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.”
“Here goes,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu when Stephen returned from his smoke break.
“Shadak first heard about the children through a lawyer friend of his named Tanya Pitovovich in St. Petersburg. She specializes in seeing through foreign adoptions — which in St. Petersburg makes her a bribery and blackmail specialist as much as a lawyer. According to Shadak, the baby trade is huge in St. Petersburg. There are more than 600,000 orphaned and abandoned kids in Russia — and they all live in these orphanages, where, if you know the right people, you can pluck ’em like fruit.
“Anyway — that’s what Pitovovich does, and when the market was right, Shadak would sometimes act as a middleman for families in America and elsewhere who wanted a kid.”
“Do you know where Pitovovich is now?”
“Yes. I got an email address, a mailing address, and a cell phone number. We’ll want to talk to her eventually, I’m sure. But shut up and let me finish.”
“Sorry.”
“About six months ago, Pitovovich contacted Shadak to tip him off to a possibly lucrative shipment. An associate of hers — Shadak thinks they were fucking, but we’ll call him an associate — named Ilyich Chenko had recently taken possession of an old dormitory facility near Odessa. He let slip that he was gathering a number of very ‘special’ children there, for his own orphanage. Pitovovich thought this strange — Chenko’s G.R.U., and dabbles in the same business as she; and there was no percentage in keeping children yourself. So she took a plane there for a visit. And that was where she saw… the shipment.”
“Do we have an address for that warehouse?”
“Yes, yes! I have all the addresses and names and other shit written down. Do you want to know what he said or don’t you?”
Stephen said nothing.
“Fine. When she got there, she saw that the ‘dormitory’ was in fact an old apartment block, and a nice one. There were maybe two dozen children there, all living like kings and queens. And they seemed like siblings; they all had the same black hair. There was something about their eyes. They seemed… aristocratic, she said.
“She asked Chenko a price for them — and he explained they were not for sale. They were too valuable here. But before she left, one of the children — a young girl — came to her and quietly whispered: ‘We do not like it here. See us to America.’
“‘How can I do that?’ asked Pitovovich.
“‘Through Amar Shadak,’ replied the girl.
Stephen threw up his hands. “And how the fuck did she know about Shadak? He’s bullshitting you.”
Mrs. Kontos-Wu shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. I’m just telling you what he told me.”
“Fine. Go on.”
“So that’s when she contacts Shadak — lets him know about this opportunity for these children that Chenko finds so valuable he won’t even talk about selling them. Shadak is intrigued, but not convinced. If Chenko’s not willing to sell then it might be more trouble than it’s worth if he’s got to snatch them.
“But Pitovovich goes on describing the kids, Shadak remembers a conversation he had with Kolyokov — about this bunch of kids that he’d pay top dollar for. Black hair and funny eyes were two of the characteristics he pointed to — but there were other things too. So Shadak said, ‘Okay, I’m intrigued. Let’s go have a look.’
“And that’s when he gets convinced. Because a day later, he takes a trip over to Odessa, meets up with Pitovovich and together they go to the apartment block to meet with Chenko. And it’s like night and day. Chenko sits Shadak down, gives him a drink, and tells Shadak that he’s heard a lot about him and thinks he’ll be a perfect guardian for these beautiful children. Chenko has gone so far as to arrange the papers for their passage across the border into Romania and then to Turkey. Shadak’s kind of amused at first; but when he asks what the price is going to be and Chenko says ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he starts to get suspicious.
“But then — then he meets the kids, and it’s a completely different story. They charm him, in a way that none of his own children have over the years. They say to him, ‘Mister Shadak, take us to Turkey! Take us away!’ And he says: ‘Okay kids.’”
“Doesn’t sound like the Amar Shadak I know.”
“It doesn’t sound like the Amar Shadak that Amar Shadak knows either,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu. “Shadak wondered if he mightn’t have been drugged. Because two days later, Shadak’s got the first shipment of five kids at his house in Belgrade, and Pitovovich has made arrangements for him to transfer them to Hzekul and his people in the United States, which he then does, without giving it so much as a thought — until, that is, they’re gone. By the time the next batch of kids has showed up in Belgrade, Shadak has come to his senses. He’s contacted Kolyokov, told him what’s happened — and that’s where we all came in. Kolyokov agreed to a pretty steep purchase price — Shadak let that much slip — and made arrangements for the shipment, once all the kids were present and accounted for in Belgrade.
“Shadak never saw the next bunch of kids, though — that was when the earthquake hit in Turkey. So he left the details to iron out with his people in the U.S. and Belgrade while he went to Ankara. He seemed a little fuzzy on what happened after that: he told me he was ‘studying the fuckup’ on the delivery now. But he’d get back to me once he’d nailed down the details.”
“Good of him.”
“No,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu. “Not really.”
“What do you mean, ‘not really’?”
“Nailing down details means a direct conversation with Fyodor Kolyokov.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Same as you told him: that Fyodor’s not available right now. But he didn’t seem satisfied.”
Stephen snorted. “He wouldn’t be… I wouldn’t be, frankly. So how did it leave off?”
“Shadak said he wanted to hear from Kolyokov by the end of the day, said that he meant it, and hung up the phone.”
“Well,” said Stephen, smiling, “Mr. Shadak’s going to be disappointed. In the meantime, it sounds like we’ve got enough information to get a start on tracking this thing down. Nice work.”
“Thank—”
Mrs. Kontos-Wu sat down on the bed. Her hands flopped on the bedclothes at her side, and her gaze fell to her lap. For an instant, she looked as though she were a marionette, whose strings had been cut.
“Hello?” Stephen leaned over her, and cupped her chin in his hand. He raised her face to look at him.
“Nice work,” he repeated.
Mrs. Kontos-Wu blinked and smiled at him.
“I’m gratified you think so,” she said. “Now prove you’re pleased, and get me a drink.”
Uzimeri stared at the mountains longingly. Amar Shadak’s caravansary was perched on the face of one of the smaller mountains of the Toros. The mountain’s larger cousins were spread within the scope of Uzimeri’s view. Uzimeri picked the nearest one, and as a kind of game he set out to figure a way to the top of it, on foot and with only minimal climbing gear. He imagined what kind of gun it would take to shoot a man who’d made it to the snowy peak, from this spot here in the caravansary. He imagined himself as that hypothetical man, standing there, looking back at the caravansary with its great stone walls and its broad timber deck, the helicopter sitting idle on its steel-reinforced roof, Amar Shadak firing off round after round from his hunting rifle in a vain attempt to kill him. Tears streamed down Uzimeri’s cheek as he struggled to hold onto the image. A few weeks ago, had he imagined such a thing he would have been able to make it as real with little effort; he would have, in the barest second, found himself on that peak, his ankles deep in the snow, the thin air clutching at the hairs in his nostrils. He would have been free of this chair in the blink of an eye. The plastic bonds that were cutting off circulation to his hands would be gone, the deep cut across his cheek where the belt buckle had struck him would be healed and he would be free — free in a place where men like Amar Shadak could never find him.
He could have done that a few weeks ago — indeed, he had done so many times in the company of the Blessed children. But since they had boarded the submarine in the pen at Istanbul, and taken his men there, Uzimeri had lost the ability. In truth, he now realized, it had never been his ability — it was the workings of Zhanna, and her siblings the Children; their powers. And when they had left him, they had taken those powers with them.
Uzimeri had been a moderately religious man before the children came and went. Since they left him, in one of the Foxtrot submarines he kept and maintained on behalf of Amar Shadak and accompanied by his finest crew, he had become positively fanatical. Every day, he prayed for the return of the Blessed Children — so that they might again return him to the glimpse of paradise he’d been afforded in their brief acquaintance.
He began to pray now.
“Oh Blessed Children,” he begged, “hear me now, and deliver me from this evil place again, as you had from the sadness and despair of my life before You. I will serve you with all the fire of my soul, though it be the tiniest spark as compared to Your Greatness—”
Uzimeri’s prayers were interrupted by the sharp smack of leather across his face. Trembling, he turned to face his torturer again.
“Thank you for waiting,” said Amar Shadak. Thick hair tumbled in curls across his broad shoulders. His features were hard enough that he could get away with it without looking effeminate. Indeed, many in his organization found him simply awe-inspiring.
There was a time when Shadak inspired that kind of awe in Uzimeri. But now
…Now, Uzimeri was sworn to another master. He looked Amar Shadak in the eye, and although his voice trembled in anticipation of the tortures to come, his words were clear.
“I have nothing to say to you,” said Uzimeri, “that I have not already said.”
“I’ll see about that, you traitorous little bastard.”
Shadak said it in that pleasant, lilting voice of his, as he pulled the belt tight so the buckle gleamed silver against his fist. There was only a little blood on it, a faint pinkish smear across its edge.
“Babushka deliver me,” begged Uzimeri one last time, before the beating resumed.