David Nickle - Rasputin's Bastards

5-START filling out the SUBSCRIPTION FORM before the CUSTOMER has even agreed to PURCHASE a SUBSCRIPTION! She will SEE YOU WRITING and think she has ALREADY AGREED! Or she will FEEL SORRY FOR YOU — particularly if you tell her that you will be PUNISHED for any PART-WAY FINISHED SUBSCRIPTION FORMS IN YOUR BOOK AT THE END OF A SHIFT! This is NOT A LIE! You can CLINCH up to ONE-THIRD of your potential SALES this way!

6-(Okay, we lied! There are really 6 tips!) Smile! Because remember — NOBODY likes a SAD SELLER!

“A sad seller,” Alexei repeated under his breath. It was marginally better than what he’d suspected of Holden and his crew. More than marginally, actually. But Alexei reminded himself that it still didn’t preclude his worst suspicions being true.

He put the paper back down and looked over some of the other sheets. They all had similarly themed titles: SELL THAT MAGAZINE! And DON’T TAKE NO FOR AN ANSWER! And WHO SAYS YOU CAN’T SELL THIS PRODUCT! Further down the row, the titles varied intriguingly: HELLO MR. POLICEMAN! And CHILD WELFARE WORKERS — ANYTHING BUT! And THE YOUNG OFFENDERS ACT: CANADA’S GIFT TO YOU!

“Canada?” Alexei muttered. What do these people have to do with Canada?

“We used to spend a lot of time in Canada.”

He looked up to see Heather, standing in the doorway leading astern. She was back in her raincoat, and a cigarette dangled between her fingers. She closed the door with her shoulder and sashayed across the lounge. Her brow crinkled in a little, remembering to frown. Her eyes took a faraway cast as she continued:

“Toronto, Mississauga, London — yeah, they’ve got a London up there. I remember we spent about a week in Ottawa — that’s the Canadian Washington — back in ’88. Kept the vans in a trailer park outside at night, and through the day, it was just like scooping money off the ground. Ottawa was good to us.”

“1988?” Alexei tried to remember what he was doing that long ago. Afghanistan? No. Afghanistan was finished for him. He wondered about Heather. “You must have been a little girl,” he said.

But she appeared not to hear him. “ Time , Newsweek… I remember Popular Mechanics did real well in Ottawa in ’88. Housekeeping magazines, though…” She stopped in front of him, put her hand on his shoulder so the ember of the cigarette warmed his earlobe and looked up at him with lazy, laughing eyes. “They never did go in for Good Housekeeping much in Ottawa.”

Alexei frowned. “How old are you, Heather?”

“Are you going to do something?”

She leaned close to him, so that if he wanted — if he leaned just so — their lips could brush and kiss and it could have seemed like an accident. But all he could think about were the tiny bunk beds in the brig below, and the children on the Romanians’ yacht, that served Mrs. Kontos-Wu drinks and had him pegged as KGB — and literally pegged him, across the forehead, before dumping him into the ocean.

“And when did you start working for Mr. Gibson?” He took hold of Heather’s wrist and pulled her hand from his shoulder.

“A long time ago. All right?” Now the languor was gone, and all that was left in her eyes was a suspicious resentment. “You want to play brave social worker and rescue me? You know what you got to do.”

Alexei smiled coldly. “Take care of Mr. Gibson?”

“That’s right.”

“Why don’t you tell me some things first.”

“What do you need to know?”

“First: what is this place? What is with the magazines?”

“Magazines.” If she’d been angry a second ago, she’d forgotten it now. She said “magazine” like it was some exotic sex act, and she tried to sidle close to Alexei again as she went on. “Magazines are everything. They bought this boat, they bought our house down in Florida, they bought… hell, they’ll buy anything. Magazines are our business. Can’t you see?” She swept her arm over the bank of flyers and pamphlets. “It’s almost all profit!”

Alexei didn’t see how that could be — unless, of course, you never delivered any magazines — but he kept that question to himself.

“How old were you when you started with this wonderful business?” asked Alexei. “Twelve? Thirteen?”

That stopped her short. “I was old enough,” she said quietly.

She glared at him — and he could tell that this time, it wasn’t just pique. He knew he’d touched a nerve in Heather.

“He’s a prick,” she said. “Back when I started, it was just magazines. Lately, though — it’s been getting weird.”

“Weird? In what way?”

“He’s fucking nuts,” she said. “You know why we’re here?”

Alexei raised his eyebrows in a question.

“A fucking dream — that’s what he says whenever we ask.”

“So you want me to kill you a crazy dreamer,” said Alexei. “Why don’t you just do it yourself?”

Heather shut her eyes. She pinched her cigarette hard between her lips and drew a lungful.

“Did he by any chance do something to you?” asked Alexei.

Heather’s cigarette crumpled in her fist, and the tip of it burned the side of her finger. “Fuck!” she shouted, and from upstairs, someone yelled: “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” she shouted back — her voice just about twisting back on itself to be cheerful. “Just stubbed my toe!”

“Sorry,” said Alexei, meaning it. He knew about bad memories.

She glared at him. “So what about it?”

“I don’t think so,” said Alexei. “Here we are, in international waters, well off any of the main shipping routes I am told. Right now, I am very curious about where it is that we are going to dock next. Perhaps after I find that out…”

“You’re a fucking traitor,” she said. “That’s what you are. I protected you , you know. You could at least—”

She stopped in her tirade, and looked out over Alexei’s shoulder, out one of the windows. “Shit,” she said. “They’re early.”

Alexei followed Heather onto the deck, where various other crew were already gathered. Everyone’s attention was focused on the trio of Zodiacs bearing down on them. When Alexei wondered aloud whether it was Greenpeace, he got a big laugh.

“Then who?” he asked Heather.

“Russians,” she said. “Or something. That’s all he tells us.”

“That’s right,” said the bald one, whose shirt Alexei was still wearing. “That’s all we need to know.”

Beneath them, the engine noise changed and Alexei could feel the deck pitch slightly as the yacht started to turn towards the Zodiacs. After a few minutes of manoeuvring, the three little boats had managed to pull up parallel to the yacht, and the crew moved to lower rope ladders. Alexei peered over the edge of the railing. Each of the Zodiacs carried three men, wearing dark green rain gear. The only clue as to their Russian origins were the AKMs slung over the shoulders of — Alexei made a quick count — seven of the men. The Zodiacs were otherwise unmarked, and their crew all wore their hoods up. It would be funny, Alexei thought, if he wound up recognizing one of the men here from the old days.

Depending, of course, on who it was.

Just to be safe, Alexei moved from the railing and sidled back into the lounge. There, he busied himself sorting stacks of paper, pretending to read through the TIME IS MONEY! pamphlet — all the while watching through the window, scoping the company.

In all, four of the men came up, and when the last one passed the window and made his way up to the bridge, Alexei let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. No trouble , he told himself. No trouble.

Shortly afterward, the crewman he’d met on the bridge came into the lounge, along with two others.