Part I
This is how the end of the world began.
It was November, 1994. Reuben had been in Moscow for two months.
He was staying at the Hotel International, part of a complex of offices, shops, and restaurants near the parliament building, just a short distance from the Kremlin and the center of the city. The Russian name for the hotel was the "Mezhdanarudnaya," and it was called simply "the Mezh" by English-speaking expatriates. Built for the 1980 Winter Olympic Games, the Mezh was designed to showcase the technological and cultural prowess of the Soviet state to visitors from all over the world. At that time, it had been the jewel in the crown of the Russian hospitality industry. Fourteen years later, very much worse for the wear, the Mezh was dimly lighted, smoke-filled, grimy. The seediness of the place was surpassed only by the seediness of its clientele.
Reuben liked it.
He had learned that the place was an important Chechen hangout. Most evenings, he would stop in at the Café Vienna, one of the better restaurants in the Mezh, where he would dine on "Steaktoast mit salad" or "GulashSoup," as the English version of the menu read, while surrounded by a collection of what he was told were the most dangerous players in the Chechen underground.
These were not the turban-wearing freedom fighters that were to crop up on CNN a year or two later; these fellows were more urbane in an unkempt Russian way. Bad suits. Bad haircuts. They were obviously more comfortable in the city managing drug deals, whores, and protection rackets then they would have been back in the motherland putting it all on the line for the Cause.
Even regular Russian gangsters, Reuben was told, were afraid to set foot inside the Café Vienna. The tough guys from Chechnya were universally feared. This should have stopped him from becoming a regular, but it didn't. Having learned the truth about the place, he found it strangely compelling. Though he had no professional interest in the Café Vienna or its clientele, he had the background and training that instructed him how to behave in such a setting.
It was all about routine. Get your routine down right, and you could hide in plain sight.
You don't interact with anybody. Not because you're afraid, but because you're "shy." You go in almost every night, but not every night, so it doesn't particularly register if you're ever not there. You watch the room without looking at anything, you don't try to make eye contact, but you don't go out of your way to avoid it, either. Once in a while - for breakfast, never for dinner - you bring one of the other suits in with you to emphasize how the Café Vienna is nothing more to you than a place to eat.
Oh, and most importantly, you never stick around too long. Especially when the boys were drinking, which was often.
After a couple of months of measured observation, Reuben had the lay of the land down pretty well. He knew who the players were, and he had a good idea of who reported to whom. The man in charge, whom Reuben had nicknamed (inappropriately enough, he realized) The Czar, was a slim fellow of about 50 who dressed a notch or two better than his men. The Czar made only occasional appearances at the Vienna. He always spoke softly. And he always left early.
The Czar had two Lieutenants, whom Reuben had named Boris Badinov and Mikhail Barishnikov. Under the Lieutenants, there were about a dozen men who made regular or semi-regular appearances at the Vienna. It was hard to get the count exactly right, with new faces arriving and familiar faces failing to re-surface sometimes for weeks on end. Reuben could never be sure when somebody had made his final appearance. Whatever their number, these foot-soldiers were the dangerous ones. They made no secret of the fact that they were armed, and several of them seemed all-to eager for the chance to do something more than just wear their weapons.
And how they did love their vodka.
On more than one occasion — while making a hasty exit designed not look particularly hasty after the festivities got particularly boisterous — it had occurred to Reuben that he was as conspicuously unarmed as these guys were armed. He had returned his 357 Magnum when he left the company, and had not sought a replacement for it. It would not have been easy to get a weapon into Russia. His new employers were not interested in arming him, at least not yet, and he had thus far avoided trying to acquire a new weapon via the extensive black market. He wasn't suffering from withdrawal, and he didn't feel "naked" or any of that nonsense, but he did have a heightened sense of his own vulnerability.
Though he had made some progress in classifying who these guys were, Reuben still had no idea what they were up to. His Russian wasn't that good. He could tell when something was about to happen — a hit? a heist? that he couldn't say — but whatever is was, it was always preceded by at least three consecutive evenings in which the Czar and a set of six to eight men were in attendance. Reuben took this to be the forming of a crew for a specific task. He could also tell when something had happened (usually within a week or so of the last appearance of the Czar and crew) because there would be one or two evenings when nobody would show up: no lieutenants, no soldiers. Nobody. This was probably a laying low or cooling off period. What the point of that was, Reuben couldn't guess. These guys were apparently free to act with impunity.
Still, it was a routine. He could respect that.
All told, he had the players down, and he was beginning to understand their patterns. It was a good start. If he were on, say, an 18-month assignment to infiltrate this bunch, he would have been on schedule. But he wasn't. This wasn't part of his job. It had nothing to do with why he was in Moscow. Old habits die hard, he would tell himself.
Some nights, it was all he could do to keep from writing a report when he got back to his room.
His room was on the twelfth floor of the Mezh. He was just three doors down from a room where, company rumor had it, a WorldConneX employee had been stabbed to death by Russian gangsters two years before. At that time, the company was setting up one of Russia's first cellular phone systems. The business development team quickly learned that the budding crime syndicates were looking for exactly the kind of prestige and flexibility in addressing their business communications needs (as the brochures read) that the new mobile phones offered. Many of the best and brightest from the ranks of these syndicates became what the strategic marketing plan described as early adopters. It was a great business fit — new technology meets new market niche.
The trouble started when WorldConneX began sending out bills for this service.
To be more precise, the problems really started when they went ahead and shut off the service of a few of these early adopters who were wracking up thousands of dollars in charges each month, and who weren't paying for it. In preparing for this job, Reuben had read a lot of background material on WorldConneX, including a number of their business operational manuals. The Standard Policies and Procedures for Customer Service Center Operations (WCX SPP 147: 00 - 283) contained no instructions for what to do when four huge guys come strolling into your customer service center and butt through the line right to the front, where one of them whips out a knife and puts it to the throat of one of the Customer Service representatives and requests that his boss's service be re-connected, immediately.
They just never thought of that.
It turns out, Reuben had learned, that the correct answer is you re-connect the service and from then on you send the guy a zeroed out bill every month. Of course, that was the correct answer. That isn't what they actually did. Things had to get a whole lot uglier before the WorldConneX executives came up with a few of these more, as they call it, "out of the box" management practices.
But none of that had anything to do with what happened to the guy who stayed in the room down the hall from Reuben. No, he was an enterprising sort who had branched his dealings with his mobile telephony customers into various alternative markets. There were any number of money-making deals a guy could get into right then: mail-order-brides, drugs, shady real-estate speculation — the kind where little old ladies met with untimely automobile accidents, leaving apartments in central Moscow ready to be refurbished into luxury condos. No one was sure what the unfortunate fellow from three doors down had gotten himself mixed up in. But whatever it was, it had turned out to be a distinctly bad career move.
For his part, Reuben knew better than to try anything like that. He might dine with these guys nightly, he might conduct unasked-for and totally pointless surveillance of them, but he didn't want to do business with them. That was the primary reason he had not gone looking for a gun. And he had to be extra careful to keep in line with this policy with the one group who was actively soliciting business from him on a daily basis: the ladies.
Coming back from the office each night required walking from the lobby of the office complex into the hotel lobby (the two buildings were connected). At the hotel elevator, there would be a crowd of Russian women, ranging in age from about 16 to roughly 35. Friendly, friendly girls. They all had the same patter: "Hello, Meester." Most of them looked and sounded pretty dead to the whole thing; a few actually seemed to be having fun. These must be the new ones, Reuben decided. Either that, or they were coming from circumstances so desperate, that they would make life as a Mezh hooker seem happy and carefree and fun by comparison. These were circumstances that Reuben didn't care to dwell on.
The girls would offer their wares as the businessmen waited for the elevator. Some really persistent ones would get on the elevator and ride up with them, boldly extolling their own youth and beauty, getting right in somebody's face (Reuben's, often as not) asking him for his name, asking him how he was doing, asking if he was sure — really, really sure — that he didn't want a date for the evening?
The Mezh ladies never got anything more than a sad smile and a shake of the head from Reuben. This was partly a philosophical problem he had with paying for it, partly hygienic concerns, and partly the realization that even a transaction at this level would constitute doing business with the mob.
By and large, Reuben was content with this new life and this new home. Moscow seemed like the right place to be, and the Mezh was a diverting, sometimes even interesting, place to live.
Then one night it got more interesting than he had expected.
Reuben had just drifted off to sleep after a perfectly normal evening. He had come back from the office at six sharp and stopped off at the lobby bar for a quick vodka. He downed the drink in a couple of gulps, not really interested in it (exceptional quality of the vodka notwithstanding), but committed to the ritual of having a drink after work. He would often run into two or three of his fellow expatriate managers at the lobby bar. Such a meeting inevitably led to a more prolonged session of drinking, grousing, and flirting with the cocktail waitresses.
But the bar was almost empty, so there was none of that tonight.
Leaving a few thousand rubles to cover his tab, Reuben went back up to his room and dropped off his briefcase before heading back down to the Vienna for dinner. It was a quiet evening there. A couple foot soldiers came in and sat down in a corner booth, where they proceeded to smoke, drink, and eat in sullen and absolute silence. They weren't joined by any others. After making short work of his schnitzel and potato dumplings, Reuben managed to spend an hour actually reading the book he had brought with him.
Finishing dinner, he made another ritual stop, at the hotel casino. The casino was a small dim room on the second floor. It featured a roulette table, two blackjack tables, and a bank of five slot machines backed by four video poker machines. That was it, except for a tiny bar fronted by three uncomfortable iron barstools.
Reuben visited the casino on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Upon entering, he would immediately dispense with his gambling obligation. This would mean, depending on his mood, anywhere from five to twenty dollars — all gambling was done in US currency — usually lost in a matter of minutes at the roulette table. That duty discharged, he was free to take a seat at the bar and proceed to while away the evening chatting with Vladimir, the bartender, while having a drink or two and, once in a while, one of the exquisite Cuban cigars that Vladimir kept in the humidor behind the bar.
The main attraction at the casino was not the gaming tables, however, nor was it the booze (which could be had more cheaply in the lobby bar, not to mention much more cheaply at any of a number of kiosks less than a hundred yards from the front door of the hotel), nor was it even the cigars, although Reuben was admittedly partial to them. The main attraction, and the reason that Reuben visited the casino on those nights in particular, was Ksenia.
Ksenia was one of the casino's two cocktail waitresses. Perpetually underworked - there was barely sufficient business in the casino for one waitress, much less two — she would spend much of the evening standing at the end of the bar looking hopelessly bored and making the occasional comment in Russian to Vladimir, who would nod, or chuckle, or shake his head as appropriate. Reuben was one of the few people ever to sit at the bar. One evening, after an hour or so of just watching her while downing perhaps one more drink than he realized, he decided to strike up a conversation with her.
"Ah, dobraye vicher," he began. Good evening.
"Zdrasdye," she replied, uncertainly. Hi.
"Ah, let's see… ya Amerikanyetz," he ventured. I'm an American.
Vladimir and Ksenia shared a confused, if slightly amused, glance.
"Da, ya znayoo," she said earnestly. "Ya Ruskaya." Yes, I know. I'm Russian.
"Da, da!" Reuben was suddenly enthusiastic. This was his first attempt to speak Russian, and it was working. "Minnya zavoot Reuben." My name is Reuben.
"Iz vinitye," she answered, excuse me, turning curtly with her tray full of drinks and making for the gaming tables. She returned a moment later and set the empty tray on the bar.
"Ya Ksenia," she said.
"Ochyen priatna, Ksenia," Reuben answered, extending his hand to her. Very pleased to meet you.
She studied his hand for a moment, then glanced at Vladimir. He nodded. She shook his hand briefly and started to turn away.
"Ah, wait, oo vas yest…" Reuben said quickly, trying to keep her attention. "No, that isn't it…"
She turned back to face him.
"Let me think," he said, straining to remember the words.
"Vui…gaveritye…po-Ingliski?" Do you speak English?
"Da. Nyemnogo." Yes. A little.
"Horosho." Thank God. "I'm all out of Russian."
"I speak not much English," she responded, smiling nervously.
"Then maybe we can help each other."
So it began. The three nights a week that Reuben visited the casino, he would practice his Russian on Ksenia, and she would practice her English on him. Their conversations were often halting and awkward. Once and a while Vladimir, who spoke perfect English, would step in to help one or the other of them out.
Ksenia was initially shy, and Reuben thought she might be more than a little intimidated by his foreigness. She was a beautiful young woman. The shyness worked in her favor, as did the fact that the casino dressed its female employees in floor-length black skirts and modest white silk blouses. Juxtaposed with the frank, sometimes downright pushy professional girls in the lobby and on the elevators, she was something of a breath of fresh air.
Over the weeks, he had managed to learn a few things about her. She was 23 years old. She grew up in a little town just outside of Moscow. She had two older brothers: one in the army, one working on his doctorate in Germany. Her younger brother lived in Moscow. Both parents were dead - the mother from cancer, the father either from drinking or suicide. From what she told him, it was hard to be sure. Besides, he knew that the line between those two causes of death could be pretty vague in Russia.
Reuben liked Ksenia. Quite a bit. But he didn't have any particular designs on her. She was just a distraction, like the Chechens in the Café Vienna.
Or maybe a bit more than that. She was human contact, after all. A friend. A pretty face.
But whatever she was, she was not there, in the casino, this particular evening. So Reuben had lost his money, had a quick brandy with Vladimir, and made his way back up to his room for an early lights out.
He awoke with a start to the sound of explosions alarmingly close to the window. Looking up, he could see brilliant flashes of light around the edges of the thick curtain. Although there had been no hint of trouble in the past days' headlines, something serious was apparently coming down. He had heard that a couple of years earlier, WorldConneX employees staying in the same hotel had a perfect vantage point from which to observe passing military convoys and even the exchange of gunfire as the hard-liners stormed the Parliament building and battled it out with the progressives.
That had essentially been the communists' last stand, or at least it was supposed to be.
But what he was hearing now sounded like more action than any of his colleagues had described. There were blasts near his window, but he could also hear them coming from farther off, including a few faint ones indicating that whatever was happening was covering a good piece of the city of Moscow. This was no limited raid on one building.
What the hell?
So he did something stupid, something that violated both his training and common sense. He got out of bed and made his way over to the window.
Anyone with any experience of warfare would know that a window is not a smart place to stand when the flak starts flying. Reuben had no such experience, but he knew better, anyway. Still, he needed to get a better look, so he could determine whether it was time to hide under the bed or start making his way to the U. S. Embassy. He pulled a narrow slit of the curtain back in time for another tremendous boom and brilliant flash of light. As he opened the curtain wider and wider, a scene unfolded before him that he couldn't have expected.
It was a fireworks display.
Actually, it was not just one, it was several fireworks displays. From his twelfth-floor vantage point, he could trace the path of the Moskva river as it wound its way past the Parliament building, on towards the Kremlin and Red Square and into unknown quarters of the great city. The fireworks were being set off at the same time, spaced at regular intervals along, and on either side of, the Moskva river. He could count nine different displays.
Not the outbreak of war at all, which was a tremendous relief, and also perversely disappointing. This was a big celebration, covering the entire city, or at least as much of it as he could see. It seemed kind of late in the evening for fireworks. Reuben didn't check his watch, but his internal clock — reliable again after a prolonged period of jet lag — told him that it was about 11:30.
He watched the rest of the show (it didn't last very long), and then stumbled back to bed wondering what in the name of Mother Russia he had just seen.
Part I
The next morning, Reuben arrived at the office still wondering what the fireworks had been about.
He dropped his briefcase on his desk and made his way to the cramped little kitchen behind the copy room, where a big, serious woman named Ola would prepare the staff's lunch each day. She had not yet arrived. He poured himself a cup of hot water into which he spooned some instant coffee and milk powder. He stirred his coffee and turned his attention to a report he needed to review in anticipation of his 8:30 meeting with a Finnish manufacturer of switching equipment.
He found he wasn't ready to focus on technical detail. He needed food.
Without Ola there, he was free to rummage for something to eat. The Mezh breakfast had been particularly unsatisfactory that day, some kind of hairy salted fish and cheap, smelly red caviar. Reuben had in mind a couple of those chocolate-and-graham-cracker cookies with orange jam inside that the Russian staff liked so much. He was attempting his third drawer in this search when into the kitchen walked Sergei.
"Dobraye utra, Sergei," he said, nodding and wishing him good morning
in his native tongue.
"Good morning, Reuben."
Sergei was a little older than Reuben, but looked ancient. He was a handsome fellow, with big shoulders and once-sandy hair that had gone gray on him a little early. He was painfully thin, and was always neatly and precisely dressed in a suit that was just this side of shabby. It was no secret that he and a couple of the other Russian guys were ex-KGB hired on by WorldConneX' local partners because of their connections and their ability to see to it that things got done. They could run interference both with the government and the mob (assuming there was occasionally a difference.)
As Reuben understood it, Sergei's main task was greasing the skids to ensure that the myriad of licenses and permits required to do anything in Moscow, much less run a phone company, were received and kept up to date. He also suspected that Sergei played some role in seeing to it that the company didn't have to give away too much service to those mid-level gang bosses who tended to send knife-wielding underlings the company's way any time they had a serious bill dispute.
"So you are going to meeting this morning," Sergei said, uttering one of those Slavic inquisitive-declarative sentences which are not really questions, but which serve the purpose adequately. He reached into the middle drawer and produced a box of the very cookies Reuben was looking for out from under some paper napkins.
"Um…thanks," he said, grabbing four cookies from the box. "Yeah, I was just reading over some stuff." He gestured towards the report.
But on to the topic of pressing interest:
"So, Sergei, what did you think of the fireworks last night?"
Sergei returned the box of cookies to the drawer.
"I did not see fireworks."
"What? Were you out of town? How could you possibly have missed them?"
"Well…" he half-smiled. "Perhaps I heard fireworks after all."
Reuben nodded.
"Perhaps you did. What were they about?"
"Twice a year we have such fireworks in Moscow. In November, is Revolution Day. You know this day; you have seen on television parade in Red Square, yes?"
"Sure," said Reuben. "I've seen that. It's quite a show, with the banners flying and the missiles rolling by. Only I thought that was in October."
"No. Many people make this mistake. Seven November is Revolution Day, commemorating October Revolution. It has not been decided whether this will continue to be holiday. Was good holiday for Soviet Union, maybe not so good for Russia."
"But you had the fireworks, anyway."
"Da. Konyeshnye." Yes, of course.
Well, sure. That made sense. You can always decide later when your holidays should be, but let's use those fireworks while we've got them. Why not?
"Other day we have fireworks will not change. Is 12 April; also sometimes 9 March."
Reuben wracked his brain, trying to think of what those could be.
"Lenin's birthday?" he guessed.
"No, I think we will no longer have fireworks on that day, which is 22 April. You don't know these dates?
Reuben tried to think what they might be. Something to do with World War II?
"Maybe they have fireworks on 20 July in US?" Sergei prodded. "Or on birthday of your…Neil Armstrong?"
Ah. So that was it. The first man in space.
"So Sergei, you're telling me that they have fireworks to commemorate Yuri Gagarin's first space flight."
"Da. Nine March is birthday; 12 April is anniversary of flight. Sometimes in March, but always in April, we have fireworks."
"We don't do anything like that for our astronauts, I'm afraid. So Gagarin is still very much revered, isn't he?"
Something changed in Sergei's expression; he stared hard at Reuben. His eyes were moist and his voice trembled just ever so slightly when he answered.
"Da. Yes. He was good man, Reuben. Good Russian. He was very good man."
His voice cracked as he spoke. He turned suddenly away to pour the water for his tea. Reuben was astounded, not so much that Sergei had strong feelings about Gagarin, but that he had such feelings about anyone or anything.
That just didn't fit the profile.
He wondered - could Sergei have known Gagarin? He studied the back of his head. That would make him somewhat older than Reuben had taken him for. But even if so, this display of feelings was all wrong.
Reuben took a sip of his coffee and munched one of the cookies while he pondered whether it was appropriate to leave Sergei with his deep feelings and wander off as though nothing had happened. He was leaning heavily towards doing just that when Sergei turned back, tea in hand, with all trace of the previous moment's exchange gone from his face.
"You should know Yuri Gagarin, Reuben. All Americans, all peoples, should know. What you know of him?"
"I know a little. He was a cosmonaut, the first man in space. Before that he was an air force pilot. He died a few years after his space flight when he crashed his MiG on a routine training flight. "
Sergei smiled. Reuben sensed that he had handled the question better than expected.
"Da, those are facts. Essential facts. But you should know more. It would help you. To understand more."
"Help me?"
"In your work, Reuben."
He took a long sip from his tea. The emphasis on the word was unmistakable.
"My marketing work, you mean?"
Sergei let out a little snort, then treated Reuben to a look of abject perplexity
"Is there other work? What other work? You are head of Special Projects for WorldConneX Russian International Business Unit? Da?"
His tone and manner had shifted. For an instant, Reuben could picture this guy doing a real Cold War style interrogation.
"Da. That's what they tell me."
"So what other work I could possibly mean?"
Reuben didn't know how much Sergei knew about his actual job. He probably had a few suspicions, which there was no point in supporting or worse yet, confirming. He decided it was best to deflect the question.
"Oh, you know. I have some other projects. I've been perfecting my roulette system in the casino. And I've been trying to master a technique for hitting on the Russian ladies."
Sergei laughed.
"Okay, Reuben, we take it one at a time."
The Russian cop was gone, the jovial colleague was back.
"Roulette I know from visit to Monte Carlo, long time ago. I have friend, we both play roulette. His system is bet red. Always bet red."
"Another good Russian."
Sergei nodded.
"Da. Good Russian. He always bet red, he win every time."
"So you're saying that I should just bet red on every spin?"
"Not so simple. Every time I bet red, also. But I don't win every time."
"How can that be? You and he were betting on the same spins of the wheel?"
"Ah. Now we come to point. When I bet on red with friend, I win. When I bet on red without friend, I don't win. I win sometimes, maybe. Sometimes red, sometimes black, sometimes zero. Only one zero on French roulette wheel, but ball land on zero many times when friend is not there."
"Huh. That's not good. And you know, these Russian casinos use an American wheel."
"I know this. Two zeroes. So how to win without winning system?"
"So you're saying that the winning system in roulette is to be with your friend?"
"Nyet. No, Reuben. You must understand. There is only one winning system in roulette."
"And that is?"
"Must be lucky."
Both men took a sip from their cups. Reuben took another bite of cookie and thought about this. Sergei eyed him for a moment and then spoke again.
"Are you lucky, Reuben?"
"That," he answered, swallowing a bite of cookie, "I just don't know. But I'd like to be. Maybe that's what I need to help me with my other project."
"Russian women."
"Right."
"Here I can help you little bit, maybe. But first I ask question. What it means when you say you want to 'hit' woman? Why you would do this? I can not help you with that."
The tone was scolding.
"Go back to U.S., hit American woman. No. Don't. Don't hit woman. Why you ask me this?"
"Sorry, Sergei." Reuben played along. Sergei had surely known what he meant. "I would never hit a woman.
"Well, I would never hit a lady," he amended. "Anyway, I don't want to hit anybody. 'Hit on' is just American slang for picking a woman up. You know, trying to get lucky. "
"I see - hit on. A most unfortunate expression. Sometimes is hard to tell, what is hit, what is hit on. Also, what is woman, what is lady, da? But never mind. You answer your own question. Just like roulette table, you want to be lucky."
"So luck is the answer to everything."
"I think no. With woman, you must be more than lucky. Must be very careful. Anyway, get lucky, that is American expression again, yes? It means the girl talk to you. She like you. Maybe she come back to hotel room with you. No?"
"No. I mean, yes. I guess. Well, to be precise, I think you'd say the whole lucky part kicks in sometime after you get her to the hotel room. But, yeah, close enough.'"
"So you tell me, Reuben. Is get lucky what you want to do with Ksenia?"
Touché.
Reuben knew he had to answer quickly.
"Now, Sergei. She's just a kid, after all."
He had never mentioned Ksenia to Sergei, or to anyone else at the office. He had made a point of it.
"She is kid, you think? Looks plenty grown up to me."
His tone and expression had not changed. Just two guys talking about a girl.
"You're right. She's an adult."
He snorted again. Then he slowly shook his head with his eyes cast upward, a patient man sent beyond his limits by this American and his nonsense.
"Everything must be so complicated with you, da? She is kid; she is adult; she is lady; she is woman."
"Well, Christ, everything is complicated, Sergei. Ksenia and I are friends, that's all. I've thought about asking her out, but I don't know if it's a good idea."
"Not good for you or not good for her?"
"Either one. For me, I've got to get used to being single again."
Reuben suddenly wondered whether Sergei was keeping tabs just on his life now, here in Moscow, or whether he had access to his past.
"I see. Forgive me, Reuben, but how long it has been since you separated from, who, girlfriend? Wife?"
"My wife. She passed away two years ago."
Closer to three years now, he realized.
Sergei exhaled, sharply. So he didn't know. Or if he was acting, he was doing it very well.
Reuben didn't handle sympathy well, and he didn't handle pity, period. Sergei spared him both. He could see genuine pain in the older man's face. The guy seemed pretty sensitive for ex-KGB. He had obviously endured his own loss or losses somewhere along the line.
Gagarin? No, that was ridiculous. It had to be something else.
"I'm very sorry, Reuben."
"Yeah. Thanks."
"Yes," Sergei sighed. "Is very hard. People tell you, two years is long enough. Is time to start new. They say this to you, da?"
"All the time."
"Again I am sorry. I do not say such things. It is foolish."
"Well. They mean well, after all."
"Da."
There was a long, long pause, as Sergei and Reuben stared off into the near distance and contemplated the countless horrors wrought upon this world by those who mean well.
Or at least Reuben did.
"Then you must also tell me, Reuben," Sergei said after a while. "Why is bad for Ksenia if you try to hit on her?"
That question broke the mood, to their mutual relief. It also reminded Reuben that he was in Moscow talking to, not a close lifelong friend, but a stranger - a man he knew hardly at all, except that he was, like Reuben himself, an agent. An operative. Let's face it, a spy. And not just any spy, but one who - as the saying goes - knew too much.
That needed attending to.
"Oh, it's not bad for her, I guess. We might have some fun. But we'd be
coming at this thing from awfully different points of reference. I just wouldn't
want her to get hurt."
"I see. You don't want to hurt girl. That is ochyen dobri, Reuben. Very
kind."
"If you say so. Or maybe I just don't like feeling guilty."
"Why you would feel guilty?"
"Well, say we go out a few times, have some fun, everything is okay. And then she wants to take it up a notch. Tangle things up a little."
"Tangle how?"
"Well, say she wants to take me home to meet her parents?"
Sergei didn't show any sign indicating that he knew this scenario to be impossible.
"So you meet them."
Reuben shook his head.
"No thanks. Besides, you don't think they'd have a problem with me?"
Sergei pondered this.
"Because you are, pardon me, black man? Da. Yes. They might have problem, might not have problem. Is also the case for you with white girl in America, da?"
"I wouldn't know, actually. I've never gone out with a white girl."
"So? Maybe Russia is good place to try something new. Besides, if they have this problem, is no cause for you to feel guilty. For them maybe, not you."
"No, not about that. I suppose I could. Meet her parents, whatever. But you see what I'm getting at. A girl like Ksenia - she's looking to meet somebody, you know what I mean? Meet somebody. I've heard some stories from the guys I work with. Some of the local girls can get pretty attached to expat guys pretty fast. Ksenia's just asking to have her heart broken."
"You are right," Sergei responded, a little of the slyness beginning to work its way back in. "You are right, she is asking. So why you are refusing?"
"What?"
"It makes no sense to feel guilty, if the girl ask you. If she say 'Break my heart, please' and you refuse, then you feel guilty. Because you don't give her what she want. But do not disappoint girl, even girl who wants broken heart."
Reuben laughed.
"I like that, Sergei. It's really twisted."
"You don't like my advice; you don't have to take it." He drained his tea and put the cup down.
"Well, maybe I'll take your advice after all. I mean about trying something new, not about breaking any hearts. But where should I take her?"
"You have been to ballet?" Sergei asked. "She would like that, I am sure."
"No, I haven't been. But that's a bad idea, Sergei. Too romantic. We want something more…neutral…" The sentence trailed off as Reuben considered his options.
"Neutral?" Sergei looked perplexed. "Take her to Art Museum. They are showing Chagal; my wife asks me to take her. Women like this."
"Hmm, that's not bad," said Reuben. "The Art Museum sounds pretty good, but I'm not so sure about Chagal. Still too romantic, I think."
"Is just pictures," Sergei protested. "How neutral this place has to be?"
They both paused for a moment, considering neutral venues.
"Take her with you when you go to buy snow boots," said Sergie. "That is not so romantic."
"Don't be a wise guy. Actually…you've given me an idea. I've been meaning to find my way over to the space museum. Maybe I'll go this weekend. I guess I could learn something about Yuri Gagarin there."
"Yes. Is good idea."
"So, maybe I'll see if Ksenia wants to go with me."
Sergei laughed, and nodded approvingly.
"Ha. You will never break her heart if you take her to such a place."
"That's the idea, right? But let me ask you something: who told you about Ksenia?"
"I'm sorry Reuben, forgive me," he said, turning towards the door, "I believe you are late for meeting."
Reuben glanced at his watch. Sergei was right.
He was late.
Part I
A clear November afternoon in Moscow was a rarity. To have one fall on a Saturday struck Reuben as a lucky break, one that he doubted would last. Clouds were gathering and the brisk wind, which had begun as the faintest breeze, was gaining momentum as the day progressed. He set out from the Mezh and crossed the Moskva river on foot, making his way to the Hotel Ukraina.
Reuben liked the Ukraina. It was a product of the Stalin era: massive and powerful. It looked like a cross between the Empire state building and a medieval castle, much more interesting than the glass-and steel Mezh.
It was a short walk, not ten minutes from one hotel lobby to the other. He found the main lobby and, glancing at his watch, took a seat in a red leather armchair. He was five minutes early.
The place was almost empty; he noted that it was bigger, better lighted, and much cleaner than the lobby of the Mezh. He wondered what the guest rooms looked like — maybe it was time for a change of scenery. He could think of only one thing he would miss at the Mezh.
And there she was.
Ksenia had been there all the time, but he had not immediately recognized her in her heavy coat and red wool cap. She had not seen him, either. She was sitting on a sofa in the corner, next to a young man of about her own age. He was obviously another Russian — dark curly hair and a lean Slavic face. He was dressed in a long brown coat made of unconvincing fake leather The two of them were having what appeared to be a serious conversation in hushed tones.
He got up and strode over to the other side of the lobby to greet them. The young guy saw him first and nudged Ksenia, who smiled in recognition. They both stood up.
"Hi, Ksenia," said Reuben. "Dobraye Din."
"Hello, Reuben," she offered her hand in greeting. "Good day," she added, translating his Russian for him.
If this was a date, he thought, shaking her hand, it was getting off to a slow start.
"I’m really glad you were able to make it."
"I am glad for invitation. Reuben, may I present my brother, Pavel Victorvich Teremov. Pasha, this is my friend Mr. Reuben Stone, from the United States of America."
"How do you do, Pavel." He extended his hand to the younger man, who smiled and took it enthusiastically.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Stone." He shook Reuben’s hand vigorously. "Please to call me Pasha if you like. You are Ksenia’s friend, you are my friend."
"Pasha it is. And you must please call me Reuben, or I’ll feel like an old man."
"Okay, Reuben," he laughed, enjoying the unusual name.
"Pasha has said that he will be so kind as to drive us to museum. It will be long ride on the Metro, so we are lucky to have driver."
"That’s great, Pasha. Thank you."
"Come. If you will wait in front, I will bring car."
They proceeded out the front door of the hotel, where Pasha left them to retrieve the car.
"So," said Reuben. "You look very pretty today."
"Oh," Ksenia said, looking away. "Thank you."
In fact, she looked quite a bit different in daylight and wearing something other than the uniform in which he had seen her at least a dozen times. Her face was flushed, both with the cold and maybe with a little embarrassment. Reuben liked the change. She was more real now, somehow. She turned back to face him and smiled. She seemed nervous. That was normal. They had always been awkward around each other.
"Anyway," he continued, "I wasn’t expecting you to bring your brother. Is he the reason you wanted me to walk over here today?"
"Yes," she answered. "Is little bit easier for Pasha to drive from here. But I had other reason."
"Oh?"
"Is not important. But I am not allowed — no, ‘allowed’ is not right word — I am…" she clapped her gloved hands together, struggling to find the right word, "I am almost not allowed to be friend with hotel guest."
"Ah, I see. ‘Almost not allowed.’ You mean the hotel discourages you from socializing with the guests."
"Yes, that is it. Discourage."
"Well, I hope you’re not risking getting into any trouble."
She smiled. "We go from here, is no risk. Is no risk, in any case. Just, as you say, discourage…they discourage."
"What about Vladimir? He heard me ask you and he heard you accept. Do you think he’ll tell anyone?"
Ksenia considered this.
"I don’t think so. Vladimir said I should go after first time you ask. He likes you. He said you are okay for…for American man."
She quickly looked away again, once again embarrassed. Reuben couldn’t help but wonder whether she had edited out some racial overtones to Vladimir’s comment.
"That’s good. I’m glad he’s on our side."
"Yes," she answered, turning back to him. "And he is only one who knows."
That, of course, was not entirely true. The other person who knew, perhaps not that they were together today, but that he had taken a social interest in Ksenia, was Sergei.
Reuben suspected that Sergei had let Reuben know that he was being watched as some kind of warning. It was not made explicit what he was being warned about, but an obvious candidate was his nightly routine at the Café Vienna. Maybe his regular presence there was needlessly raising his profile. Going there served no purpose whatsoever, it was a pointless indulgence. Reuben had decided to phase it out.
Pasha arrived, driving a tan Lada that appeared to be in fairly good shape, which was itself something of a rare sight. Reuben was not sure what the seating protocol should be. Should he and Ksenia sit together in the back set, taxi-style? Or should somebody ride in the front seat with Pasha? It depended on whether Pasha was the chaperon, the chauffeur, or just the annoying fifth wheel.
Ah, to hell with it, he thought. He opened the back seat door for Ksenia, and then followed her in. This was the arrangement he preferred. If it was rude, it was no more rude than bringing your brother along uninvited.
He needn’t have worried. This seemed to be the seating plan that everyone was expecting.
"Okay!" said Pasha, enthusiastically. "Now we go to cosmonaut museum. Reuben, you have been before?" He drove the car out of the hotel parking lot and into Moscow traffic.
"No, it’s my first time."
"Oh. You will like this. I go when I was in school. All Russian children go."
"Really," Reuben said, turning to Ksenia. "You mean you’ve been there before?"
"Yes. When I was maybe seven, maybe eight years old."
"And you want to go back?"
She shrugged.
"Is interesting place," she said, "And there are two museums, not one. One is Museum of Cosmonautics—this is where everyone goes when they are in school—and the other is Cosmos Pavilion at the VDNKh."
"What’s the VD…KNH?"
"VDNKh. It is the Exhibition of Economical Achievements. One of the exhibits is the Cosmos Pavilion. And you may wish to look at some of the others."
"So we’ll go to the Museum of Cosmonautics first?" Reuben liked the sound of the Cosmos Pavilion.
"Yes," Pasha answered, smiling once again. "Is easier to go there first, then to Pavilion. Is little bit of walking, if you don’t mind."
"Not at all," said Reuben. "It’s a nice day for a walk. And I can really use the exercise."
The drive took about half an hour. The time passed quickly, with Reuben fielding numerous questions from Pasha about life in the US. A couple of times during the course of the drive, Pasha took a call on his mobile phone, which Reuben recognized as one of the brands supported by the WorldConneX system. He wondered what line of work this young fellow might be pursuing, to be driving such a clean car and carrying a status-symbol telephone known to be a favorite of pimps and drug dealers. The kid was definitely mixed up in something, it was just a question of what.
After a while, Pasha pulled over to the side of the road.
"Okay!" he said, turning to face them with a grin, his enthusiasm back in full force. "I leave you here now and you walk to Museum. Is not far from here. Excuse me for now, I have…appointment."
"Well, thank you very much for driving us, Pasha. It was nice meeting you." Reuben extended his hand.
Pasha didn’t take it.
"Oh, no," he said quickly. "I see you later and drive you back.. Is now," he glanced at his watch, "half past one. I meet you in front of Cosmos Pavilion at six."
Ksenia said something in Russian. Reuben recognized the word zdyes, here. Pasha seemed to disagree with whatever she had said.
"Ah, should we just meet you here at six and save you the walk?" Reuben asked.
"No, no," Pasha said, suddenly displaying the severity that had been previously reserved for his Russian exchanges with Ksenia. His smile was gone. "Is already decided. I meet you there."
This was neither an invitation nor a request.
Suddenly seeming to remember himself, he smiled again.
"Okay?" he said.
Reuben looked at Ksenia, who shrugged.
"Sure," he said. "If you really don’t mind, that will be fine."
"I don’t mind. Then maybe I take you both for dinner, yes?"
This day was not shaping up at all as Reuben had planned. But what choice did he have?
"That sounds great, Pasha."
They both climbed out of the car. Pasha drove on.
"Well," said Reuben, getting his bearings. "I guess we’re heading towards that thing." He gestured towards a gleaming tower a short distance from where they stood.
"Yes," said Ksenia. "Reuben, I am sorry for Pasha. Sometimes he also…discourages me." She looked puzzled. "But only sometimes. He also helps. Was kind of him to drive us."
Reuben nodded.
"He just wants to watch out for his sister. There’s nothing wrong with that."
"Come," she said, taking Reuben’s hand with a smile "I show you ‘that thing’."
That thing was the Space Obelisk, a shining metal tower standing about 300 feet tall. It’s shape was that of a plume of exhaust streaming out of an ascending rocket. Something about the curve of the tower as it swept both in and upward suggested tremendous velocity. At the top of the tower stood a stylized replica of a rocket.
"This is Alley of Cosmonauts," said Ksenia, pointing out the statuary that lined either side of the walkway leading to the tower. These were not full statues, but busts of the cosmonauts mounted on pedestals.
Reuben studied the faces of the cosmonauts as they passed. There was Gagarin, looking very somber. A little further down, they came upon Valentina Tereshkova.
"Hey," said Reuben. "She’s kind of pretty."
"So? You think everybody is pretty."
Reuben smiled.
"That is patently not true. But I always heard that that first woman you guys sent into space was kind of…well, butch I guess. It must have been Cold War propaganda. I mean, look at her; she’s lovely."
"They make statue to flatter, not to tell truth. However, she was very brave."
He studied the bust for another moment.
"You’re right about that. I guess brave is more important than pretty, isn’t it?"
Ksenia shrugged.
"Is more important for cosmonaut, anyway," she said.
"Anyhow, I don’t think that everybody is pretty. Just you. You and the first woman in space."
They pressed on to the museum, which stood at the base of the obelisk. Reuben paid the admission, a paltry 100 rubles, and in they went. He could see at once that there wasn’t much to the place. It was a single room, with just a smattering of memorabilia. There were replicas of the first Sputniks and other satellites, two scaled down space capsules, and two full-size replicas of the heroic Russian dogs who had given their lives to the exploration of space. Next to the dogs were their absurd-looking pressurized dog space suits.
Within half an hour, they had seen everything there was to see at least once. Reuben thought that Ksenia was woefully unimpressed by the significance of the Sputnik display. But then again, most people were. She was considerably more interested in the dog space suits and a blown glass sculpture of the Zodiac characters that ran along the far wall, but even these got old pretty quick. Reuben could sense that Ksenia was growing bored of the whole thing, and he couldn’t blame her.
"Well, what do you think?" he asked her. "Should we see if we can find this VDNKh?"
"If you like," she said, cheerfully enough.
As soon as they stepped out of the museum, Reuben knew that he had been right to suspect that the weather wouldn’t last. It was noticeably colder, now, and completely overcast. The wind had picked up, too, and was beginning to spit a few tiny snowflakes.
They started out across the plaza that led to the entrance to the Exhibition of Economical Exhibits.
"Sorry to take you out on a day like this," he said.
"Why? Is normal." She gestured at the sky.
"You don’t mind going out for a walk in the snow?"
She gave him a look of tolerant pity.
"Poor Reuben. Is not snow, today," she said. "Not yet. Soon we will see snow, real snow, and then you will ask who does not mind to go for walk."
"Meaning I won’t want to? Hey, I love snow."
She looked at him skeptically.
The VDNKh had a certain fading grandiosity to it. There were arches and columns everywhere, though many of the structures were crumbling or needed paint. Most of the buildings were boarded shut. A few that were not had been converted into small shops selling the ubiquitous matroshka dolls or other Russian souvenirs. Reuben could see stacks of toilet paper and dish washing soap in some of the windows. One particularly impressive building boasted a display of power lawnmowers. Walking past the open front of the pavilion, Reuben could see inside that there were rows of washing machines and dryers.
"I thought this place would be like the World’s Fair or something," he said. "It’s nothing but an enormous K-Mart."
Ksenia didn’t ask.
They stopped at a kiosk and had shish-kebabs. Reuben wanted to be close to the wood fire as much as he wanted the food. He was freezing.
Ksenia made short work of her kebab.
"Now we have ice cream," she said.
"Ice cream?"
"Is Russian tradition to have on cold winter day. Even on nice autumn day like this, is good. Will warm you up, Reuben. Come, I buy for you."
"Da," said Reuben, "Konyeshnye." Yes, of course.
After finishing their ice cream, they walked on past a fountain, not working, which was encircled by a ring of golden statues of girls holding hands. Ksenia explained that each of the girls, displaying a particular ethnicity, and dressed to match, represented one of the nations of the Soviet Union.
"This shows friendship forever of the nations," she explained.
"It’s pretty," said Reuben, stopping to take a longer look.
"For once you are right to use this word."
"I’ve been right more than once. Too bad about the nations, though."
"Yes, it’s a pity."
Reuben looked around him. He had never heard 700 years of Russian history summed up so succinctly: it’s a pity.
It certainly was.
They continued on their way. The snow, which Ksenia had not deemed worthy of the name, had grown much heavier, and was now mixed with rain. Turning a corner, Reuben could see what had to be the Cosmos Pavilion directly in front of them. In front of the building stood an enormous Vostock rocket. Reuben couldn’t tell if this was a full-scale model, or the shell of a real rocket which had never been used. It was flanked on either side by Aeroflot jetliners.
From this distance, it was impossible to see whether the building was open, or boarded shut as so many others had been. There were no kiosks out front. Nobody was selling cigarettes or Vodka or Snickers bars.
As they got closer, Reuben could see that the door of the pavilion was, in fact, open. There were people going in and out. They reached the front door, stepped inside, and saw what use had been made of this temple to the Russian conquest of space.
It was a car showroom.
All makes, all models, everything American or European, with a few Japanese. There was no place for even a clean Lada like Pasha’s, here. Just big Mercedes, Cadillacs, Volvos, even a pair of bright red Corvettes.
"Ochyen krasivi," said Ksenia, under her breath. Very beautiful. Reuben had to admit, the cars did look remarkably clean and new, especially in the midst of so much decay.
The place was crowded, although Reuben suspected that most of the people there were just having a look. The main hall of the pavilion was a long hallway. It was the car showroom, but beyond it, in a circular atrium with an even higher domed glass ceiling, it looked like there were still a few space exhibits.
Reuben left Ksenia to admire the cars while he had a look.
There were several panes of glass missing from the Atrium ceiling, and Reuben realized that he had to be careful where he stood as he admired the old space capsules, or he would get dripped on. He spent a few minutes looking at the displays. There was a full-scale model of the 1975 Apollo-Soyuz linkup. There were also replicas of the Russian Mars and Venus landers, plus several of the earlier Russian space capsules. These looked to Reuben like huge cannonballs with hatches.
Reuben noticed a false wall blocking off a portion of the atrium. Behind the wall, he could see parts of other satellites and spacecraft sticking out. They had apparently been pushed aside to make room for the cars.
On the far wall was an enormous photo portrait of Yuri Gagarin. Gagarin was crisply dressed in his military uniform. He was smiling, looking much happier than his bust back on the Alley of the Cosmonauts.
This was what Sergei had sent him to see, Reuben realized. He walked over to take a closer look.
This young man, hero to his nation, admired by all the world. In the moment the photo had captured, obviously some time shortly after his historic flight, he was beaming, on top of the world. A snow-white dove had been released just in front of him, and its spread wings made the perfect emblem for his chest.
Yuri and a dove: it was a ten-thousandth of a second of time, captured and preserved on the far wall of the Cosmos Pavilion.
Reuben stood there and studied the photo for a long moment. He didn’t know what he was supposed to see.
The he realized that he was no longer alone. Ksenia had joined him, and was also silently studying the portrait.
"I am sorry, Reuben," she said after a while. "I am sorry that you find museum in such condition."
Reuben shrugged.
"This is what life in Russia is," he said. "What life is."
"Da," she answered.
They stood that way for a long moment.
"How did you like the cars?" he asked at last.
"Cars were okay. Were — how you would say it? — pretty."
Reuben smiled at her.
"I see you’re learning."
"Yes, from you I learn how to say that everything is pretty."
"Well, you said you wanted to improve your English."
"Oh, is good English to call everything by same word. Now I know."
On a sudden impulse, he took her other hand and pulled her close to him. She turned her face up towards his.
"You need to ease up on the attitude," he said. "Besides, I don’t think everything is pretty."
"Oh, no? So tell me — what is one thing that you don’t think is pretty?"
"Well…" Reuben looked around. "That," he said, gesturing at one of the space capsules, "is not too pretty."
She looked at it.
"No," she said, turning back to him. "Is not pretty."
"So you see?" he said.
Not impulsively, but as naturally as anything could be, he bent down and kissed her. Her mouth was soft and warm. Her response was not one of surprise, and all traces of shyness or awkwardness were gone.
She drew back after a moment, and then looked at him, smiling.
"I do see," she said softly. She drew in close, this time taking the initiative.
She kissed him with a certain eagerness, perhaps curiosity, and Reuben sensed a passion he had not guessed at. She pulled away abruptly, apparently realizing that she was committing an impropriety.
The shyness returns, thought Reuben. He knew that taboos against public displays of affection are hard to shake off, but still. This wasn’t much of a public place; they were all alone in the atrium.
"Hello!"
The voice from behind explained everything. Reuben turned around and saw Pasha, more than two hours early and looking more cheerful than ever.
Part I
"Hello," Pasha said again. He approached them. Cheerful as ever, but the smile looked strained.
"Hello, Reuben; hello, Ksenia. Excuse me, please, I do not mean to interrupt."
Ksenia stepped just a little to one side, and let go of Reuben’s hands.
"Not at all," Reuben said. "We weren’t expecting you so soon."
"Yes, I see that." Pasha eyed his sister. His smile looked even more strained.
"I finish my work sooner than expected. I hope you have enjoyed museums?"
"I did. But I think it was all pretty boring for Ksenia."
"No, no," she protested. She met her brother’s eyes for a moment and looked away.
Pasha laughed, not in a pleasant way.
"You see?" he said. "Not so bored. Ksenia is good at finding something to do."
No one said anything for a moment. Pasha looked at them both, still smiling, but abandoning any pretense of being cheerful or good-natured. Instead, he seemed tremendously satisfied, as though coming upon them as he did proved something, or gave him some advantage. His eyes were hard and cold.
Ksenia broke the silence.
"What shall we do now?" she said. Her tone was lighthearted.
"We go now," Pasha answered. "Too early for dinner, so I take you for drink. Yes, Reuben?"
Reuben was inclined to say no, but he wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Ksenia just yet.
"Sounds good," he said. "Where shall we go?"
"I know good place, not far from here." He turned to Ksenia. "Come, it will be good time with our American friend, no?"
Ksenia once again took Reuben’s hand.
"Yes, Pasha," she said. "It will be good time."
They made their way out of the Cosmos Pavilion and into what was now, by anyone’s definition, a full-blown snow shower.
"So Reuben," said Pasha, "how you like this weather in Moscow?"
"I was just telling Ksenia how much I love snow."
"Yes? There is good skiing in US. Do you ski?"
"A little. I used to live in Denver, near some excellent skiing."
Pasha slowed down, apparently taking a keen interest in this answer.
"WorldConneX is in Denver, yes? What you do at WorldConneX?"
"I’m in marketing. I manage several projects." Reuben recognized an opening. "What about you, Pasha? Where do you work?"
Pasha eyed his sister again.
"Ksenia did not tell you?" he asked.
"No, she never mentioned it."
He stopped and looked at her. She met his gaze with some defiance.
Pasha turned back to Reuben.
"I work at Mezh Hotel, same as Ksenia. I found job for her at Fortuna Casino."
"But you don’t work in the casino, do you? I’ve never seen you there."
Pasha glanced Ksenia’s way once again, but whatever it was he was looking for, he wasn’t finding it.
"Oh, no. Not in Casino."
"So what do you do?"
Pasha considered this question for a moment, and then laughed the unpleasant laugh again.
"I also manage some different projects. Is nice to be business man, no?"
Reuben shrugged.
"Sure," he said.
They continued walking, past the fountain with the golden girls and back towards the Space Obelisk. Reuben noted that the crowd at the VDNKh had grown throughout the course of the afternoon. A row of makeshift kiosks was being set up along the walkway leading out of (or into) the exhibition. The place was turning into a small flea market, with men and women setting out clothing, trinkets, and books. Many of the kiosks were not much more than card tables containing a box or two of clearly pirated audio cassettes, with a ghetto blaster providing a sample of the available merchandise. Almost all of the music was Russian.
They passed a girl of about 15 holding a up a white kitten. Next to her stood a boy of eight or nine with his small arms wrapped around an unwieldy cardboard box. Reuben remembered seeing something like this in front of the Kievskaya train station a few days before. That time it had been just one person, a middle-aged woman, holding up a puppy with a covered box on the sidewalk in front of her.
"What are they doing?" he asked.
Pasha ignored the question.
"They look for…home for cats," Ksenia answered. "Who will take a cat?"
"I see," said Reuben. "Where do they get them?"
Ksenia glanced at Reuben, not sure whether he was joking. She treated him to a reprise of the look of sympathetic condescension that she had offered earlier on the subject of snow.
"In Russia, we get little cats from big cats," she said.
Pasha said something to Ksenia in Russian. They both laughed. The mood lightened.
They proceeded out of the VDNKh, past the Space Obelisk, and back to the approximate place where Pasha had dropped them earlier.
"Wait here; I come back with car," said Pasha, and continued up the street on foot.
"So," Reuben said, guiding Ksenia a couple of steps back from the edge of the street. "I think I get it. The kids we saw have a cat at home who gave birth to a litter of kittens. They’ve weaned the kittens and are now here giving them to anyone who will take them."
"Yes, Reuben. I am sorry. I don’t mean to joke at you."
"Don’t worry," he said. "I’m just glad that Pasha cheered up."
"Yes. Again, I am sorry."
"Never mind that," he said. "But he did pick a hell of a time to re-appear, didn’t he?"
Ksenia smiled.
"Yes. Next time, we go without Pasha." She stepped back a little. "But today we will try to keep him ‘cheered up," okay?"
"Okay," he said. "But I hope I get to see you again soon."
She nodded.
The Lada appeared at the curb. Reuben and Ksenia climbed in.
The drive along Prospekt Mira (Peace Avenue, Ksenia told Reuben) and towards Pasha’s undisclosed "good place" was much like the earlier trip. Pasha was affable and talkative, as before. Ksenia seemed to be paying close attention to where they were going, although this time the two of them did not confer on the subject. It was a meandering route, quickly straying from the main street into a run-down, industrial section of the city. The streets narrowed; on either side of them loomed low edifices of brown and gray, many without windows.
At length, they arrived at a crumbling four-story building that sat a little way off the street. Between the street and the building was a yard enclosed by a chain-link fence. Within the perimeter of the fence, there were several mounds that Reuben assumed were pieces of machinery or piles of construction materials. But he couldn’t be sure, because they were carefully covered with tarps, which were by now mostly covered with snow.
Pasha drove the Lada to the gate and flashed his headlights. A moment later, a hulk of a man appeared wearing a shabby black coat and fur hat. He stared at the car for a moment and, registering some minimal recognition, proceeded to open the gate.
Ksenia said something in Russian. Whatever it was, Pasha ignored it. He drove them into the yard and stopped the car not far from what appeared to be the building’s back door. Reuben noted that there were a few other cars parked there, most of them foreign models.
"All right," he said cheerfully enough, switching off the ignition. "Here we are."
"Great, Pasha," said Reuben. "But where exactly are we?"
Pasha looked at the building and seemed to think about his answer for a moment.
"Is club," he finally said. "Is private club."
"Reuben," said Ksenia, "we do not go here if you don’t want to go. Pasha will take us where we like." Her eyes met those of her brother, and this time there was no mistaking her look of defiance. Pasha looked away.
Reuben admired Ksenia’s strength, but he doubted what she said was true. Glancing up at the rear view mirror, he could see that the giant had already closed the gate behind them. And he had been joined by two others, beefy guys of about the same size. One of them held a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag.
In this light and with the snow, it was hard to be sure, but Reuben suddenly had a very strong suspicion.
"Thanks, Ksenia," he said. "Pasha, if you don’t mind, I think I would prefer not to visit your club today. Could we go someplace else, maybe back to the Ukraina? I’d like to try the bar there."
"Yes," said Pasha, "of course. We go back to Ukraina and try bar there. But first, you must come in with me and have drink."
Ksenia said something in Russian, which Pasha ignored.
"I think I’d rather not, Pasha. Not today."
Pasha sighed and then turned to face them.
"I have friends here who want to see you. I promise them I take you here for them to meet. You must not refuse. Is very big insult if you refuse." He spoke coldly, no longer bothering to smile.
Reuben was suddenly angry at himself. If the kid’s car and phone had been red flags, his job at the Mezh had been more like 12-foot high sign reading CAUTION.
Distracted, he thought. By a woman.
"All right," said Reuben. "Let me be clear. I don’t want to go into your club. But if I refuse, your friends back there are going to persuade me otherwise, is that right?"
Pasha smiled.
"You understand very well," he said.
Reuben turned to Ksenia.
"I’m to understand that you knew nothing about this?" he asked.
Ksenia’s wide eyes were moist with tears. Her voice trembled with rage.
"I did not know," she said.
Pasha laughed.
"She thinks I serve as driver for her and [expletive]" — a Russian word Reuben could not understand, but guessed the meaning of — "because I care so much. She is stupid girl."
"Right," said Reuben. "Stupid. But she still has nothing to do with any of this."
Pasha looked puzzled. He looked at Ksenia for a moment.
"What you mean?"
"Don’t be an idiot. She’s your sister."
Pasha said nothing.
"None of this involves her, Pasha. Whoever is in that building, they want to see me, not Ksenia."
"So?"
"So let her go. Now. Go tell your friends back there to open the gate and let her leave, on foot."
He snorted.
"Why should I?"
"Because you don’t care what they do to me, but you don’t have any reason to expose her to them. These are dangerous people, aren’t they, Pasha?"
Pasha said nothing.
Ksenia started to say something in Russian, but Pasha shushed her again.
"Besides," said Reuben, "it will be much easier if you do it this way. I’ll go willingly, as soon as she has been allowed to leave. I won’t put up any kind of fight."
"You only get hurt worse if you do," said Pasha, but Reuben could see he was wavering. He glanced again at the rear view mirror. The three of them were still standing there, staring at the parked car. There wasn’t much time.
"Just go back there now, and tell them that you’ve decided you don’t want the girl here, and you’re sending her away. I’ll watch through the mirror. As soon as the gate is open, I’ll send Ksenia. You make sure she gets out safely, and then I’ll go in with you."
Pasha glowered at Reuben. Then he sighed and opened his door.
"You are pretty smart, Reuben. You still be smart and don’t do anything stupid, okay?"
He looked at his sister with disgust and said something harsh to her in Russian. She didn’t respond.
Reuben gave a thought as to how easy it would be to smash Pasha’s nose right into his sneering face. He could have this punk out of the game before he knew what hit him. The real trouble would be the three goons behind them. Could he take them all? He was unarmed. He couldn’t risk it.
Pasha stepped out of the car and trudged across the yard towards the gate. Reuben watched him through the rear view menu.
"Reuben, I don’t want to — " she started.
"No," he interrupted. "There’s no time. Listen carefully. You get out of here as quickly as you can." He glanced at his watch. "I want you to meet me at the newspaper kiosk in front of the Kievskaya train station in one hour. If I’m not there, I need you to call someone for me."
He glanced up. Pasha was talking to the three men. They were passing the bottle around; one of them took a drink. They were laughing.
"Yes, I understand."
He told her the phone number. She repeated it.
"Good," he said. "Ask for Sergei. Tell him who you are and everything that happened today. Tell him where I am as best you can. Don’t agree to meet him in person, and don’t let anyone know you spoke to him. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Reuben."
The man in black had swung the gate open. Pasha waved at the car.
"The main thing is for you to get out of here safely. Go now."
"Reuben, I am so sorry." She was trembling.
"Never mind that," he said. "This will probably be fine. These guys just want to talk to me. But if something happens…you’re the only person who can help me now. Don’t let me down."
Pasha waved again and called out. The guy with the bottle shouted something at the car, to the great amusement of the other two.
"Don’t be afraid. Just do what you have to do."
She let go of his hand.
"Yes," she answered, her voice clear and strong.
She had stopped trembling. Their eyes met for a moment.
"Go on," he said.
"See you again," she said.
She opened the car door and walked out into the snowy evening. Reuben watched as she strode past Pasha and the thugs. Her brother gave her a slight nod. If there was any response, Reuben couldn’t see it from where he sat. The other men said nothing to her, and didn’t seem to pay her much attention. After she passed through the gate, the guy in black closed it behind her.
Pasha walked back to the car. Reuben had already stepped out. The younger man walked past without looking at him or saying a word. Reuben fell in line obediently. They walked up the steps, where Pasha stopped at the door to check it. Locked. He pushed the buzzer, and they waited. A short while later, the door swung open.
It was dark and smoky inside. Reuben could see that they were in a hallway, at the foot of a staircase. The floor, the walls, and the stairs all seemed to be made from the same batch of crumbling gray concrete. He looked closely at the man who opened the door. He was tall and fat, dressed in an ill-fitting double-breasted suit.
Pasha and the Bad Suit had a brief and surly exchange of words. After asking Pasha what must have been the Standard Questions, he turned and made his lumbering way back up the stairs. Pasha sighed with exasperation, and lit a cigarette. The two men stood at the foot of the stairs for several minutes before the Suit returned.
He descended about halfway and then stopped and gestured back towards the top of the staircase. Pasha started up, with Reuben following. The Suit allowed Pasha to pass, but stopped Reuben in his tracks. He then proceeded to subject Reuben to a rough and thorough frisking. It went on much longer than necessary, and ended with the man giving Reuben a swat on the backside.
"Nice club you got here, Pasha," Reuben said, continuing up the stairs. "I’m still kind of new in town. Should I have tipped him?"
"Shut up," Pasha hissed at him.
Reuben said nothing more. They reached the top of the stairs, where suddenly the floor was carpeted, and the walls paneled with dark wood. Two high-backed red leather chairs lined the hallway, which led to a pair of double doors. Above the chairs were brass light fixtures with clouded glass shades in the shape of tulips; between the lamps was mounted a large painting, a gaudy mountainous landscape. They continued down the hall and through the double doors. The room they entered was designed for more of the same effect. It was a parlor, with white marble floors covered with intricate Oriental rugs. There were more paintings, more brass light fixtures. The furniture was dark and solid and heavy. There was a snooker table; there were bookcases. There was an enormous fireplace at the far end of the room. A sofa and several chairs were gathered around it.
Reuben followed as Pasha walked purposefully towards the small group of men seated around the fire. There were two men that Reuben had never seen before, but three that he recognized immediately.
"Hello, gentlemen," said Pasha, sounding quite pleased with himself. "May I present to you Meester Reuben Stone of the United States of America."
They turned and looked at Reuben. Now it was obvious: he had seen two of the guys at the gate before. And now, seated in front of the fire were two men Reuben had never seen before, along with the Czar and Comrades Mikhail Barishnikov and Boris Badinov.
Must be a slow night over at the Café Vienna, Reuben thought.
The Czar muttered something in Russian.
"Come here," said Barishnikov.
Reuben approached the Czar, assuming that Barishnikov was acting as interpreter.
"How do you do," he said to the Czar. Barishnikov translated.
"You must be fucking crazy," came the reply. "Who the fuck are you, and why the fuck are you here?"
Reuben eyed Barishnikov, which would be a breach of protocol even under more civilized circumstances.
"Just translate," he said. "I can do without the embellishments."
A brutal, crushing blow to the lower back brought Reuben to his knees. He struggled to catch his breath. The room went wobbly for a moment, and he thought he might vomit. He looked back and saw that the blow had come not from Pasha, who was nonetheless pleased with it, but rather from one of the men he had never seen before. He was a tall and lanky, cross-eyed fellow wearing a powder blue suit. He looked like a stork. He was holding some kind of rod; maybe it was a riding crop. This wasn’t one of the foot soldiers from the Café Vienna. Reuben would have remembered seeing him before.
"You will address only the man in charge," said Barishnikov.
"I understand," Reuben gasped.
The Czar took a sip from his oversized brandy snifter.
"Whom do you represent?" he asked, through the translator.
"I’m with WorldConneX, an American telephone company."
The Czar said something to the group, all of whom laughed in response.
"Don’t be stupid and don’t waste my time. Who has sent a black savage like yourself to spy on us? What is your interest in us?"
"Sir, please understand me," Reuben said. "No one has sent me to spy on you."
The Czar’s eyes grew narrow. He asked Pasha something. Pasha responded with a quick nyet.
"This is not credible. Do not deny that you have been performing surveillance on us for some time."
Reuben knew that the correct answer was to keep his cover: he should say that he was never spying; he just liked hanging out in the Vienna. Then they could beat up on him until he admitted it. Or died.
"I don’t deny it."
Screw the cover. He wasn’t trying to keep the world safe for democracy any more. He worked for the phone company.
The Czar looked surprised at this admission. The he grew visibly angry, his face reddening, his eyes growing darker and more narrow.
"Then why have you done this?" he demanded.
"It’s hard to say."
"I will be much more difficult for you if you do not say" the Czar said coldly.
"I guess it was sort of a hobby."
This statement took a while for Barishnikov to translate and, once translated, its meaning took a moment to sink in with the Czar. This time the blow came from above, the stork whacking Reuben hard across his shoulders. He fell the rest of the way forward, his hands not finding their place fast enough to avoid the impact when he landed forehead first on a Persian rug, which provided very little padding against the marble beneath.
Part I
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.
Part I
Fourth chamber was — what?
Reuben awoke with a start, looking into the light. It wasn’t right; it should be farther away. As he was calculating where the light should be, he realized that he was not there any more. He had moved, or been moved, to this new place.
He blinked, trying to get the light into focus. He would often awaken disoriented, uncertain whether he was still lying on that floor, still surrounded by enemies — which meant he needed to be thinking about how to get her out of danger, and how to save his own life— or whether he was someplace else, which meant that he didn’t.
Other times, he would not wake up. He would be in a dream place, crowded with faces and voices. All were familiar, but he couldn’t quite place any of them. She was there. He would strain to identify her. She was not the woman he had lost; nor the woman who had been in danger. He could never quite focus on her face. But she was so kind. There was so much comfort in her presence.
She would take his hand in hers and whisper the truth: everybody dies.
Reuben blinked again and looked around. He remembered his surroundings as he took them in. He was lying in bed; there were curtains, white, on either side of him; the wall directly in from of him was a pale green color. This was a hospital room.
He remembered, now. He had been there for several days. At least that.
This was good news, however many times repeated. It meant that he had managed to get out of the game alive. Relief enveloped him: it was over. Then the next wave of questions began, as they always did. What about her? Ksenia. If he had somehow managed to make it out alive, then surely she had. But he couldn’t remember how.
He lay that way for a long time, fading in and out of consciousness, never completely able to shake the delirious fear — Who has the gun? — that would grip him just as he drifted off or just before he awoke. Sometimes he would wake up at night, with the room completely dark, and it would take him longer to put it together. A nurse would appear from time to time and change his IV or make other adjustments. Once in a while, she would give him a sip of water, for which he was extremely grateful. And he would try to tell her thank you in Russian, but he couldn’t remember how to say it; and then he would try to tell her in English, and would realize that he couldn’t quite speak.
He also had images of a doctor, who came in much less frequently and changed the dressing on his head and shoulder. These impressions were fuzzy, and he realized in a more lucid moment that they must increase the drug dosage before the doctor came.
So he was drugged. Of course he was. Maybe for the pain; maybe for other reasons. Not that he minded. The drugs had apparently taken care of that.
It became a routine. And whatever else Reuben knew about himself and his life, he knew that he liked having a routine. This one was easy to get used to. He would awaken afraid and disoriented. Then he would begin to remember. The nurse came often; the doctor, rarely. This continued for quite some time — maybe days, maybe weeks, it was hard to say — before he began to notice some changes. He was not waking up disoriented as frequently. He was remembering from day to day that he was in a hospital. And he was beginning to hurt: only a little at first, but gradually it grew worse.
Then one morning, the nurse gave him a sip of water. She was plump, he noticed for the first time, and probably about 45 or so. The hair peaking out from under her expertly placed nurse’s cap was reddish. He took the water, and afterwards said "Thank you."
"You’re welcome," she replied, in lightly accented English. And then added, "Don’t talk."
"What’s your name?" he asked
"Olga," she said, fluffing his pillows. "No more talk. We are glad to see you are feeling better. But don’t talk, not until after you see the doctor."
She came back a while later with the doctor. Reuben had never seen him while in such a lucid state. He was also on the heavy side, with dark hair and sharp features.
"Mr. Stone," he said. "Olga tells me that you are beginning to feel better."
"The truth is," Reuben answered, finding speech to be a greater effort than he expected "now that your drugs are wearing off, I feel worse.."
The doctor nodded sympathetically.
"Yes. I hope you understand that we kept you sedated only for your own protection."
Reuben tried to shrug; then winced.
"You see? Mr. Stone, you have suffered some very serious trauma. I don’t know if you can remember any of that?"
"Yes, I can. Most of it. May I have another drink of water please?"
Olga responded with another sip from the yellow plastic cup. It felt good on his throat.
"I have some questions for you, doctor."
"Only a few today." The doctor reached behind one of the curtains and produced a stool with rolling legs. He sat down. "What would you like to know?"
"I had…I have a friend who was also there. Where I got these injuries. I need to know whether she’s all right."
The doctor frowned and glanced at Olga. She shrugged.
"I can’t tell you," he said. "We wouldn’t know about that. You have friends who are eager to see you. I will allow one of them pay you a brief visit tomorrow, and another the next day. I’m sure they can tell you about your friend."
"Well…" Reuben thought for a moment. "Are any of these friends who want to see me women?"
"I’m afraid not. Two men. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more."
Reuben sighed with exasperation.
"Okay, then I have another question. What is this place? And who are you?"
"Forgive me, Mr. Stone. I am Dr. Chevlenko, and I believe you have already met Olga. This is a private clinic, a small private clinic. We are not far from the city of Moscow."
"Does the clinic have a name?"
"It does not."
Reuben sighed again. It was hard to talk, and frustrating not to get answers.
"Do you expect me to believe that WorldConneX put me here?"
The doctor chuckled.
"Mr. Stone, I see that you are a suspicious man, nearly as suspicious as a Russian. No doubt this is a great aid to you in your work, whatever that might be. If one were asking questions, one might seek to know how a man as cautious as you appear to be ever came to such great harm. Yes?"
Reuben didn’t respond.
"In any case," Chevlenko continued, "you can believe what you wish about who has placed you here and how the accounts are being settled. Once again, that is a question for your friends, not for me."
He stood up.
"Wait," said Reuben. "Fine. There’s something you can tell me. What happened to me?"
The doctor sat down again and looked at his clipboard.
"What do you remember?"
"Just about everything you have written there, I guess. I took a blow to the small of the back. I took another one to my shoulders and neck. And I had a gunshot to my right shoulder. Did you have to remove the bullet?"
"No, it passed through. Do you know what else happened to you?"
"No." He thought about it for a moment. "Wait. Something to my head? I banged it on the floor. And there was a burn from a cigar?"
"Yes. The bump on your head was not too severe, and there was also a very nasty burn. But you sustained another head injury as well."
Reuben thought back, piecing together scattered images of the bizarre duel.
"I see," he said, after a moment. "He got me. So what, the bullet grazed my head?"
The doctor looked at Reuben sympathetically. He tapped the closed end of his pen on the clipboard a couple of times, pondering the question.
"You must pardon me," he said after a moment. "Sometimes my English is less than perfect."
"It’s been perfect so far," Reuben said. "Why are you stalling? What happened to me?"
"Well, when you describe a bullet ‘grazing’ one’s head, I’m afraid you have an image of something substantially less severe than was actually the case. It might be more accurate to say that the bullet passed through your head, just as the other one did your shoulder, though I must add that this was to a much lesser extent than what occurred there. Still, much more damaging in its own right."
Reuben nodded, considering this.
"Um, what about my brain?" he asked.
"Only a superficial injury, it seems. The bullet entered here," he placed a finger an inch or so above his own left eye, "and exited here," he moved his finger leftwards and around to the edge of the temple, a distance of maybe three inches. "I’m afraid the bullet broke off a piece of your skull in this area and we have had to replace a section of your forehead."
"I see," said Reuben. "What you’re telling me is that I got lucky."
That was the trick, after all, to winning in roulette. A wave of exhaustion washed over Reuben. He no longer wanted to talk.
Dr. Chevlenko shrugged.
"I would hesitate to describe as ‘lucky’ a man in the condition you were in when they brought you here. But in fact, had there been even a slightly different entry point or angle of the bullet, I doubt that you and I would be talking right now."
"Are you sure about my brain?" Reuben noticed that his speech was slurred. He didn’t want to talk any more, but this was important. "Never heard of a superficial brain injury."
The doctor looked him in the eye.
"Perhaps I chose my words badly. I can see no reason to expect that the injury to your brain was severe, but the brain is always a mystery. And I will tell you frankly that I am no expert. However, it is quite encouraging to see you awake and talking. Over the next few days, we will work on getting you back on your feet. We’ll know soon enough whether there is any particular reason for concern."
"But you don’t…think there is." That was it; he was finished talking.
"Not at present." Chevlenko stood up. "What’s important now is that you rest. If you need anything, Olga or Maria will be checking on you regularly."
He returned the stool to its place behind the curtain.
"Good night, then, Mr. Stone."
He turned and to leave, followed by Olga. On her way out the door, the nurse set the room’s light to the dim setting. The message was clear; he should sleep.
But there was a lot to think about. It seemed that his desperate Russian Roulette strategy had worked. Roughing the stork up had surely contributed to the thug’s inability to fire an accurate shot. That had saved Reuben’s life, but he still had no idea how he got from there to here. Or what had happened to Ksenia.
He was certain that he didn’t get up and fire at the stork after taking a bullet in the head; so he had, in fact, not "won" the game. He couldn’t imagine the Czar being overcome by a generous impulse and letting them go. Something had happened. He tried to remember. In the moment just before he was hit, there were sounds coming from outside, and voices. He tried to isolate the last thing he saw or heard. The last time he saw Ksenia’s face.
It was all a blur. A thick, warm blur.
It was later.
Reuben glanced up, and slowly realized that he had been asleep. The doctor was once again standing at his bedside. Only it was a different doctor, older.
"Hello, Reuben," he said.
Reuben tried to answer.
"Don’t," said the older doctor. "They’ve given you a sedative so that you’ll sleep. It might be hard for you to talk. I’ll be here in the morning and we can talk then."
Reuben tried to nod.
"I just wanted to look in on you. They said you were feeling better, and I wanted to see for myself."
Reuben couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. But he felt reassured, almost safe, seeing this man. He liked this doctor, who was really not a doctor at all. Reuben had known this man for a long time. Forever. He couldn’t think of what his name was, or even who he was. But it was there.
"Good night then," said the old man. "I’ll see you in the morning.
Reuben closed his eyes. That was it.
The old man.
He awoke to a crisp "good morning" from Olga and brilliant light. She had pulled the curtains back, revealing additional beds on either side, empty, and a window to his right through which daylight was streaming. The window looked out over a white field of snow with trees in the distance. The sunshine was dazzling on the snow.
"Good morning," Reuben managed. He smelled something good. Food. He was struck by a wave of hunger, then nausea, the hunger again. He shakily lifted his hand to where he could see it and realized both that he could lift his hand and that the IV tube had been removed.
"Yes," said Olga. "It’s gone. Now let’s see if you are ready to sit up."
Olga took hold of a remote control; the bed slowly raised Reuben to a more or less sitting position. This was much better. He could feel his mind clearing.
"How soon can I get out of this bed?"
Olga smiled.
"Maybe tomorrow; maybe later today. The doctor will decide. But now you will try some breakfast."
She swung an arm-tray in front of him. It was mounted on a pole next to the bed that also had, Reuben noticed, a control panel for the bed and an intercom for calling the nurse. The tray would serve as his table.
The other nurse, Maria, entered the room carrying a small breakfast tray. She was younger than Olga, and thinner. She placed the tray in front of him and removed the cover from the plate. Reuben thought he might faint from the smell. It was two small pieces of toasted rye bread with butter, a poached egg, and a sliced tomato. There was also orange juice and water.
Reuben dug in. He noticed that the china and silver, as well as the preparation of the food, reflected a higher standard than he would expect from a hospital. But this was, after all, a private clinic and — then he remembered. The old man. He had put him here.
"How is your breakfast?" Olga asked him.
"Great. I don’t suppose I could get some coffee?"
She looked disapproving.
"You Americans and your coffee. Tea would be much better for you, you know."
"Fine," he said, agreeably, "tea it is." Then he added, as casually as he could. "So do you know whether Mr. Keyes will be coming to visit this morning, or later?"
"I don’t know," she said. "He may be busy this morning. We shall see."
So he had not dreamed it. Not only was the old man there, he was going by his actual name.
Michael Forrest Keyes had always been the old man to Reuben; his father had called him that. At a remarkably young age, Julian Stone had built a lucrative shipping business in his home town of Kingston, Jamaica. When he was 25, he took a trip to New York, where he wangled a meeting with Keye