Rasputin's Bastards (18 page)

Holden moved forward, among his crew — or not his crew, but his sleepers — careful not to manipulate them this time. He had to go — talk to Vladimir — see the flotilla for himself —

Rejoin his family.

He hurried now, stepping through his crew like they were ghosts, his feet slipping in the substance of the deck. Through Neil and Jude and Allan —

Until finally, he came upon one he’d nearly forgotten.

Holden
.

Holden Gibson stood face to face with himself. He studied the minute lines on his face, the dark sag of skin beneath his eyes, the spots that were starting to grow on his forehead. He looked embalmed. Like a corpse. A walking corpse.
Holden Gibson
.

Holden Gibson took a sharp breath.
Holden Gibson
sucked air too, but more violently. He must have looked that way last year, when they’d had to take the defibrillator to him. Maybe they’d have to again. Holden Gibson felt his heart racing — he could feel his breath on his cheek — and a sharp tugging, like the line was going taut on fish-hooks embedded in his stomach, his thighs.

The room shifted then, as those hooks yanked him around so he was facing backwards. The fishhooks were gone, and he couldn’t see himself anymore. Weight returned to him. And with it, a terrible weakness.

But he knew it wasn’t a heart attack. Not this time. It was . . . there was a word for it.

The Returning. That’s what they’d called it at Kiwichiching. The Returning.

Sometimes, they warned, it could be very traumatic indeed.

By the time Holden Gibson hit the floor, the trauma was coming at him full tilt. The world grew dark. He barely heard the tumbling clatter of his crew falling to the floor beside him, their strings cut as consciousness fled from Holden Gibson’s re-inhabited skull.

Amar Shadak was just getting started with his submarine guy when Kolyokov’s boy finally called him back. “You wait,” he said, pointing a finger from inside the coil of leather belt he’d just finished wrapping around his fist. He grabbed the cell phone with his free hand and let the belt trail behind him, its buckle clicking a gentle staccato on the floor tiles as he walked back along the corridor into the great room of the caravansary. The submarine guy’s whimpering faded to a moist echo as he thumbed the cell phone on.

“Hello, Stephen,” he said pleasantly. Shadak always adopted a pleasant phone manner — even when he said things like, “What the fuck is going on over there that you hang up and don’t call me back, you little piece of asswipe? And who the fuck do you think you are not to take my calls?” he would say it in such a pleasant and solicitous tone that no one, he was sure, not even his gravest enemies, could ever think ill of him for it.

“We’ve had some problems here too,” said Stephen. “That’s why I’m calling you back. We’ve both got problems, and we both need answers. I propose we share information.”

Shadak smiled warmly. It was the kind of smile that conveyed itself through the voice — no matter that his words were more to the effect of, “Fuck you, Stephen. Put Kolyokov on the line before I cut your liver out and feed it to crows.”

“Mr. Kolyokov can’t come to the phone just now,” said Stephen. “He personally asked me to take the lead in dealing with — our problem.”

Shadak considered this as he settled into a wide leather chair. Kolyokov told Stephen to take the lead? On
this
? Everything else being equal, how likely was that? The last time that Shadak had spoken to Kolyokov — when they were negotiating the delivery of the children — the old man had done nothing but complain about the boy. Since Afghanistan, since the dark time, Shadak had had plenty of dealings with Kolyokov. He knew him well, and on many occasions got along with him just fine. But he knew him well enough to know the old bastard wasn’t one to give so much as an inch of responsibility to his underlings. That was one of Fyodor Kolyokov’s most reliable weaknesses.

Why would he change his ways now?

Of course, the answer to that question was easy: he wouldn’t. Stephen was pulling some kind of a coup, a subterfuge — fucking over the old man and Amar Shadak all at once.

The only question was: how, precisely, was he fucking them? What did it have to do with this fuckup with the submarine? Even at this early stage of the interrogation, Shadak was pretty sure his submarine guy didn’t have any clue. He’d work him over a little longer to make certain, but so far as Shadak was concerned the answer to the riddle lay elsewhere.

Perhaps within himself — in the dark place, the Black Villa where the better part of his soul rested; in the things the Children had done to him, their scratching in his head, their dubious promises of Paradise . . . of Rapture.

Amar Shadak took the phone away from his ear and shook his head. He had to focus. Perhaps, he said to himself, the answer to the riddle lay in another place.

With Stephen perhaps? Why not? He liked that better. He returned the cell phone to his ear, and let his smile broaden a little, the better to transmit his goodwill across the ocean.

“Tell me what you know, then,” he said, glancing back the way that he’d come. “But be quick about it — I’m in the middle of . . . a meeting and I’m anxious to get back to it.”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s wrists hurt from being tied, but overall she was feeling better. Stephen had let her take a shower and clean up in one of the adjoining suites, and ordered her a plate of pasta and seafood from room service. So she was clean and bandaged and well-fed. She would have liked a drink. But she knew better than to get one now.

Across the room, Stephen was dealing with Shadak. Veins stood out on his neck as he spoke into the telephone receiver, and dark bands of sweat were painted across his back.

He should be sweating. Stephen was trying to explain to Amar Shadak that both sets of cargo had gone missing: the children that he was supposed to be supplying to them, and the individual that they were to be supplying to Shadak. It was a task made more difficult because Stephen was under instructions to keep much of Kolyokov’s activities — in particular, his death — a secret from the Turkish gangster. Yet he had to convey enough useful information to entice Shadak to give up a list of people who were involved in the transaction.

Kolyokov’s death
. Mrs. Kontos-Wu was still trying to get her head around
that
one. Fyodor Kolyokov had been with her longer and more completely than her own subconscious mind. All the lies that made her life bearable . . . and there were many . . . he had been at the core of them, making them live and breathe.

When Stephen had told her the truth about what had happened to Kolyokov, it was as though he’d yanked the foundation from beneath those lies. She’d closed her eyes, trying to will herself back into the metaphor of Bishop’s Hall that she now knew to be nothing more than a metaphor. In reality, she’d taken her early education in the Urals. Kolyokov had been her master since before she’d graduated, and everything about her had been dictated by his presence: her likes and dislikes, her daily habits; and ultimately, her own personal morality.

In the end, Mrs. Kontos-Wu took Stephen’s account of Fyodor Kolyokov’s death as more of a theological problem than one of grief and acceptance. So she opened her eyes again and, according to her training, put it all aside. There were more important things to worry about.

Like this phone call with Amar Shadak. At this point, Stephen was down to one-and-two-word answers, interspersed among the long silences as Shadak presumably berated him: “No . . . That’s what . . . Right . . . No . . .”

Finally, Stephen held the phone away from his ear so Mrs. Kontos-Wu could hear Shadak’s deep Count Dracula voice made into a tiny squawk by the phone receiver. Mrs. Kontos-Wu mouthed:
Do you want me to try
?

Stephen nodded resignedly, and handed her the phone.

“ — bullshit a bullshitter,” Shadak was saying. “I’ll rip you — ”

“Amar,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu. “Slow down.”

Shadak stopped talking, and Mrs. Kontos-Wu heard a sharp intake of breath.

“It’s me,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu. “Remember — from Istanbul?”

Shadak chuckled over the phone. “Why hello,” he said. “What happened to that little dancing monkey Kolyokov keeps? Not that I want him back on the line, mind you . . .”

“He’s taking a break,” she said.

Shadak’s voice was all wounded innocence. “From what?” he asked. “We were simply going over some details. I trust I did not upset him?”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu gave a flirtatious laugh. “I can’t imagine you upsetting anyone, Amar. Now tell me: how can we fix this?”

“Ah, my beautiful Flower of Manhattan, I fear that matters are damaged beyond repair. The monkey-boy will reveal to me no clue as to what has happened to my ship — my submarine — my people in America . . . my cargo, and yours also. They have vanished without a trace, all of them. Little Stephen is, as ever, no help at all.”

“Well really, Amar,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu. “How can you expect him to be? He’s been here in Manhattan all this time. He knows nothing of what happened to us at sea.”

“That is right. You were at sea. With Kilodovich, yes?”

“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu. “Until very nearly the end.”

“Ha!” There came the sound of a clap, or perhaps a snap, from the other end of the line. “Most excellent! Oh my Beauty! Then you can tell me what precisely happened to my ship and submarine and all of it!”

“Well,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu, smiling a little, “I can. But . . .”

“Yes?”

“You first, Amar,” she said, and mouthed to Stephen:
Get out
. She pointed at the door. Stephen threw up his arms, turned around and left.

Good boy
, she thought. If she were going to work Amar Shadak properly, she’d need a little privacy.

Stephen headed down to the lobby for a smoke.
Take the lead
, Kolyokov had told him. What a fucking joke. There was nothing he could do to intimidate that fucker Shadak. That had been clear from the moment he picked up the phone and Shadak had started cussing him out. The fundamental problem was one of respect: Shadak just didn’t respect Stephen. As far as Shadak was concerned, Stephen was just a little harem-boy for old Kolyokov, who took the old man’s phone messages when he wasn’t sucking his dick. Never mind that that wasn’t the case — sexual preferences aside, Kolyokov wouldn’t touch Stephen for fear of catching his AIDS cooties — that was how Shadak saw things, so that was how it was.

The elevator door opened on the lobby — which was, as usual, nearly empty. Stephen strode out and went to one of the threadbare sofas near the front desk. He sat down, yanked a cigarette from his pack with his teeth, and lit up. Behind the counter, poor old Richard fussed over some file cards. He looked up and smiled tentatively.

“Goo-ood afternoon, si-ir,” said Richard.

“Fuck off.” Stephen lit his cigarette with one of the 2,500 Emissary disposable lighters Kolyokov had made him order a couple of years ago. He took a deep drag.

“Ri-ight, sir,” said Richard.

Stephen let the smoke curl out his nostrils and up into his eyes, and he regarded Richard through the stinging blue haze. The guy was a wreck — he could barely sign his name, he had so little confidence in himself. It was what made him such a good whipping boy, which is how Stephen used him most days. Stephen would tell him to fuck off and order him around. He would let the shit he took from Kolyokov flow downhill onto Richard. He would try to mind-read him, and maybe even succeed once in a while. And every time he did one of those things, Stephen would feel like a pretty effective guy.

But the fact was, all this time Stephen had been sparring with a crip. There might have been a time when it was different — Richard had been Kolyokov’s main sleeper at M.I.T., and he must have been some use there all those years, stealing technology secrets and sabotaging research.

But now? The only thing Richard was good for was taking reservations for the hotel, and giving Stephen an inflated sense of his own importance.

In the real world — where Amar Shadak moved millions of dollars of merchandise across Europe with a word, and Fyodor Kolyokov moved an army of sleepers with his dreams — Stephen was less than an insect.

And yet . . .

You take the lead
, Kolyokov had said. It seemed like a joke now, but the fact was that Kolyokov had ordered it. Not, as it turned out, in the tank — he’d gone back and given it another try after Kolyokov’s little ghost-message, but as the first time, he got nowhere in the smelly old tank. And he’d done terribly with Amar Shadak outside the tank; it was true that Shadak didn’t respect him. So he couldn’t deal with him as an equal.

Richard glanced up sheepishly, saw Stephen staring and looked away again as quickly. He started to fiddle with something before the countertop.

What a fucking write-off
, thought Stephen.

As he thought it, an image came into his mind: of Richard fiddling below the countertop for a moment longer, looking back at him, and raising a small automatic pistol with a silencer on the end. He aims it carefully, one eye shut while the other sights along the barrel, and pulls the trigger three times. The bullets hit Stephen in a small triangle over his heart, and Stephen slumps over dead — before he’s been able to even process the fact that poor stupid Richard knows how to put a silencer on a gun, never mind shoot him with it.

In such a scenario, Stephen’s contempt for Richard would work against him. Richard could take him out in a second, and Stephen, in his utter confidence that Richard couldn’t even wipe his own ass without help, would be defenceless.

In the same way that Amar Shadak would be without defence, if Stephen ever took the right kind of initiative.

“Si-ir?”

Stephen set down his cigarette and looked back at Richard.

“Mi-issus Kontos-Wu is ready for you,” Richard said.

Stephen smiled. “Thank you, Richard.” Stephen stood up and stretched so his back cracked. “You’ve been a big help today.”