Rasputin's Bastards

THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD

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…

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.