“I should have brought a book,” I said.
Diana stayed glued to me as we headed toward the table, with both her arms around one of mine and half her front on my back. She probably would have let me carry her if I offered. It made me braver, her being scared.
The table could have doubled as a bowling lane. I sat us at the end by the hearth, in case the logs spontaneously combusted. The second we settled in, the double doors burst open to admit models pushing carts. They set down a buffet of covered silver platters, lighting propane burners under most of them. Diana couldn’t stop staring. I couldn’t start. We shared the same expression.
“I know what I’m going to do with my life,” she said.
I believed her. She had the same fire and determination that drew me to her mother, all those years ago. There were things so impossibly evil it was hard to believe they really existed. Slavery being one of them. “That’s good, and I’ll be your first donor. But right now isn’t the time.”
Diana unclenched her teeth. “I’m supposed to play dumb?”
“It’s worked for me so far.”
All but two of the girls filtered out, and those two waited in our blind spots in case we had a problem hefting the grapes. I took one of the burners from under a chafing dish and set it against the logs in the hearth. Then I started pulling the lids off everything.
I scooped a heap of scrambled eggs done with chives onto a plate and added half a dozen thick strips of bacon. There wasn’t any avocado, which was the biggest sign we weren’t in California anymore, Dorothy.
“That’s a lot of fat,” Diana said. She was eating cottage cheese straight out of a crystal serving bowl.
“Sure is.” I poured myself some coffee. The butter dish was taunting me. I almost asked for an immersion blender but was worried what would happen if the girls couldn’t find one. I ate faster than I meant to. It had been a while.
“I can pour my own water,” Diana said, grabbing the pitcher from her girl.
I cleared my plate and drank three cups of coffee, downing a glass of water in between each of them. When the nuts in the centerpiece turned out to be real I filled my pockets. I was rearranging the twigs and berries to conceal my crime when Fedorov walked in.
“Was your night productive?” he asked.
“As can be,” I said.
Fedorov took a seat at the end of the table. A girl immediately came into the room and set a covered dish in front of him. She lifted the lid to reveal an egg standing in one of those candle holders for eggs. One egg. Feed your enemy dinner, indeed.
Fedorov did a good job ignoring the logs as they erupted into flame. Diana was dying to say something but choked it down. I was tempted to start cracking nuts. They took up less space out of their shells.
“Your fight will begin at midnight,” Fedorov announced.
“Peachy,” I replied.
“If it is not too much of a distraction, I would like to discuss other matters.”
I sat up straight. This was what I came for. “Sure. I got nothing going on.”
“You are aware I produce films,” Fedorov said. His blind-spot girl poured his tea. He took a drink right away. For her sake, I hoped it was the proper temperature.
“I’ve seen all the Cherno Perun movies,” I said.
That pleased Fedorov. Good thing it was the truth. “Oh? What did you think?”
“Damn good, considering. Your guys accomplish a lot, keeping in mind what they have to work with.”
“Yes, yes,” Fedorov said. He set his teacup down on a saucer that narrowly beat it to the table. “We have so few skilled in filmmaking, and I abhor computer graphics. The spectacle is not the point.”
“You’re putting on morality plays.”
Fedorov appraised me again. “You are like an onion, Ken Allen.”
“That’s just my breath. I forgot my toothbrush.”
“I have studied the Jove Brand films endlessly,” Fedorov continued. “They fascinate me. The forging of a modern myth, founded on factual basis.”
“Have you seen the Burgess documentary?” I asked.
“Oh yes. And read all the biographies,” Fedorov said, warming up. His blind-spot girl snuck tea into his cup. “Do you agree with Burgess?”
“Sure.” The coffee had me yapping. “England needed a hero in order to feel relevant, sandwiched between superpowers.”
“Rebuilding its psyche along with its cities,” Fedorov added.
“Brand was the right character at the right time.”
“Well said, and apt, considering your portrayal in Near Death.”
Fedorov’s egg was gone, though I couldn’t remember him taking a bite. Here he was, broaching my topic of choice before I had the chance.
“Portrayal is a kind way of putting it.”
“Nyet, nyet,” Fedorov replied. “The purity of Near Death is what speaks to me. A man is called upon by his superiors for one mission, almost certainly a suicide mission. He is chosen because of his skills. He is not a generalist. He is a specialist, a warrior in the way the last Brand was not. There is no consideration if he will be suitable for the next mission because there is no next mission. In this way, it is your story.”
The way Fedorov was selling it, the passion and surety, made me want to see whatever movie he was talking about. In countless reviews, comments, and reaction videos—none of which I should have looked at—not one person had accused Near Death of being a deep flick.
Rightfully so.
“The entire film takes place over seven hours,” Fedorov went on. “Every scene is about the mission. At the climax of each sequence you think, This is where this new Brand falls, yet he always prevails.”
“We pretty much made it up on the spot.”
“Again, nyet. The film is . . . meta, I believe is the term. Watching it, you are watching a man exchange his life for a legacy.”
Diana caught up. “Are you talking about my uncle?”
Fedorov looked through Diana. “It is all there on the screen, girl. Your uncle’s emotional journey. The mortal betrayal, delivered by very person he sought to protect.”
The flames at my back did nothing for the chill running through me. How much had Fedorov uncovered about Near Death?
Diana held her fork like an icepick. “Uncle Kit died in a plane crash!”
Fedorov wasn’t bothered by her response. I doubted his expression would have changed if she buried the utensil in his cheek.
“Of course,” he said to her before again addressing me. “Have you given thought as to Bowman Fletcher’s true identity?”
What did this have to do with anything? I had a troubling sensation Fedorov was going to keep me here until it was time to get on the helicopter. But if I kept Fedorov talking, he might actually tell me something.
“Do you mean do I think that he really was a secret agent?” I asked. “Maybe. That would explain why the British government protected his identity.”
“Franklin Garand was Fletcher’s first choice to play Brand. Garand was a member of the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare.”
“At least he claimed to be.”
“He was,” Fedorov said with the offhand finality of a man who had done some checking.
I glanced over at Diana. She had been sick of hearing about Jove Brand around the time the training wheels came off her bike.
“I believe Fletcher was Roland Landalf,” Fedorov continued. “Fletcher’s taste for other men’s wives was well documented, and Landalf was the ministry’s resident seduction specialist. Elsbeth Brown and the Duchess Armand were among his conquests. Fletcher was addicted to courting the forbidden, even taking his editor’s daughter as a lover well into his senior years.”
“Which explains all these supposed heirs who keep popping up and trying to claim Fletcher’s estate,” I replied. Whatever Fedorov was getting at, he was sure taking the long way around.
“Exactly. Do you believe life imitates art, Ken Allen?”
“I
n This Town, life is art.”
“You jest, but Jove Brand once dictated trends. What to wear, what car to drive, even how women styled their hair. When Connor Shaw eschewed a hat in The Gamesman Afoot, it was the end of haberdasheries.”
“Also John F. Kennedy,” I said.
Fedorov gestured at me as if I were proving his point for him. “But Kennedy was a Brand fan. He named Fatal Range as one of his favorite novels.”
It was time to guide the conversation toward the two murders I was being framed for. “Do you think Sir Collin was a better Brand than Connor Shaw?”
“This has been refreshing,” Fedorov said as he stood, “but duty calls. After your fight, if you are able, we will continue the discussion.”
“I look forward to it,” I said, rising with him. When Fedorov turned his back, I added “I’d like to place a bet, using my winnings from last night. All of them. On me.”
I was hoping to bring Fedorov back to the table. Instead, he gave the slightest of nods and left. At that point in his life, he’d probably forgotten how door handles worked.
I turned to my blind-spot girl and asked, “There a bathroom around here or should I open a window?”
Turns out there was one next door. I treated it like I didn’t know when I was going to see the next one. The candle on the vanity matched the dining room centerpiece so I stole the nuts out of it too. Plan ahead, that was me.
Diana was addressing the girls when I got back. They were indulging her, but she wasn’t getting anywhere. Unless she knew how to fly a helicopter, there wasn’t much she could do for them anyway.
“I’m going to learn how to fly a helicopter,” she told me.
“It looks pretty easy,” I replied, putting out my arm. “Let’s test our boundaries.”
We weren’t exactly followed as much as someone was either already in or happened to wander into whatever room we explored. The house was locked down tight. I thought about searching for clues but was worried that if actually I found one, it would get us killed.
We walked the grounds next. I turned us away from the parking area as we left, then circled back around. Nothing jumped out at me. There wasn’t a secret diamond mine or a death ray, or if there was, it was well hidden.
The parking area was half full, which I suppose made me an optimist. The White Stag was still there. Waving around the replica Quarreler stashed in the saddleboxes wouldn’t get me anywhere besides the afterlife. Guess I was also a realist.
I looked back toward the gates, calculating. Could I get us there? Could I get the gates open? How far would we have to get down the highway until they gave up the chase? How vengeful would Fedorov be if I vanished before the finals? If I ran now before getting any answers, what was the point of coming here in the first place?
“Should we try it?” Diana asked.
“Maybe if there was a ramp on one side of the gate and a stack of hay bales on the other.”
On our way back to the room, I relieved every fireplace we passed of its display wood, which was a lesser crime than burning the furniture. Once inside, I went into low-power mode, shutting down my senses. Processing stimuli was draining. It was dim and quiet, which helped.
I tried not to contemplate Fedorov’s role in the murders. Before a fight you didn’t want to be distracted by anything new. You watched your favorite movies. You only read from beat-up books. You listened to songs you knew all the words to.
Diana got bored and dug out her earbuds to watch Dean’s tablet. She kept me between her and the door.
“You’ll be out of this soon,” I said.
“What about you?”
“I want to be in it,” I replied before turning over to nap.
Three hours before the fight bell would ring, I shelled nuts and sipped water. I wanted to work on my strategy, but the cameras made me nervous. While Fedorov was a fanatical purist, money was on the line, and who knows who else was watching. I stretched and visualized instead—inserting myself into the pit, rehearsing movement, practicing reaction.
In a real camp, I would have had a minimum of two guys acting as mimics, aping Alexi’s style. They would also have the same build as Alexi and similar reach. I would have spent hundreds of rounds implementing my strategy to transcribe theory into muscle memory. Visualizing was better than nothing, but not by much.
After everything was good and loose, I shoved the furniture out of the way and started moving around. I built slowly, warming everything up before adding speed, until the motions were a blur and the bones in my hands felt like they were separating from the cartilage.
Every athlete deals with the reality of diminishing from their peak. My speed had declined over the last decade, but I never felt the loss as palpably as I did right then. If the timing I’d gained through experience didn’t equal the quickness I’d lost, I was going to have a bad night.
At T-minus two hours, Nat showed up at the door. She was more tan and less tense than the other girls populating Fedorov’s holdings, done up in club wear with a giant purse hanging half onto her back. Nothing about her screamed captive.
“Oh my God, there you are!” Nat said. She rushed into the room like she’d been looking for Diana nonstop for the last sixteen hours. “Pino is down at the boat. Let’s go, it’s drinky time.”
Diana didn’t say anything to Nat, which was both good and bad.
“Do you need this?” Diana asked me, holding up the tablet.
“Not anymore, but it really helped, so thanks.”
Diana said thank you like Dina did, which was to not say it at all. Instead she flashed a smile like I’d caught her off guard. She started toward me, stopped, then jumped in and hugged me.
“Dumb’s the word,” I whispered in her ear.
I felt Diana nod against me a few times. She exhaled against my chest, gathering herself. She broke off but didn’t look away until she had to.
“He’s kinda hot,” Nat whispered loud enough for the cameras. “I need them deets.”
“Uck,” Diana said, slipping into character. They both laughed. She was getting it now. She wasn’t about to show her cards. There was nothing to be gained from accusation and confrontation. She was going to cash out ahead.
Five minutes after they left, a handler came for me. I was all alone on the helicopter ride back to the platform. So far, it had been the same helicopter. After checking the pilot was busy, I rooted around but didn’t find a parachute or anything that doubled as a floatation device. I pulled the pin on the fire extinguisher and turned it to face across from me, in case I needed a useless gesture later.
Our approach allowed a good view of the platform complex. There were twice as many boats as last night and more than one mega-yacht, along with a handful of seaplanes. The boardwalk was bustling. Fedorov’s delay to promote had paid off.
Faking it until you made it had its positives. Walking around like you were already beaten could be a self-fulfilling prophecy. I hopped out of the helicopter and marched toward the arena like this was all my idea. The handlers averted their gaze and opened doors. I made for the locker room like I was a VIP who wasn’t about to take a leak through a hole in the floor.
I changed into the provided salmon shorts and did my darnedest to keep warm. The grated floor was no place to practice footwork, but that wouldn’t bother Alexi. Wherever they had him caged, he wasn’t dancing around. Instead of fast I went slow, with isometric tension in my muscles, flowing from one movement to the next like molasses. The arena above was a lot rowdier than it had been last night. The anticipation steadily rose, generating an ambient heat that raised my internal pressure. I felt like a horse at the gate, trembling to run.
I regulated my breathing in an attempt to get my heart rate under control. If my adrenaline dumped now, I might as well throw in the towel.
The handler peeked in this time instead of whipping the door open. I ignored him and strode with purpose, my gaze forward toward the pit beyond. When the crew saw me coming, they furiously un
screwed the portal as if they were worried I was going to trample the door down. I stepped into the pit, minding the gap. Alexi wasn’t there yet. The champion always entered last.
Well aware a slick patch on the mat could spell my doom, I wiped my feet dry on the wall. I measured the pit in strides, sliding wall to wall and center to wall, internalizing the space. I was going to need every inch. The announcer had to jump out of the way twice.
It was hotter tonight, a combination of additional bodies and lighting. Fedorov had upgraded the cameras for sure. I envisioned him in a philosophical debate about digital versus film with apathetic IT guys, but pushed the musing out of my head. Now was not the time to lose focus.
The announcer introduced me. He got my height, weight, and country of origin correct, before reminding everyone of my shocking victory in the semi-finals.
“Sensei to the Stars, Jove Brand himself, Ken Allen!”
I restrained myself from showboating while the announcer belted my name into an opera. My slim chance for survival relied on complete surprise. There was almost no fight footage of me. The video from the juice bar two years back didn’t tell you much. That guy didn’t expect to miss and never recovered after my first punch landed. Then there was the con footage, but going up against Street Justice was barely a step up from hitting a heavy bag. You could watch Near Death, but in the end all you were left with was the question asked of every action star: Was Ken Allen legit or not?
It was conceivable Alexi’s people had gotten footage from my fight with Broken Hand. It would be good for me if they did, because my strategy last night had nothing to do with my plan tonight. In poker, you played the player, not your cards. Fighting worked the same way. It wasn’t about your strengths. It was about your opponent’s weaknesses. Your job was to cultivate the tools that exploited their flaws. If all you had was a hammer, every problem became a nail.
The wall across from me opened to admit Alexi. He was small for a heavyweight while also less toned than most of his peers. There was an ongoing debate about why he didn’t lose fifteen pounds and dominate another division. But Alexi already ruled the premier weight class, so why bother? Reason one was it would take a lot of cardio. More than a stationary bike and rowing machine could provide.
Jove Brand is Near Death Page 20