Rasputin's Bastards

THE HONEST THIEF

When the hatch opened again, and his eyes adjusted to the bright light, Leo Montassini found he was looking down the barrel of a Glock semiautomatic handgun. It was accompanied by an open hand, fingers wiggling impatiently.

“You have another weapon?”

Montassini reached into his boot and pulled out a knife. The hand took it, and flung it away. It clattered on the floorboards somewhere near the samovars.

“You may come out.” The gun backed away. Montassini blinked and let his eyes focus on the man who held them:

Alex Kilodovich. Well fuck me blue.

He was a big guy — bigger than Montassini had been led to expect. And fuck but he looked like he could take care of himself. He had that kind of hardness about him that all guys in the profession had at one time. And he had the stare. The one that said he’d taken stock of all of the goodness and mercy in his soul — everything that was right — and locked it up somewhere safe. Leo wasn’t exactly afraid of him — but he was wise enough to respect him, and respect the fact that he had a gun pointed at Leo’s chest. Leo kept eye contact and started to crawl out of the hatch. He winced.

“Your hand okay?” said Kilodovich.

“Nothing broken,” said Montassini. “Little sore though.”

“Sorry.”

“Hey — I was pointin’ a gun at you then I let my guard down. I’d have done the same thing in your shoes.”

“You are a forgiving soul.” Kilodovich reached into his waistband and pulled Montassini’s gun out. He pointed it at Montassini’s chest too.

“Yeah, whatever.” Montassini stretched in front of the UFO. He felt his joints cracking. Kilodovich backed away, holding both guns up.

He frowned. “Mr. Bucci… You said he was the man who sent you?”

“Yeah.”

“Bucci. Hah. Where have I heard that name before? Wait. Gepetto Bucci?”

“Yeah,” said Montassini, “that Bucci.”

Kilodovich raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. “Hmm.” He backed up, and motioned Montassini over to the steps. “Why would the Italian Mafia be looking for me, now?”

Montassini shrugged. “A favour,” he said.

Kilodovich put Montassini’s gun into his waistband and scratched his stomach with his free hand. His own gun he kept trained on Montassini’s stomach. “A favour for who?”

“Some fuckin’ Turk he does business with. Amar he calls him.”

Now Kilodovich lowered the second gun. If Montassini had wanted to, he probably could have jumped him — grabbed the gun back — and had him face down on the floor. Kilodovich’s mouth opened and closed, and he stared at the floor. That look in his eye dissolved, and for a moment his face held the innocence of a child. Montassini knew he could have taken him now — but fuck. They were soulmates, he and Alexei Kilodovich. You don’t fuck with your soulmate.

“Amar…” Alexei snapped his fingers. “Amar Shadak!”

“Yeah — that sounds right. Amar Shadak. Turkish guy. Part owner of a camping store that the boss bought off two old Russians back in—”

But Kilodovich wasn’t listening. He was getting that faraway look that had become very familiar to Montassini, since he’d come back to the Emissary Hotel, met that killer maid and started on this insane road trip to hell. Kilodovich was in — what was the word the tour guide had used?

He was in —

Rope?

Rupture?

Montassini snapped his fingers. Oh yeah. That was it.

“Rapture.”

Montassini took Alexei by the arm and led him to the door. “It’s going to be all right, pal,” he said, and reached for the gun in Alexei’s hand. “Just give me that.”

Alexei looked at him for a moment — and for just a moment, it seemed as though Montassini could see eternity in Alexei’s eyes. Like he’d opened up that safe place he put himself, and something older — bigger — had come up.

And then the look passed, and Alexei blinked — and grinned for an instant like a newborn.

“Give me that,” said Montassini.

Slowly, as though in a dream, Alexei shook his head. “I keep the gun,” he whispered in another voice, one still not his own. “And Alexei is all right now. No Rapture for him.”

Montassini cracked open the door and peered outside. The tour group was long gone — but he could hear them. He could hear a thousand of them, humming some song down by the harbour.

“So all right,” said Montassini, “what do we do now?”

“Rescue me.”