John Ringo: Kildar

“So the bank owns it,” Mike said. “And nobody lives there?”

“The bank manager has a house in town,” Vadim said, shrugging. “The caravanserai is a sort of mausoleum to conquest. And here we have the bank,” he continued, pointing to a building which was heavily constructed of dressed stone. “Another very old building in a town of very old buildings. The original construction predates the Ottomans and may have been an inn of some sort.”

Mike examined the building for a moment, frowning. The lintels of the heavy doors were marble supported by pillars that had once been carved. The stone was also excellently dressed. The building had not been hastily constructed and reminded him of Roman constructions he’d seen. But the Romans had never extended their reach to Georgia.

“And here we have the town square,” Vadim continued, walking on. “On corner we have the bank, across from it my small police station. On the other corner is our local brothel and on the last the local hardware, general sundries and apothecary. Down the street is the mill, which I won’t inflict upon you. And, of course, there is a small church. Everything one small town needs,” he added, humorously.

“How’s the brothel?” Mike asked, examining the building. It was obvious Soviet construction as was the police station; simple buildings of poorly made concrete without any decoration.

“Being married, I, of course, only enter to ensure order,” Vadim said, evenly but with a faint ironic smile. “The girls range from quite pretty to in one case very beautiful. Also quite young, which is generally unusual in such a small town. They are, however, somewhat infested by lice. A point my wife made rather sharply the one time I picked some up. From a hoodlum we’d arrested in there, of course. Certainly not from the young ladies. However, that is why I only enter to ensure order.”

“Pass,” Mike said. “Hate lice.”

“Not as much as my wife,” Vadim said with a sigh. “You’d have thought I brought home the pox from the way she went on.”

“Is there anyone that rents rooms?” Mike asked, looking around. “Besides the tavern. The one they have me in is rather—”

“Small, musty and dark,” Vadim said. “Not to mention infested by fleas, lice and bedbugs. I’ve had to arrest a few people who were using it and we usually use… what would you say, class four hazmat, yes?”

“Yes,” Mike said, chuckling. “Seriously, are there any rooms?”

“I doubt it,” Vadim said, sighing. “There has been no demand for such.”

“What about renting the caravanserai?” Mike asked, turning to look back at the small fort. The clouds had broken slightly and in the light the red sandstone gleamed. He wasn’t even sure where the stone had come from; most of the stone in the area was granite.

“You could ask the bank manager,” Vadim said, shrugging and walking to the bank. “But I find it unlikely that he will be allowed. With independence certain old laws were put back in place, one of which attends upon the caravanserai. I’m not sure it could be rented. And it would be very expensive.”

“Old laws?” Mike asked as the policeman pulled open the door to the bank. The front stoop had been shoveled off but the door still caught.

“We’ll speak to Mr. Mironov,” Vadim said, waving him in.

Mr. Mironov turned out to be a small, spare man who occupied a large office at the rear of the building. The desk had the look of dating back to the Soviet era but there was a Georgian flag on one wall and a portrait of the current president behind the desk. The desk was mostly clear with the exception of a framed portrait. Its back was to Mike but he assumed it was of Mrs. Mironov.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jenkins,” Mr. Mironov said as tea accompanied by small slices of brown bread was being served.

“Mr. Jenkins is interested in renting the caravanserai,” Vadim said, taking a sip of tea and nodding at the young woman who had served it.

“Ah,” Mironov said, sighing. “Renting is quite impossible, I’m afraid. The caravanserai is rather specifically entailed as they say in English. It cannot be rented and can only be sold with the entailed lands.”

“Bit more than I’m interested in,” Mike said, frowning. “I’m really just looking for somewhere to hang out until the snow clears. It looked interesting.”

“It is quite interesting,” Mironov agreed. “Some of the construction is clearly Ottoman, but the foundations are much older. The sandstone comes from a quarry in the valley that has been mined from time immemorial. It’s the sort of place I’d like to show to an archaeologist or historian, just to get some idea of when it was originally built.”

“Well, I was a history major, but I’m hardly a historian,” Mike said, frowning sourly. “And the history program I was in wasn’t very good in my opinion. One of the reasons I left.”

“I would be interested in your opinion of the caravanserai, nonetheless,” Mr. Mironov said, pulling out a ring of keys. “If Captain Tyurin thinks he can get up to it in his Range Rover.”

“Possibly,” Vadim said, taking the keys. “I’d certainly like to show it to Mr. Jenkins.”

“Do you have a way to access accounts outside the Bank of Tbilisi?” Mike asked. “Specifically, if I wanted to get a draft on the Zurich Mercantile?”

“It could be arranged,” Mr. Mironov said, raising one eyebrow. Mike had just as much as admitted to having a numbered account, which spoke of someone unusual.

“Zurich Mercantile is just easier to use overseas than an American bank,” Mike said, shrugging at the looks. “Most of my funds are in Citicorp but I keep some of them in Zurich for walking around money. And some in American Express, for that matter. They manage most of my overseas investments.”

“We have access to both,” Mr. Mironov said, subtly changing his attitude to the American visitor. “And, of course, if you stayed for any time we’d be happy to open an account with the Bank of Tbilisi.”

“I doubt I’ll be staying that long,” Mike said. “But thank you.”

He and Vadim walked over to the police station and got in the latter’s Range Rover.

“You think you can get down to the valley?” Mike asked.

“The road down should be plowed and sanded by now,” Vadim said. “The Keldara do it. With horse-drawn plows, I might add.”

“Must be a bitch getting up that hill with horses,” Mike said, shaking his head. “Don’t they have regular plows or tractors?”

“They have one tractor,” Vadim said, pulling out of the station parking lot cautiously. The Range Rover had snow-chains but the road was still icy in spots. “It dates from Stalin’s time. For everything else they have horses and oxen.”

“Jesus,” Mike said. “It really is poor up here, isn’t it?”

“Very,” Vadim said, sourly, as he approached the switchbacks. “Let us hope for good fortune in this endeavor.”

The road, however, had been thoroughly plowed and sanded, and the Rover made it down to the valley easily. Mike noted that not only had that road been plowed but so had the road up to the caravanserai, which was another series of switchbacks.

“The Keldara do all of this?” Mike asked, surprised. A few of the valley’s inhabitants were out in the snow, mostly gathering wood except for a group of children engaged in a snowball fight.

“They are responsible for the road in the valley and up the hills,” Vadim replied as he turned onto the road up to the caravanserai. “And, of course, to the fort. It’s a duty they’ve held for generations and they take it seriously. They take all their duties seriously. Fortunately, the commissars that held the area during the Soviet period were lenient; the Keldara can be very prickly about their rights and duties. And the way they maintain their farms fit well with the Soviet collective model. Even if the Keldara considered it just another form of fiefdom.”