Rasputin's Bastards (26 page)

Truth was, Montassini didn’t like the idea of getting out on the 14th floor of a hotel that he hadn’t known existed until he stepped through its door three minutes ago. He didn’t like the crying guy behind the front desk. He didn’t like the quiet of this place — like it was cut off from the world, in a little Manhattan snow globe all its own.

With one hand on the elevator door to keep it from closing on his neck, Montassini stuck his head out to take a look.

The hallway was empty — both sides. It was the kind of hotel with just one hallway going up the middle. It was the kind of hallway about which Montassini had mixed feelings. The hallway was good for reconnoitering — he could tell immediately that the hallway was clear. At the same time, some guy with a gun comes out of either of the two end stairwells, that clear view would work against him. There was nowhere to hide.

But there was nothing to be done about it. He turned back and nodded at his crew. Both Jack and Nino had followed his lead, and pulled out their own guns.

“Room 1402,” said Montassini. That was where Kolyokov was holed up. Or so he hoped. The room where Kilodovich was — 503 — had been empty. Hopefully they’d do better here.

Nino stared at the little room number sign outside the elevator for a second, and pointed to their left. Montassini nodded. He lowered his gun to his side and walked down the hall.

1400, 1401, 1402 . . .

The three of them stopped outside 1402.

Nino squinted, put his ear near the door.

“More fuckin’ tears,” he said. “What the fuck — someone die?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” said Montassini. With his free hand, he pulled down on the door handle. It wasn’t locked.

“Here goes,” said Montassini. He pushed the door open with his foot and took the gun in both hands.

Stephen closed his eyes and prepared for death. He prayed that Miles would make it a quick one — but knowing what he did about Miles’ professional background, it really could go either way. If Miles felt good about him — it’d be over before he knew it. If Miles was as pissed off as he’d sounded on the phone — Stephen shivered — it could take days.

“You can have your house back,” he said, face buried in Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s hair. “Anything — ”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Stephen lifted his head to look.

That wasn’t Miles talking. It was a little swarthy guy in a maroon sports jacket and an open-necked shirt. Flanking him were two taller guys — one kind of skinny, with black shoulder-length hair yanked back over his forehead; the other, a little older and starting to lose his greying hair — but thick around the shoulders and still tight in the hips.

Stephen pulled Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s arms from around his shoulders. She curled into a ball on the bed as he stood, keeping both hands visible.

“Okay,” said the little one with the gun. “Now I got some questions I’m supposed to ask you.”

“On whose behalf?” said Stephen.

“On whose — ?” the little guy raised his gun. “I’m asking the questions.”

Stephen looked at the big guy — and nodded in slow recognition. Stephen was sure of it; this was Jack Devisi. The guy was known among the boys that Stephen used to run with. He was a big spender, and made no bones about where that money came from: Gepetto Bucci, who ran the Upper East Side. Devisi must have recognized him too; he blinked twice, then looked away.

“What are you fuckin’ starin’ at?” he said.

Stephen shrugged — letting him off the hook in front of his buddies. Stephen maintained his outward cool, but inside he was starting to sweat. Jack Devisi in the Emissary was not a good sign. Kolyokov had gone to great lengths to shield this place from the local mob — sent out what he called psychic ablative, the substance of which he’d never properly explained to Stephen. But the effect of it was to keep this place off the map for certain key New Yorkers, Gepetto Bucci’s bunch among them.

“First question.” It was the little guy. “I’m told there is an old man here. Fyodor. Also a younger guy — but big. Not like you. Alex he’s called. But I don’t see either of them.” He motioned with the barrel of his gun to the washroom. “They in the can?”

Stephen shook his head.

“Yeah, fuckin’ right they’re not.” The little guy motioned to his long-haired friend. “Nino — go in and get the geriatric case off the throne.”

Nino nodded and stepped over to the door. Back against the wall, he reached across, turned the handle and pushed it open. From across the room, Jack aimed his gun inside so as to cover him. Meanwhile, Stephen noticed the little guy was developing a new skin of sweat on his forehead.

“What the fuck you lookin’ at?” The little guy pointed the gun at Stephen’s face. Stephen noticed the hands were shaking and the knuckles were white. There was a very real possibility, thought Stephen, that this guy could pull the trigger without even knowing it.

“Easy,” said Stephen. “You said you had some questions?”

The guy calmed down a bit. “In a second,” he said. “Nino! You find the guy?”

There was a shuffling sound in the bathroom. “No,” said Nino. “But you ain’t gonna believe what’s in here.”

“What?”

“Looks like a fuckin’ UFO!”

Montassini took a deep breath. A UFO? Why the fuck not? He was here in an invisible ghost hotel, talking to a kid who looked like he’d been just about to go down on some broad when they came in. An
X-Files
flying saucer in the toilet of a hotel room he’d never known existed until now was not such a strange thing.

“Cover them,” Montassini said to Jack. He stepped over to the washroom to see what Nino was talking about.

“Holy shit.”

The thing wasn’t saucer shaped exactly, but Montassini could see where Nino had made the comparison. It filled up most of what was a pretty big bathroom. It was shaped sort of like a pill, and about the size of a Volkswagen. There was a hatch on the closest end of it — it had one of those submarine-door latches on it. And there were tubes and hoses sticking out of the far side, trailing on the floor and hooked up to the plumbing under the sink. The thing’s surface was white, and smooth like an eggshell.

“I don’t mind tellin’ you, Leo, I’m fuckin’ starting to freak out here,” whispered Nino.

“Don’t be a pussy,” said Montassini. “We got a couple of things to do here and we’re gonna do them. Just try and stay focused on that. Now — you take a look inside of there yet?”

Nino shook his head. His eyes were wide.

“Well open it!” Leo’s voice was going high — like on helium. Or panic. He cleared his throat. “Open it,” he rumbled.

Nino gave the wheel one turn, and then another. He sobbed a curse, then with shaking hands pulled the hatch open — like he was opening Dracula’s crypt, thought Montassini.
Way
too much like he was opening Dracula’s crypt.

Montassini held his breath as Nino peered inside.

“There’s water in there,” he said. “Smells like fuckin’ Javex. I don’t see no old man though.”

Montassini bit down on his lower lip.
You wouldn’t see him
, he thought,
if he was a fuckin’ shade
.

Nino pulled his head away from the hatch.

“Look for yourself,” he said, shrugging. “Empty.”

Montassini swallowed, and bent over. He couldn’t go all chickenshit in front of his crew.
Nothing to do but look in the fuckin’ coffin or whatever it is
. On his knees, he slid his head in through the hatch.

“Je-sus.” It did stink of Javex in here. And it was full of water, about a third of the way up. That was all he could tell, though; in the blackness, Montassini could see neither top nor end to the interior chamber. It could go on forever, he thought: up and out, its own fucking ocean in here under a sky with no stars or moon or daylight ever. Who the fuck knew what swam under these waters?

A voice tickled at the back of his head, high and desperate:

Down here!

Montassini clutched the edges of the hatch, and pulled his head out.

“This thing’s got nothing to do with us,” he said, struggling to keep the shaking out of his voice.

“What about the old man?” said Nino.

“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.”

Montassini stood up. It had sounded good. Firm. Leaderly.

Almost as though he’d believed it himself.

Jack Devisi motioned with his gun at Mrs. Kontos-Wu.

“She’s some looker,” he said. “Don’t you think?”

Stephen rolled his eyes. “Whatever,” he said.

“I mean to say that she’s got a nice ass,” said Jack. “C’mon kid — I saw you two goin’ at it.”

Stephen wouldn’t even dignify that one with a response.

“All right,” said Jack. “Up to you, kiddo.”

The other two Bucci boys chose that moment to step out of the bathroom. Both of them, Stephen noted, looked a little pale — like they’d stepped in something.

Or seen something.

“Okay,” said the little guy. “Here’s how it’s gonna go. You two are coming with us. You’re going to go down with us in the freight elevator and you’re going to come with us to see a mutual friend.”

“Mutual friend? Who might that be?”

The little guy gave him a look. “I think you know,” he said. “Listen — ” he motioned to Mrs. Kontos-Wu. “She okay to walk?”

“She’s a fuckin’ vegetable there, Leo,” said Jack. “She won’t be able to walk.”

“I’m not — a vegetable.”

The four of them looked as one at Mrs. Kontos-Wu. She rolled over.

“You’re taking us to Shadak — right?”

The little guy, Leo, hesitated for a second, as Mrs. Kontos-Wu sat up. She looked him in the eye.

“Come on,” she said. “Right?”

Leo nodded.

“Good. That’s what I thought. Now if you’re bringing us to Shadak, he obviously didn’t want you to shoot us first — right?”

Leo made a show of glaring at her and raised his gun. “That don’t necessarily follow — ”

“ — Right?”

“Right.”

“Good,” she said. “Then put the guns down — they just make you look foolish. Do you have a conveyance?”

“A what?” said Jack.

“A car?”

“A truck,” said Leo. “Yeah. Should be out back by now.”

Nino leaned over to Leo. “This is bullshit,” he said. “We got a whole fuckin’ hotel this guy could be in. We gotta — ”

Leo held up his hand. “Shut the fuck up,” he said. He blinked and rubbed his temple. “He’s not here. We got a plan. Take ’em to the fuckin’ plane.”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu pushed herself out of bed. “Excellent. Then let’s get to it.” She looked at Stephen. “You packed?” she said.

“Packed?” said Stephen.

“I’m assuming that Shadak’s not in town,” she said. “You’ll want one of the passports and an overnight bag, I’m willing to bet.”

Stephen and Jack shared a look.
What’s with the broad?
Jack mouthed. Stephen gave a little shrug.

“Let me pack some shit,” said Stephen.

Behind him, Leo Montassini swatted Nino’s arm away from his shoulder. He dug a finger into his ear, like he was trying to scratch a very deep itch.

The laundry truck pulled out of the Emissary’s loading bay and rumbled into crosstown traffic — where it sat for a moment waiting for the flow to resume.

Miles regarded the truck from the coffee shop across Broadway. It was white, with a stylized picture of sheets drying on a line. Not from the usual service.

Miles knew he should be on his cell phone right now; taking steps to learn the identity of the mysterious laundry truck. Find out how badly security was breached.

Or just as likely, he’d be seeing those steps taken for him, feeling his eyes flutter and a curious sapping of his will; watching as though on a closed-circuit television, as his arms moved to his cell phone, and listening as his lips made strange words into it.

But this fine New York evening, Miles did neither thing. He watched as the truck crested the small rise in the street, and vanished among the cascade of brake lights and cab signs. A scent of lavender tickled his nose, and he felt a smile creep up his face.

Miles raised his coffee mug to them in a farewell salute.

“
Nazdorovya
,” he said, following as he did the lavender’s course across the street — and from there, inexorably to the north.

Amar Shadak equivocated through the night. He needed, he knew, to strike a delicate balance. There was warmth: the geniality of a good host. And there was terror. He wouldn’t get anywhere, he knew, without a solid weight of terror at hand. He posed in front of a tall mirror in his bedchamber as he thought about it; pulled his lips taut into a thin smile and raised his dark brows in the middle, as though asking a polite question. He slackened his shoulders, rolling them quickly back and forth like a dancer or an athlete, then abruptly stood straight and threw them back. Warmth and terror — terror and warmth. Somewhere, he thought, looking for himself in the reflection of his eyes. Somewhere in spaces between . . .

In the space between the fountain and the kitchen where blood dripped from the draining goat, where the Devil Kilodovich tore Amar in two
. . .

“Ah,” he said to no one, “this is shit.” And he relaxed his shoulders and flung his arms into the air, and fell back onto the rumpled sheets of his unmade bed. He would just have to play it by ear, when they arrived. Try and piece the mystery of the missing submarine and Alexei Kilodovich together as best he could.

Shadak’s head hurt. He felt, these days, as though a thousand tiny hands were pulling the anatomy of his brain to and fro, scratching at it with nail-point fingertips. It reminded him of that month — the month that the devil Kilodovich had taken him into the caves in Afghanistan — tried to work his sorcery on him, took him to the Black Villa, and left a piece of Shadak’s soul there. When the bastard children had fucked with him, pulling him to bits all over again. Same kind of thing — fingers in his brain, pulling the neurons apart, looking for gold.

Fucking Rapture
.

Shadak thought of it more as brain rape.