The crowd roared back.
“Excellent,” he continued, though I stopped listening. There wasn’t going to be anything there I hadn’t seen before. The same competitions, the same jokes, with the only possible variable being how randy he was going to get. It was a question of whether he’d stick with a pencil with a string and a bottle, or if he’d go all the way to a banana and condoms.
I was much more interested in the sandwiches I noticed at the bar. It looked like they had sausage as well as fish, all wrapped up nicely. And lots of them…
Somebody grabbed me by the arm and turned me around. It was Azov. “Kif, let’s go.”
“Where?” I looked back at the food and swallowed. “And why?”
“Upstairs, my friend, upstairs. The Old Man wants to see the inner circle in his office, and you’re invited.”
“What about me?” Vika asked nervously. I wasn’t sure if she was more nervous about being invited or not being invited.
“This one’s just for the guys,” Azov replied imperiously. “Sorry. You can head over and hang out with everyone else, for now.”
Two clowns had joined Ded Moroz and the Snow Maiden, and one of them was holding a cluster of bananas.
“Just, not this competition,” I said to her. “Please. Wait for me here, too, or call me if you head home. Ilya, can I grab a sandwich for the road? I’m famished.”
“Go for it.” He waited until I bit into the delicious sausage, my stomach growling, and set off toward the elevators.
I followed, chewing as I walked.
Chapter Fifteen
In which the partying finally comes to an end..
“I should’ve grabbed two sandwiches,” I said to Azov as I brushed the crumbs off my jacket onto the floor of the elevator. “All that did was get my appetite going.”
“You’re an odd duck, Nikiforov,” Azov said thoughtfully. “Everyone’s out there drinking, and you’re eating. Everyone just wants to move up the ladder, elbowing everyone else out of the way, and you couldn’t care less. You got land, a house, everything else, and you haven’t even gone out to see it, not to mention taking care of the paperwork. Sometimes, I have to wonder—are you really from this world?”
“Sure, I am. And I was over there once. It’s just that you need time and freedom of movement to do everything you just listed. And where am I going to get that? You all have me by the throat, demanding results, even locking me up.”
“That’s a temporary measure, but a necessary one. You should understand that.”
“I do. I wasn’t the one who started this conversation. Also, by the way, I’m really glad you’re back. That Edward… Well, I’m not a fan. He’s a fine guy, just kind of frozen, fake, like a fish out of water.”
“You’re telling the truth,” Azov said with, I thought, surprise as he looked me in the eye. “That’s odd.”
“Why would I lie? I just say things the way I see them—I’m an honest, sincere guy.”
“Yeah, sure,” Azov nodded. “Okay, then, Mr. Honest and Sincere, who brought up the conversation about Jeremiah? I mean, about how you need to meet with him.”
I scratched my head. It hadn’t been that long ago, but I still couldn’t remember.
“Me, probably,” I replied, my voice betraying my lack of confidence. “First, I gave the letter to Zimin. He read it and told me that we’d have the meeting. We decided on the third. Why? What’s wrong? I haven’t called Jeremiah yet, so there’s still time to change everything if need be. I’m not excited about meeting him, or about our trip to Kasimov, for that matter.”
Wait a second… He can save me!
“Go to Kasimov; no sense disappointing your girl,” he said, quickly dashing my hopes. “It’ll be good for you, getting the chance to take a break. You don’t look good, kind of pale.”
“Working this hard would kill a horse,” I said sullenly.
“Actually, an hour ago, when you were chugging vodka, you looked fine.” The elevator stopped, and the doors opened, but Azov didn’t pay any attention. Suddenly, his cold, powerful fingers latched around my jaw and yanked my head upward. “Well, look at that. Who were you with, idiot?”
“Nobody,” I gurgled—talking with an immobilized jaw wasn’t easy. “Just with Vika, if you’re talking about what I think you’re talking about. And not today.”
“Damn it, you leave for a week…” He was clearly angry. “Things have gone to pot around here…”
“We’re here,” I said, my jaw hurting. “Time to get off.”
“We’ll talk later,” Azov said threateningly as we stepped out of the elevator.
What was he talking about? Obviously, Dasha was the person in question, but what could he have been looking at my neck for? And why did he lash out like that? There wasn’t a hickey. Otherwise Lika would have said something when I asked. Hickeys and lipstick are like a pimple on a young girl’s face—whatever you do to hide them, they stick out like a sore thumb.
But if it wasn’t either of those, what was it? I didn’t doubt that it had something to do with the way I’d gone as crazy for her as a ninth-grader seeing the neighbor girl naked.
“What are you waiting for?” Azov asked me in a hushed whisper before knocking three times on the tall, yellow door. It opened immediately as if inviting us inside.
***
Nothing had changed since my last visit. It was the same semi-darkness, the same cozy feeling, and the same head-spinning smell—oranges, or something else from my childhood I couldn’t quite put a finger on. Vanilla? Cardamom? Peaches? I couldn’t figure it out.
“There they are, the inseparable buddies!” The Old Man was sitting at his desk, his jacket off and his snow-white shirt shining amid the gloom. “Well, my friend, did you miss Ilya? Let’s hear it.”
Zimin and Valyaev, sitting at a small table loaded with modest but delicious-looking snacks, turned pale and tense faces toward me at the same time, expecting an answer. I couldn’t see the Old Man’s face; it melted away before my eyes, the darkness heavier than I first thought.
“We’re all a single unit,” I said slowly. “Like the bristles on a broom. Take one away, and the whole thing will break down. So, you took Ilya away, and who could replace him? The same is true for everyone else—if Maxim were to be sent on a business trip, nobody would be able to take his place.”
“Very clever,” the Old Man said with a clap, and I saw his almond eyes glint. “And diplomatic. Lots of words, all well and good, but no concrete answer to my question.”
“Well, Ilya isn’t some girl I’m supposed to pine away for,” I replied. “I just wasn’t sure exactly what you were looking for.”
“Oh, so it’s my fault for asking the wrong question?” the Old Man laughed. “Would you look at that! Maximillian, you find some great people, although in a few years, they’ll be so good, they’ll take your place and send you off into oblivion.”
“I’ll have to be more careful,” Zimin muttered.
“You’ll have to think about who you have hire them and who you don’t,” Azov said suddenly. “We all know who said that cadres decide everything.”
“Don’t be so categorical, Ilya,” the Old Man said complacently, gesturing me toward a chair. I plopped down next to Valyaev and, unable to stop myself, took a piece of bread from the table and started slathering caviar over it. If only they had butter. “Sure, you’re right, to a point, but don’t get carried away and say something you might later regret.”
“Ilya’s right,” Zimin said, his downcast eyes, hollow voice, and slumped figure showing deep contrition. “It’s my fault, the result of too many hurried and poor decisions in a row…”
“Kif, my friend, would you mind picking any heavy book from that bookshelf?” the Old Man asked me suddenly. I set my sandwich down, having just taken a big bite out of it, nodded, and stepped over in that direction.
It was quite the bookshelf. I’m no connoisseur of antique furniture, but there are some things you can just te
ll have been refined by time. The tangy smell of days gone by, the workmanship you don’t find anymore, the personality—they’re all there. It’s like they’re telling you about everything they know, everything they’ve seen, everything they’ve been through. And we’ll outlive you, too, kid.
I pulled open the door, which swung wide fluidly, almost without my help, and grabbed the spine of a thick book with a dark-blue cover. It turned out to be surprisingly light.
“Will this work?” I asked through the food in my mouth. “It’s… What is it?”
I peered closer at the letters on the cover, and they weren’t exactly Russian. It looked like the author had mixed our alphabet up with Greek.
“Mathe…Mathe…matics…” I sounded out, finally. “I don’t know the author, though he definitely wasn’t Russian.”
“Byzantine,” the Old Man said. “Yes, a good book. It’ll be kind of a shame to lose it, but that’s okay—it’s for a friend… Kif, put it on that tray and use that candle to burn it.”
I looked to my left and saw a candlestick with a candle burning in it. How did I not see that? The hunger must have been sapping my attentiveness.
“What a shame,” I said, turning the book over in my hands. “It’s probably five hundred years old, if not older.”
“Definitely older,” the Old Man replied. “But we need ashes.”
From the way he said it, I could tell I was supposed to ask a question. It wasn’t going to end well, but I didn’t want to end up where the other two were. Stay silent and wait to hear what my punishment is? No, thank you.
“Ashes?”
“Yes,” the Old Man replied, his voice turning to ice. “Light, flying, stinking ashes…lots of them. We need to stuff Maximillian von der Einfrein’s head with something, no? His empty, brainless, arrogant head, which shouldn’t be bowing penitently; it should be getting chopped off. Chopped off!”
The Old Man’s last phrase rang through the room, but he wasn’t yelling. To the contrary, he was speaking very softly. I still couldn’t breathe. I clutched the book as if trying to protect myself from something, as if it would do anything. It was scary, but I didn’t know where the fear was coming from; nobody was yelling at me. I was in his good graces, actually. Still, if I’d had my druthers, I would’ve leaped straight out the window, regardless of the floor we were on.
“It’s your right, Master.” Zimin slipped off his chair, his knees echoing against the wood floor. The parquet here is as well made as everything else. It was dark crimson, beautiful, with every grain on prominent display. “Do as you please.”
“Should I burn the book?” I forced myself to ask. It wasn’t that smart to get involved, but I had to save Zimin. If he found himself shorter by a head, I would have two problems. First, Valyaev was primed to take his place. That drunk in charge? No, thank you. Second, I would be witness to a murder, a ritual murder, at that—an aggravating circumstance. Everybody else in the room would have been able to buy their way out of it, but I’d rot away in jail as the mastermind behind the whole thing. That was no joke, either; you never knew what to expect with that company. I’d already joked about cutting off heads, and that had ended poorly. And that was in the game.
Everyone turned to me, leaving me to cluck my tongue and repeat my question.
“Am I still supposed to burn the book?”
The Old Man looked at me with interest. “You think ashes would be better than a sword? More effective?”
“I don’t think there’s much point in either of them,” I replied, putting the book back where I’d gotten it from. “If you ask me, we should all just have a drink.”
“Care to explain yourself?” The Old Man rubbed his chin, the smile playing on his face the kind naked women give you and Sunday fathers give their children when they’re showing off how smart they are. “The general idea.”
“You won’t get the book back, and you won’t get his head back, either,” I said as I sat back down. “We’ll still have work to do, though. If Maxim isn’t around, there’ll be fewer of us, and that will make things easier for our enemies.”
I really wanted to glance over and see what Azov thought since I could change my position pretty readily. It didn’t look like anybody’s head was going to roll, and he had all the power. Can’t look away when the Old Man has his eye on you, though…
“Maximillian, pour me some wine.” The Old Man held out a beautiful, expensive, equally old cup. This isn’t an office; it’s a museum. “I think your man is right; we need a drink.”
Zimin leaped to his feet, grabbed a dusty bottle, and sent the thick red liquid pouring out of it. It smelled both savory and sweet, like a garden in late summer or a batch of berries. The aroma even had a soothing effect.
“Excellent wine,” the Old Man said, swirling his glass around. “At least, it looks good.”
“It tastes as good as it looks,” Zimin said. “I hope.”
“Again, with the hoping,” the Old Man scowled. “You need to tell me what’s definitely true. Leave all those maybes and hopes for politicians—they eat them up, especially when they’re backed up by bank notes. I, on the other hand, want my people to know exactly what they’re doing. I want them to be prepared to answer with their heads, personally, for what they do.”
Eat them up. Oh, I didn’t finish my sandwich! It wasn’t the right time, though; the conversation was in full swing.
The Old Man didn’t bother to give a toast or pour anything for the rest of the group. He just drank off the wine and nodded his head with the air of an expert.
“Yes, excellent wine, indeed,” he said softly. “Ah, the sun they had in Andalusia, the women! How they all loved and respected me. What a shame for all of them; those who love should know that the love you give is often returned in the form of pain three times over. Fire, water, and pain, that’s all those sturdy fellows got, and their quivering, tender ladies, too.”
His head dropped, showing off a black mane with nary a gray hair to be seen, and seemed to fall asleep.
I quickly slipped over to the table, stuffed the remains of my sandwich in my mouth, and bit down with relish.
“You’re still eating?” Valyaev practically mouthed to me.
“He had a brief encounter with one of Alina’s beauties,” Azov replied, just as softly. “Of course, he’s hungry.”
I was grabbed by the jaw once more, my head was wrenched backward, and I could neither chew nor swallow.
“I’m going to slit her throat,” Zimin hissed. “Has she lost her mind?”
“She probably doesn’t even know,” Azov replied. “Her girls are all over the building, too many for us to keep track of. They work everywhere, in all the departments, and we can’t always remember who’s who. Didn’t I tell you?”
“They’re no better and no worse,” Valyaev whispered back. “They work fine, even better than some others. And hey, what’s the worst that could have happened? Think about it. He just would’ve had himself a good time.”
“That kind of a good time comes at a price,” Azov replied, his brows lowering. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Ilya, come on,” Valyaev said. “We both know right where we are. You’re on your high horse; we’re down here in the pile of dung. And we both know that we owe you, so we’ll figure something out later. Everything ended up okay with Kif, too, so let’s let it go. We’ll do our auto-da-fé later if that’s what it takes.”
Azov nodded shortly and glanced at me, letting Valyaev know that he’d heard and would remember everything, and that he had a witness.
“Yes,” the Old Man said. He wasn’t asleep; he’d just been swept deep off into his memories. “Those were some good days.”
“Some more wine, Master?” Zimin asked with childlike reverence.
“Please.” A hand bedecked with an enormous ring held his cup out toward the greenish neck of the bottle. “An excellent night, excellent wine, and excellent company. Wouldn’t you all agree?”
“Ab
solutely, Master,” Valyaev barked cheerfully. “I couldn’t think of anything better!”
I took another piece of bread (It’s so good—fresh, spongy, with a crunchy crust, and the smell…), put a piece of cheese on it, and then placed a few slices of ham on top.
“If you eat well, you work well,” the Old Man said, looking at me. “This is the first time I’m seeing that from you.”
“I didn’t have anything to eat all day, yesterday,” I said, just hoping nobody else would be grabbing my face. “Just a look at all the abundance here was enough to set the juices flowing.”
“Go ahead, eat,” the Old Man replied, taking a drink of wine. “The night is long, and it’s tradition to spend it with a full stomach.”
“Why not?” I took another bite. “Eating, drinking, and dancing…great, all of them. We could set off some fireworks, too.”
“Fireworks?” he laughed softly and melodiously. “What fun. So, when are you meeting with that…”
He snapped his fingers.
“Jeremy,” Azov said.
“Yes, him. I’ve never heard of him; must be somebody lower down.”
He sure knew how to change the subject.
“January 3,” I said shortly, just the way he liked it. “During the day.”
The Old Man set his cup down on his desk. “All right. Tell him that Raidion doesn’t hold anything against his masters regarding the two incidents that occurred with you and that we won’t be demanding any compensation. Clear?”
“Crystal,” I nodded. “I’ll tell him, word for word.”
Just then, my phone rang in my pocket.
“I apologize,” I said, embarrassed. “I forgot to turn it off.”
“It’s a holiday,” the Old Man said with his arms spread wide. “I’m sure it’s just somebody wanting to wish you a happy New Year.”
“No, it’s Vika. She probably headed back to our apartment.”
“Well, answer it,” he replied, looking at me uncomprehendingly. “You need to find out, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said as I hit the green button. “What’s up?”
The Right to Choose Page 27