Balázs Pataki - S.T.A.L.K.E.R. - Northern Passage

“I see you don’t speak our language,” Sultan says. His voice is rough but not unpleasant. “No problem, I do speak English. Sit down, little one.”

With a wave of his hand, he sends the long-legged brunette away. Reluctantly, Nooria takes her place at Sultan’s side where the leather is still warm. She pulls the hood up to hide her face.

“No need for that, little one. I’ve seen worse where I do business.”

His bodyguard seems less relaxed.

“Sultane, slukhaite…” he whispers into his boss’ ear.

“Shut up, Knuckles. Fresh meat is fresh meat wherever you find it.” Sultan turns to face Nooria. “Don’t worry, little one. I am Sultan and you’re my guest now. Do you want a drink?”

Nooria is unsure about what to reply. She can only name a few drinks in this world.

“I want kvas, ” she says recalling the beverage that Tarasov had once taught her to prepare.

“What? Asking here for that crap would put me in disgrace. This is Shooters, little one, not a filthy drinking den. How about a Margarita? Just because you look like a Margarita. Is that your name?” Nooria nods. Sultan gives her a shrewd smile. “Of course it is. So, what do you desire apart from kvas, malenkaya Margarita?”

“Dasani water,” she says, “or Dr. Pepper’s but not diet shit.”

“Come on, they only serve Evian here. And who is Doctor Peppers?”

Nooria sighs. “I want champagne. Dom Perignon.”

“That’s my girl!”

Sultan laughs as if he was wonderfully entertained and snaps his fingers. A waitress immediately appears to take his order.

“Dom Perignon, bystra! So, Margarita—”

Sultan is about to ask Nooria something when a soft ringtone sounds up from his pocket.

“Dancing on the ashes of the world, I behold the stars, Heavy gale is blowing to my face, Rising up the…”

“Alo,” Sultan says into his cell phone. What the caller at the other end of the line is telling him might be important, because Nooria sees Sultan narrow his eyes in a look of sudden concern. He barely replies to the caller save for occasionally grumbling da.

“Apologies but I had to answer this,” Sultan says putting the phone back to his pocket. “It came from a very important business partner.”

The waitress arrives with two crystal flutes and an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne inside. She skillfully opens it without popping the cork, maybe to save certain jumpy patrons a heart attack caused by a sound resembling a gun shot. Nooria eagerly empties her glass, unaware of Sultan giving her a long, inquisitive gaze.

“Slowly, slowly,” Sultan says, raising his own glass to her. “It has no legs to run away. Na zdarovye!”

After two more glasses of Dom Perignon have quenched her thirst, Nooria stares at the nearest table. Sultan’s brown eyes follow her look.

“Hungry? Have some zakuski . Sushi is good here but I’m no snork to eat raw fish. Are you? I guessed so. Try this instead.”

Sultan takes a plate from the table. Finding the pile of tiny, black, glassy balls disgusting, Nooria gives the dish a distrustful look.

“I could enjoy a good champagne even with some greasy ‘tourist’s breakfast’ but the Shooters is a snobby place,” he says. “When in a snobby place, do as the snobs do. Have some caviar… oh my God, not like that! Use a spoon, please. ”

No matter how politely Sultan treats her, Nooria now senses impatience in his voice. Thinking of the phone call he had received a few minutes ago, a feeling of nervousness creeps into her mind. She takes a few spoonfuls of caviar, which she finds tasting much better than it looks, then gulps down another glass of champagne.

“I do not want to keep you,” she says wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Still politely, Sultan offers her a napkin. “Thank you. Caviar is nice food.”

Sultan waves Knuckles over to him. “Viz’my mashynu! Zabyraemosya zvidsu.”

The bodyguard nods and hurries up the stairs.

Sultan offers Nooria a cigarette from an elegant, black and golden paper box.

“Sobranie. You don’t smoke, little Margarita? All the better for you.”

Sultan stays. In a moment a waitress appears with a brown leather wallet. She gives him a polite smile that might be even flirtatious if the rich patron wouldn’t be already accompanied by a woman. Sultan removes a few banknotes from a thick bundle held together with a silver clip, puts it in the wallet and signals Nooria to go ahead of him.

“I too need to go now,” Nooria says as they walk up the stairs. “Thank you again for champagne and caviar, but I—”

Sultan cuts into her words.

“Zona, da?”

Nooria understands. Even if walking ahead of Sultan, she feels as if she were led by an invisible chain. But knowing that this man, who has something fearful all over him despite his gentlemanlike manners, is her only hope to get back to the Zone, she decides to follow him despite the uneasy feeling in her heart.

On a spot where probably not even God himself would be allowed on Judgment Day to park his car, a black Hummer H2 is waiting. Knuckles opens the rear door, letting Sultan and Nooria climb inside. To Nooria this means climbing literally, but Sultan softly lifts her onto the leather seat. When the auto-lock on the heavy, bullet-proof doors engages with a loud click, Nooria feels herself reminded of the SBU’s holding cell. The Hummer’s compartment is much more comfortable but the feeling of being a prisoner appears all the same to her.

“Back to base,” Sultan instructs his bodyguard. The heavy vehicle accelerates with surprising swiftness and soon blends into the flow of vehicles on Moskovskaya Street. “I have to apologize for keeping our dinner so short, Margarita. I received bad news.”

“I hope everything is okay, Sultan.”

“That was a strange call actually, even if I sometimes do deliver my associate the kind of goods he’d asked me about. Usually such goods are difficult to find. However, I have a gut feeling that this time my life will be easier. Now open your coat and let me see what you’re hiding there.”

Sultan’s voice is hard and commanding now. He switches the search light above their seat on and gives Nooria an inquisitive gaze. Now he is looking like the fearsome gangster boss she suspected him to be. Slowly, Nooria moves her hand towards her blade but Sultan jolts his index finger as a sign of warning.

“No, no, little one. First, I don’t want to hurt you. Second, if I would be easy to hurt, people wouldn’t call me Sultan but something like Pansy or Sissy. Or Borov.” A self-satisfied smile appears on Sultan’s face but it doesn’t at all make him appear less threatening. “Third, should you by God’s miracle manage to hurt me nonetheless—the door locks are engaged and you couldn’t get out. Being stuck inside and having a pissed off Knuckles outside don’t mix well. He likes to set things on fire.”

Reluctantly, Nooria lets Sultan take her blade. He studies it carefully.

“Hm… nice one. Persian workmanship, I’d say from Shiraz or perhaps Tabriz, second half of the fourteenth century. The jewels on the scabbard are worth at least—hard to tell in this dim light, but I’d say that big ruby on the pommel is worth twenty thousand dollars alone. And the blade—artifact-alloyed Damascene steel! Amazing little toy. Suits you well.” Sultan gives the blade back to Nooria. She quickly puts it back behind her belt, relieved.

“Listen up, Margarita. See, my business partner is looking for a short female aged between twenty and twenty-five years, half face pretty, half face scarred, probably by sulphuric acid. I was told that she’d killed one of his associates using an old-fashioned blade and wounded another one in the neck while he tried to protect her.” Nooria doesn’t reply. “Strange coincidence, Margarita—the assassin’s description reminds me of you. Or have you seen anyone else like yourself? Because you could earn a lot of money if you did. My partner is a bit upset and asked all local businessmen like me for help. Of course, his own corporation is also hunting the assassin, not to mention the cops—useless clowns as they are.”