The Speculist

Chapter Five

Part I

Chapter Five

Reuben opened his eyes. He was disoriented, lying in bed in a strange room. He could not remember where he was or how he had come to be there. He blinked hard a couple of times and tried to make sense of his surroundings. The ceiling was a long way off. His head hurt. There were people laughing. He turned his head to see who was laughing only to be hit by a powerful wave of vertigo and nausea. And more pain. He swallowed hard and blinked again. He could see chair legs, marble floor, black wingtip shoes, fire.

He was cold and wet.

It made no sense. Then it did. He was not in bed, he was in that place. That place where the …

He couldn’t remember what the place was. Then he was asleep again.

Pain. Hot. Burn.

Burn.

Reuben sat upright and cried out. Everything was clear. He remembered where he was. His interrogators had made two attempts at revive him, first by throwing cold water on him and second by burning his forehead with a…

He looked around the room, though his head and neck shrieked in protest when he moved them. He remembered the faces, now. It was the stork. He had put down his riding crop in favor of a fat, smoldering cigar. No doubt, it had had a glowing red tip at the time it was crushed into his forehead.

Reuben coughed. The pain was like a blinding light.

"You will get up now."

He attempted to do as he was told. He got to his knees and tried to stand up. It didn’t work very well the first, or second, or even third time. An outburst of laughter accompanied every failed attempt to get to his feet. He made it on the fourth try. He was wobbly, but he managed to stay up.

He turned slightly to meet the Czar face to face.

"Tell me why you are here and what is your interest in us," Barishnikov translated smoothly. "And no more foolishness."

"Okay," said Reuben. "All right.

"My name is Reuben Stone. I was an operative for the Central Intelligence Agency from 1974 to 1991. For the past three years, I’ve been a private security consultant. Corporate espionage."

The Czar looked attentive as he took in the translation of what Reuben said.

When he had a moment, Reuben would consider the fact that he had fatally compromised himself. His cover, such as it was, was blown. He was out of a job.

"Explain corporate espionage," the Czar said, after a moment.

"Securing information for competitive advantage. I try to find out what the other operators are doing; I try to protect my own company’s position. "

"This does not explain," the Czar said after a moment, "why you have been subjecting us to surveillance."

"Well, you see, I must apologize for that…" a wave of vertigo washed over him. It took him a moment to steady himself. "The company I work for owns a mobile telephony company in Moscow. It’s called MoscowX. As you may know, MoscowX is the second-largest mobile carrier in Russia, and the first to offer GSM digital service."

It was marketing blather. But they were listening. He continued.

"We know that our chief competitor, Moscow Cellular, is selling heavily to…businessmen such as yourselves. We wanted to get a bigger share of this market. So I started watching your activities to get a feel for how we could better do business with you."

It was an absurd answer to anyone who knew anything about WorldConneX and its Russian subsidiary company. Both were already up to their eyeballs in mob connections.

There was a short discussion.

"You want to sell us phones?" the Czar asked.

"Yes," said Reuben. "That’s all. We just want to sell you phones."

The Czar conferred with his men again.

"You are a very stupid man," he said after a moment. "I don’t like stupid people, and I don’t like black savages who come to this country thinking they know so much. Maybe we kill you."

The Czar issued some commands, untranslated, to Boris and the stork. Reuben flinched when Boris put his hand on his shoulder, but it was all right. He escorted him, roughly, to a chair. Reuben took a seat gratefully. The stork appeared with a bottle of vodka and several glasses, and began pouring out tallish drinks.

"You must understand that what you did is a serious offense," the Czar said. "I hope for your sake that you have told no one about us."

"I haven’t," Reuben answered, truthfully enough.

The Czar’s eyes narrowed again, and his manner grew cold.

"If that is a lie, we will know that it is, and we will kill you."

"I understand. It’s not a lie."

"If you had another reason for watching us, not because you wanted to sell us phones, we will learn this reason. And again, for lying to us, we will kill you."

"I understand."

"Then we drink," said the Czar. He lifted his glass.

"Na zdarove," he said

"Na zdarove," they all answered, including Reuben, and drained their glasses. The vodka was good. It warmed him inside, after lying on the marble floor and being splashed by water, and it immediately took some of the edge off the pain in his head. It did little to help his dizziness, however.

"Now for our surprise," said the Czar, "and our special guest. Let us drink now," he said, "to the lady"

Then the Czar said something loud enough to be heard in the hall. Reuben looked towards the double doors through which he and Pasha had passed. The doors opened, and in walked the Bad Suit, holding his charge roughly by the arm.

It was Ksenia.

She scanned the room carefully, registering no response to seeing Reuben or Pasha. The Suit walked her to a spot in front of the sofa that the Czar was sitting on. The Czar gave a slight nod, and the Suit left. The bald guy handed her a glass of vodka.

"Now we will have one more drink before we have some sport. I understand that you enjoy games of chance, Mr. Stone."

Reuben nodded.

Once again, the Czar held his glass aloft. Everyone followed suit. Ksenia held her glass out with utter defiance. When the toast was made, she tossed back the vodka with grace and utter nonchalance, as though she drank that way all the time.

The Czar set his glass down and headed for the door. The others made it clear that they were all expected to follow. At the bottom of the staircase they turned left into the main room of the building’s ground floor. This room was about the same size as the parlor immediately above it, but it was rough and unfinished. A single light bulb hung down from the ceiling on a long cord. The bulb was fairly bright, but not up to the task of illuminating the whole room.

Under the light stood the Czar and Boris. Standing in a rough semi-circle behind them were a dozen or so others. The audience. The guys from the gate may have been among them; Reuben wasn’t sure. The group from upstairs entered the room and completed the circle under the light.

"We are ready to begin the game," said the Czar.

"I will explain the game," he continued. "It is a game of simple elimination, like a child’s game. When it is over, two will be eliminated, and one will remain. Luck will decide."

Boris handed the Czar a revolver.

"This is a revolving firearm." He held the gun up for everyone to see. "It has six chambers for bullets. Maybe all six chambers are full, maybe fewer. The empty chambers have been capped, so there is no way of knowing. Each of you will be given the weapon and the chance to fire in turn. The last one standing wins."

Reuben closed his eyes. He felt his knees going weak. This could not be happening.

It was a variation on an old game, and not much of a variation at that.

Roulette.

Russian. Fucking. Roulette.

Only one way to win, Sergei had said. Must be lucky.

Voices.

Ksenia said something. Pasha shouted something that was not translated. The Czar said "nyet." Then Ksenia asked a question, also untranslated.

Barishnikov did translate the Czar’s response, however.

"You may refuse your turn if you wish. However, if all three of you refuse to play, all three of you will be killed."

Reuben looked over at Ksenia.

"Sir," he said, to the Czar. "Don’t you think we would have better sport if the lady was not involved? Those two are family, which puts me at a disadvantage. Besides, this is a game for men, is it not?"

The Czar nodded

"Yes, it is a game for men," he said. "But more importantly, it is a game for three players."

"Well perhaps," said Reuben, "one of your men would like to play?" He looked directly at the stork. "Unless they’re too afraid, of course."

The stork laughed nervously.

"You shut up," he said. "You do not decide who plays game."

"Nyet," said the Czar, followed by something else which was not translated. He asked the stork a question. The others laughed. The stork began to look nervously around the room.

He said something in Russian, untranslated, which seemed to indicate that he had decided to play.

"It is decided," said the Czar. "The lady will not participate. She will kindly move to the center, directly here. And you will join the circle of players, there."

The stork stepped into place, hesitantly.

"Now," the Czar continued, "each player will take one shot at one of the other players, it does not matter which. If there is a bullet in the chamber, that is a shot. If there is no bullet, that is also a shot. After taking a shot, the player will pass the weapon to the player to his left. If a player tries to take more than one shot, he will be immediately disqualified."

He gestured towards the bald man and Barishnikov, who were both holding handguns of their own..

"If a player aims his weapon at anyone besides one of the other players, he will also be disqualified. The game will continue until only one player remains. Do you all understand?"

Reuben and Pasha nodded slightly. The stork muttered something, which was taken as acceptance. Once again holding the revolver aloft, the Czar gave the chambers three good turns, so that even the man who loaded the gun would not know what the first shot would be. Ksenia started out of the circle, followed by Boris. The Czar stopped them.

"One more thing," he said. "The lady will choose who goes first."

He handed the revolver to Ksenia and left her standing alone under the light.

Ksenia looked at Pasha, and then at Reuben. She was terrified. Pasha said something to her. He sounded desperate. Reuben looked directly into her eyes.

"It’s okay, Ksenia," he said. "You can do what Pasha says. Or you can give it to me. The whole thing is random, anyway. You can’t control it. Nothing that happens will be your fault."

Barishnikov translated what Reuben said. The stork said something, probably complaining that he was not being considered for the first shot.

Pasha was trembling badly, and weeping. He pleaded with his sister for a moment longer. She looked at Reuben once again and then, trembling herself, handed the gun to Pasha.

"It’s okay," said Reuben.

Ksenia stepped out of the circle and walked to a far corner of the room. From where he stood, Reuben couldn’t tell if she was facing the game or had looked away.

So the three of them were left, forming a triangle around the perimeter of the light. Reuben took a step back, as did the others. They were standing about twelve feet apart. The circle of spectators abruptly dissolved; they all fell in place behind Pasha. Pasha, no longer crying, cradled the gun in his hands. He looked up at the stork for a moment, and then turned toward Reuben. He raised the gun and aimed it at him.

Reuben assessed that if he had had the first shot, he would have taken it at the stork. You have to eliminate the stronger enemy while you have the chance. But there was nothing rational about Pasha’s decision. His face was eaten up with hatred.

He aimed the gun squarely at Reuben’s head. He was still trembling badly. Reuben studied Pasha, trying to keep an eye on every muscle in his face and hands simultaneously. The trick was to move right before the shot was fired. Too long before, and the shooter had time to adjust. And after was, of course, much too late. Still trembling, Pasha lowered his aim to Reuben’s chest. He started to say something to Reuben, still speaking Russian. His voice grew louder as he apparently came to some point.

Three things happened at once. Pasha squeezed the trigger just as his shouting reached a crescendo. But Reuben was already moving, turning away and down in a swift, jerking motion, realizing at the last possible instant that his previous injuries would force him to turn to the left, exposing his right side. The bullet had ripped through his shoulder before anyone heard the shot fired. Reuben was on the floor, hit.

First chamber was loaded, he thought.

He lay on his back, staring up at the light bulb. He was mostly numb. He could feel something hot and wet pooling around his neck. His blood. His shoulder didn’t hurt; he had felt the impact and nothing more. He could hear voices, and a sound he didn’t want to hear coming from Ksenia. And then there was a face looking down at him.

The Czar.

"Can you stand?" The question came from Barishnikov, a few feet away.

The Czar offered his hand, and Reuben took it with his left hand. As soon as he began to pull himself up, there was an incredible wrenching pain in his right shoulder. The room turned red, then purple, and all the sounds of voices were muffled by a roaring like that of a passing train. He was on his feet, somehow, and the noise subsided after a moment.

A man was standing in front of Reuben. He handed him a glass of water. Reuben started to drink it, and gagged. It was vodka. He dropped the glass and vomited on the floor. The man stopped him from falling forward by placing his hand on his left shoulder. The pain returned on the other side, brilliant and exquisite, and Reuben’s mind cleared.

Pasha passed the gun to the stork. The onlookers had already moved to the left, taking their positions behind him. Reuben had an insane thought: it’s like the crowd at a golf tournament.

Reuben shook his head; he had to keep his mind clear. The pain of movement helped. He was certain that the thug would use the same rationale as he had, and go for the stronger enemy. He was surprised when the stork casually aimed at Pasha. And then he realized: he had been twice beaten and once burned; he had consumed a copious amount of liquor; he had just been shot, and lost the use of his presumptive shooting arm; he was vomiting.

He was not the stronger opponent.

As Pasha had initially, the stork aimed directly at his victim’s head. Pasha was whimpering pathetically. Reuben glanced at Ksenia, who had her hands against her face, just below her eyes. She would witness whatever happened. Like Pasha, the stork spoke threateningly to his victim, his voice rising to a screaming climax. Just as he screamed, he shook the hand holding the gun. It was a perfect bluff; Pasha flinched and then tried to dodge as Reuben had done, although it would have been much too late had the stork actually fired.

Then, as Pasha crouched there, his eyes closed and his face clenched in a grimace of horror, the stork fired his shot. It was a perfect hit, blasting a hole in Pasha’s forehead. The young man slumped forward, dead.

Second chamber was loaded, Reuben thought.

There was a general murmur of approval for the stork and his shot. Reuben glanced over at Ksenia, who had dropped to her knees and was moaning, her face buried in her hands.

The Czar walked over and took the gun from the stork, and handed it to Reuben. Then he stepped back. The onlookers dutifully took their place behind him.

Reuben knew that this was his only chance. He raised the gun with his left hand, and aimed squarely at the stork’s chest. He held the gun out with a rock-steady hand for a long time. Half a minute, a minute. He was staring directly at the target, the center of the stork’s chest. Time ticked away. And then, with so little warning that his victim would have no chance to flinch, Reuben squeezed the trigger. There was a loud, hollow clicking sound.

Third chamber was empty, Reuben thought.

There was a sound of sniggering laughter from Boris. Not waiting for a cue, Reuben walked slowly over to the stork, his good arm extended, the gun lying flat in the palm of his hand. The stork reached for the gun. Reuben began to hand it to him and then, in one quick motion, pulled his arm back and clouted the stork with all his strength, the gun making a dull, meaty thud as it smashed into the side of his head. The pain from delivering the blow was incredible; Reuben struggled to stay on his feet. He let the gun fall to the floor.

The stork staggered backward, reeling from the blow. Regaining his balance, Reuben moved in on him and, just as the stork started to steady himself, kicked him hard in the groin. There was some hooting and laughter at this. As the stork doubled forward from the blow, Reuben moved in closer and pulled back his fist to deliver what he hoped would be a finishing to the back of the head.

Just then, the Czar shouted an order, and Barishnikov translated: "Enough!"

Reuben stepped back..

Boris, the bald man, and the Czar approached the stork, who had slumped all the way to the floor and lay there face first, his body jerking spasmodically. Blood ran freely from the side of the head where Reuben had hit him with the gun. It pooled with the substantial puddle that Reuben had left there a while before. Reuben was still bleeding, and he knew that consciousness couldn’t last much longer. He had done what he could to disable the stork before he took his shot at him. But he doubted he had done enough.

It took a while, but they were eventually able to get the stork to his feet. The Czar handed him the gun, and turned to Reuben.

"Perhaps you are not so stupid as we thought. Perhaps you are more interested in staying alive than you are in good sport?"

Reuben nodded.

"That is understandable. But there will be no more of what you did. There is to be no further contact between the players. Do you understand?"

"I understand," said Reuben

"That is good," said the Czar. "if you do find a way to survive, we may have further use for you."

And I for you, thought Reuben.

The Czar and the others cleared out of the way, leaving Reuben facing the stork. He didn’t look good. Reuben had managed to mess up the left side of his head even better than he’d realized. He’d struck the temple, and a huge black and yellow swelling had emerged around the eye, probably blocking his vision. The blood continued to flow, creating big purple blotches on his jacket. Most importantly, he looked wobbly on his feet — as wobbly as Reuben knew that he himself was.

The stork raised his weapon, aimed directly at Reuben’s head. His grip seemed steady. There was no malice to be read in the look on his face. He was either too smart or too dazed to respond emotionally to the beating Reuben had given him. He had the look of a man deep in thought, carefully considering what he had to do. It was hard to say what strategy to use now. The stork would know that his bluff, which had fooled Pasha, would not work on Reuben. On the other hand, Reuben didn’t think the stork would have any readable tells, either. He would never be able to anticipate when the shot was coming.

It was an even match, a push.

The stork held the gun that way for a long time, just as Reuben had done. There was something else happening peripherally: car noises and voices coming from outside, people behind the stork talking, making for the door. On some level, Reuben knew all of this was taking place, but the stork apparently did not. He seemed to have only one level, and it was dedicated to killing Reuben.

Reuben never heard the shot. He saw the flash, and the impact drove him to the floor. Then all was darkness.

Posted by Phil at March 1, 2004 12:00 AM | TrackBack