Rasputin's Bastards (25 page)

When one of her perfect hands finally reached him, fingers thick and long as rockets spread about him, and closed around him like a cage. The giant hand brought him closer to her eye, which stared at him through the spaces between those monstrous digits.

“Impressive,” said Kolyokov. “But if what you said is true — that we’re here in the Discourse, and this is just a metaphor you’ve made for me: then I’ve got nothing to fear from you. Everything — my dissolution, this — storm that you are. Just a metaphor. Just a dream. So what am I risking now, truly?”

My displeasure
, she said simply.

And with that, the Goddess Lena lifted Fyodor Kolyokov over her head, to an altitude that would be in low orbit were this more than a metaphor, and with a snap of her wrist, flung him down through the clouds . . . down and down, until he plunged into the very deepest part of this metaphor’s ocean.

“
Je-sus
.”

The word echoed and boomed through the sky where Kolyokov floated. He peered up into the darkness and shouted: “Hello! Who’s up there?”

“
This thing’s got nothing to do with us
.”

Kolyokov frowned. The voice sounded, what? Italian? No. Not quite Italian though near to it. Italian-American, maybe.

An accent from an Italian-American twenty storeys high. Kolyokov treaded water and called out again. “Hey! Down here!”

“
What about the old man
?” Similar accent from a different speaker. Kolyokov shouted again, but he couldn’t compete.

“
The old man’s not here. Maybe he’s dead. But we got two out of three and that ain’t too bad. C’mon
.”

Kolyokov stopped shouting then — because the next thing he heard was a clang that was unmistakable: the sound of the hatch on his isolation tank, swinging shut for one last time.

“Oh no,” he said to himself, looking around at the dark waves that danced around him. “Oh not this.”

It wasn’t long after that that those waves pulled him under, and the darkness of the ocean became complete.

When he lived, Fyodor Kolyokov did not preside over an organization so much as he did a distributed network. It was his great strength; in the final accounting, it became a paralyzing weakness.

The trouble was that most of the people who worked for Kolyokov had no idea they were doing so. They were stockbrokers and government officials and engineers — men and women who’d been placed here decades ago by the former Soviet intelligence machine, to infiltrate Western business and government. They had no idea who they were serving when the Soviet Union was extant — and now that it was gone, they had no clue they worked for Kolyokov.

But work they did. Or rather, they paid him a considerable tithe — pieces of the paycheques and dividends they’d amassed in their all-too-successful infiltration of the American establishment. That tithe was the firmament of Kolyokov’s wealth.

In Kolyokov’s absence, that firmament crumbled. The off-shore bank accounts, which rose and fell like a well-managed system of river locks, began to drain.

But that wasn’t as bad as it got.

Kolyokov’s distributed network was also a shield for him. Should the I.R.S. look too closely at one of his tax returns, his operatives there would see that the inquiry was ended before it had significantly begun. Should the City of New York begin to ask questions about some of the modifications and additions he’d built on the Emissary over the years — again, the matter would be closed.

And as for Kolyokov’s active enemies — well. Kolyokov himself saw to it that he and his material assets were covered in a cloak of invisibility, a great bank of fog that guaranteed inattention.

And yet — should an enemy arrive in the lobby of the Emissary — one who smelled weakness like a pheromone, and would pounce upon it like a ravaging Cossack — well, Kolyokov’s distributed network would converge upon that enemy in a heart’s beat, and if need be tear him limb from limb to protect Kolyokov and the network.

But Kolyokov was dead. The cloud was dissipating. And his distributed network of an organization was crumbling into ruin.

Leo Montassini stepped up to the threshold of the ruin, and squeezed the end of his cigarette between finger and thumb. Like everywhere else in Manhattan, the Emissary posted a “No Smoking” sign at the entrance to its front lobby. Montassini and his crew, Nino and Jack, would have enough to worry about with the hotel security later; there was no point in drawing attention at this early juncture. Smoke curled over his blunt fingertips like water, and he dropped the butt into an ashtray thoughtfully provided by the doors.

“Hey,” said Nino, squishing his own cigarette under his heel, “where’s the fuckin’ doorman? What hotel doesn’t have a doorman?”

Montassini shrugged. “What an interesting question.”

“I’m just saying.”

“What the fuck is this place anyway?” Jack was hanging back, looking at the sign that hung out over the sidewalk. “How come I never seen this fuckin’ hotel before?”

“Questions, questions.” Montassini rolled his eyes, to show his crew he didn’t want to hear questions right now. Particularly not good questions, like the ones Jack was raising. Yeah, Montassini wondered too: How come he’d never seen this place before either? This was Montassini’s territory — midtown east side. He knew all the businesses here. Montassini had a list in his head and he kept it up to date.

But when Gepetto Bucci got the call from the Turk, telling him to go over and see about snatching a couple three people — go to the Emissary Hotel at Broadway and 94th — all he could think was the stupid foreigners must have got the name wrong. There was no Emissary Hotel at Broadway and 94th.

Yet here he was. In the front lobby of the Emissary Hotel.

A hotel had sprung up between Sal’s Wine and Liquor Store and the Lucky Variety overnight. Right in front of his eyes.

“C’mon,” said Montassini. “We got a long day ahead of us.”

He pushed the door open with his shoulder, and led his crew through the lobby.

“Hey,” whispered Nino, “how come the desk clerk’s cryin’ like that?”

“How the fuck should I know?” said Montassini. He strode up to the desk.

“Hey!”

The desk man looked up. He wiped tears from his eyes.

“C-c-c-can I help?”

“Fuck yeah. I got to see — ” Montassini reached into his pocket and produced a list. “Alexei Kilo-do-vich. He got a room here?”

The desk man looked at him. Tapped something on his computer.

“H-he’s not in,” said the man.

Montassini hefted himself up on the desk and looked at the computer screen. Wrote down the room number. The old man started to object, but sniffled instead.

“Fyodor Kolyokov.”

The old man backed away. Montassini leaned over and typed the name himself. Another number came up.

“Stephen Haber. Jean Kontos-Wu.”

“No rooms here,” said the desk man. He was clearly terrified. “P-please. D-don’t.”

Montassini looked in the old man’s eye. There was something there at the back — a hard thing, a powerful will. Montassini felt his breath hitch. He slid down off the table.

“Fuck this,” he said. “We got what we need. Fifth floor. Thanks.”

The four of them hurried to the elevator. They jostled each other to get inside, and waited there uncomfortably as the doors slid shut.

Mrs. Kontos-Wu had been sleeping for the better part of the afternoon — ever since she’d downed the vodka-lemonade Stephen had brought her. At first, he’d supposed that she needed the sleep — after everything she’d been through. But there was something about the particulars of this sleep that made Stephen uneasy. Her breathing was too shallow — she didn’t stir or move at all.

In truth, however, he didn’t mind that old Kolyokov’s chief sleeper operative was, well, asleep. At least not for a while. While she slept, Stephen had been busy. He’d called the number for Pitovovich; fired off an email to the address; even checked airline schedules to Odessa. Mrs. Kontos-Wu may have been Kolyokov’s main field operative. But he was the one who was really best-equipped to get them out of this mess.

And even if he wasn’t best equipped — even if he wasn’t sure exactly what to do next: Stephen was rightfully Kolyokov’s heir; Kolyokov had said so.

And that counted for something.

Stephen was standing over Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s sleeping and possibly comatose form, pondering this truth, when the phone rang. It was flashing the security extension. Stephen lifted it from its cradle.

“Miles?” he said crisply. “What is it?”

The phone was quiet on the other end. Quiet but for a slow, raspy breathing. Stephen tapped on the earpiece.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

“Miles,” said Stephen — his own breath catching in his chest, “what’s going on? You okay?”

“I haven’t been paid.”

It
was
Miles. But his voice sounded oddly flat.

“What?”

“I’ve been living in this little shit-box of a hotel room for what — five years now?”

“You all right?”

“And it’s just occurred to me — I haven’t been paid,” said Miles.

“Miles, what’s — ”

“Not ever,” said Miles. “I left a paying job . . . my family . . . to come here to work for you and Mr. Kolyokov. But you never got around to paying me. It only just occurred to me — isn’t that funny?”

Stephen swallowed. He looked over at Mrs. Kontos-Wu. He looked at the phone, and put it back to his ear. Miles was breathing again, waiting for an answer.

And Stephen knew at that point, that he didn’t have a good answer, other than the obvious.

Kolyokov was gone.

And the work he’d done, to amass his network of people and assets and cash — it was gone too, or nearly so.

It explained Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s coma-sleep. And it was why Miles suddenly woke up to the fact that he didn’t have a house in New Jersey or a job at the United Nations building any more.

“Go lie down,” said Stephen — concentrating. “You need some rest.”

“Fuck you,” said Miles. “What did you do with my house?”

Stephen looked over his shoulder at the bathroom door, and found a simmering resentment of his own. If Kolyokov had had an ounce of trust for him — if he’d really treated Stephen as an heir — he would have shown him how to use that thing; how to manage the network to which only he had access. Miles wouldn’t be going through this now; Mrs. Kontos-Wu would be up and running; and Stephen would be able to do something other than sit here and wait for a phone call.

“Well?” said Miles. “What? It was a good place! I had a gym in the basement! I had satellite TV! What did you do — sell it?”

Stephen took a breath. No — they hadn’t sold it. The old bomb shelter in Miles’ back garden contained a cache of weapons big enough to overthrow a state legislature — a cache that had been purpose-assembled for that eventuality.
Where in New Jersey are we going to find a hideaway half the size, and a quarter as safe?
Kolyokov had wondered, when the question of listing Miles’ bungalow came up during a cash crunch.
Find me a blind man for a tenant and I’ll be happy
.

“We didn’t sell it,” said Stephen.

“Well I want it back,” said Miles. “I want it — ah, fuck it. What am I talking to you for anyway?”

The line disconnected.

Stephen’s hand was shaking as he put the telephone back in its cradle. He stepped to Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s bedside.

“Hey!” he snapped. “Wake up!”

He lightly slapped her cheeks, and repeated. “Up! Come on!”

At that, Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s eyelids fluttered. The pink end of her tongue darted out between her teeth and over dry lips. She made a sound like a moan.

“Good!” Stephen slapped again, harder. “Upsy-daisy. Come on.”

Now her lips were moving. She was whispering something.

“What?” Stephen leaned closer.

“
. . . Vasilissa
,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu. “
Baba Yaga
.”

Stephen pulled back. He saw that tears were welling in the corners of Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s eyes as she stared sightlessly toward the ceiling. She coughed, and repeated:

“
Manka. Vasilissa. Baba Yaga
.”

Stephen felt a sympathetic ache in his middle as Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s fingers bent into claws. The cords on her neck stood out, as though she were having a seizure.

“
Manka
!” She was shouting now. “
Vasilissa! Baba Yaga
!”

As though she were O.D.’ing, Stephen thought. Watching her, he was drawn back to that time five years ago, bottoming out in the crack-house in Queens. He was going through some bad times, then — the heroin flowed free in his veins; he fucked anything with a dick and a wallet. And there in the night, came the ghost of the old man, stepping over the sleeping bodies, ducking underneath intestinal droops of wiring and insulation. Those three words had entered Stephen’s mind like a torrent of spring water, opening and cleansing him at once. When they’d passed, the old man was in his face, close enough to kiss him on the mouth.

You are not alone
, he’d said.

Here in the hotel room, Mrs. Kontos-Wu was coming to the understanding that she
was
alone — possibly, for the first time in her life.

Stephen leaned close to her again, and awkwardly at first, wrapped his arms around her shoulders. He could feel the breath ratchet in Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s chest.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You’re not alone.”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s shoulders twitched again, and her arms came up around Stephen’s shoulders. When her face buried itself in his chest, he felt the heat of her tears like steam from an iron.

The elevator door opened on the 14th floor, but Montassini and his crew did not emerge from it immediately. Jack was ready to bolt, but Montassini put a finger to his lips and motioned to wait a second. He reached into his coat and pulled out his Glock. Nino gave him a look —
the gun so soon
? — and Montassini gave him a look back.
Questions, questions
. . .