”

“Russian. Good.” Holden’s hands came together and he rubbed them, as though warming them in the spray. “Now here’s the job. I’m meeting some people — we’re meeting real soon — and I think some of them will be speaking Russian. That is the sense I get. But I don’t speak Russian, and they know I don’t speak Russian. Got that?”

“Yes,” said Alexei.

“Good. Now. These Russians, they don’t know about you, and they don’t know you speak Russian. So the thing I want you to do is listen — keep your mouth shut, but listen — and when they’re talking Russian, remember what they say and tell me that. Can you do that? Or does your fucking head hurt too bad? Because I don’t have to tell you — you’re dead weight on this boat right now.” He looked at Alexei. “You’re ballast. You know what ballast is?”

“Yes,” said Alexei. “I know what ballast is.”

“And?” Holden Gibson’s hands made fists, and he jammed them into the pockets of his raincoat. “And?”

“I can do this for you.”

“Good.” Holden grinned at Alexei, his teeth improbably white. They were the teeth of a healthy young man, stolen in the night and hammered into the gums of a sick old monster’s head. “Good. This is a good idea I’ve come up with, isn’t it?”

Alexei pushed his own hands into his pockets, and felt the asp in one of them. He gripped it, and smiled back. “You’re the boss,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Holden. “I am the boss. And you should get inside, you stupid fuck. I don’t want you fainting with pneumonia.” He squinted at Alexei’s sweatshirt. “Where did you get that?”

“Borrowed it,” he said. “From one of your people, I think.”

“Looks like a hand-me-down,” said Holden, and shook his head. “My kids haven’t worn one of those since, what? — ’91.”

“A significant year,” said Alexei.

“Yeah.” Holden’s eyes brightened at that, and he snapped his fingers. “Yeah! That’s when you guys threw out the commies — Yeltsin in the tank and knocking over Lenin and all that shit. You there for that?”

“I can’t remember,” said Alexei.

“Right — amnesia.” He said it quietly. “Of all the luck…” And at volume: “You’re going to do okay here, pal.”

Pal . Outwardly, Alexei kept up his smile. But he couldn’t stop thinking about the children’s room below and the padlock on the outside of it. “I will go inside,” he said, and broke away from Holden.

Alexei went back inside, but he didn’t return to his cabin. First he wandered up to the bridge. There was only one crewmember on duty there, holding the wheel and staring at the horizon over the bow. The radio was within reach of the guy. If Alexei wanted it, he’d have to take him down. Alexei clutched the asp in his pocket. But the moment was lost. “You’re welcome to stay, just don’t touch anything,” said the crewman, before Alexei could even introduce himself. Alexei made a show of looking over the controls here, then wandered over to the big map table. A chart of a coastline had been pressed down under a sheet of heavy glass. Maybe it was Maine, but Alexei couldn’t say exactly where — the chart was navigational, and awash in numbers.

He asked where they were right now, and the crewman tapped the glass with his fingertip, over open sea: “Right about here.” Alexei didn’t see any scale to the map, but he noted with some interest that they were about an inch to the east of the dotted line that indicated the 200-mile limit.

When Alexei asked where they were headed, the crewman just shrugged. “Okay,” said Alexei, and didn’t ask again.

If he wanted to use the radio, and have any hope of surviving to wait, he’d have to pick another time.

So Alexei climbed down to the main deck, and made his way into the yacht’s lounge. On the Turk Shadak’s yacht, the equivalent room had been lined with cushioned benches and was decorated with a kind of faux-nautical kitsch that included a fishing net overtop the small bar and a half-scale lobster trap dangling from the ceiling.

Holden Gibson’s boat was considerably larger, and so it was with the lounge. But by comparison, this one was stripped down. A small part of the room had been sectioned off as an office area — Alexei saw a fax machine, as well as two laptop computers hooked up to a printer. The rest of the room was set up like a theatre — or, more appropriately, a lecture hall. Folding chairs had been arranged in rows along the length of it, facing a projection-screen TV next to a wooden podium. There were some long tables along the sides of the room, stacked with cardboard stationery boxes. Alexei went to a table, and opened a box. He picked up one of the pieces inside — printed on thick red paper stock.

He read:

SELLING IS YOUR LIFE!

And underneath, in slightly smaller type:

FIVE SURE-FIRE TIPS TO HELP YOU BEAT THAT QUOTA!

1-Tell the customer that you are RAISING FUNDS for CHILDREN! Think about it — that is JUST EXACTLY WHAT YOU ARE DOING! RAISING FUNDS for CHILDREN! This is NOT A LIE!

2-Show the customer your CHARITABLE CARD! Remember, DO NOT say you are from a REGISTERED CHARITY! That is a lie! Just showing the CHARITABLE CARD is not a lie! And that alone will CLINCH more than ONE-HALF of your sales!

3-If the CUSTOMER says NO, ask her what YOU have DONE WRONG! If what she tells you makes you want to CRY, then GO AHEAD AND CRY! It will make the CUSTOMER feel SORRY — almost as SORRY as you will feel if you do not make QUOTA!

4-DO NOT let the CUSTOMER think about the sale and CALL YOU later! DO NOT ever give out our TELEPHONE NUMBER! If the CUSTOMER insists, TELL THE CUSTOMER that she can CANCEL her subscription within TEN DAYS if she changes her mind! That is NOT A LIE! Just DO NOT tell her that her MONEY WILL BE REFUNDED!