A Motley Crew

by Wolf Scherman

  ... ..... .......

  "We need you back"

  "Don't they teach any manners in Moscow anymore? Does the military set off, to one of the coldest places in Siberia, or rather the world, uninvited, and without even the decency of a greet, come trample on my snow?" Her frown was almost permanently frozen on her freckled forehead, with her red eyebrows hovering defiantly over her attractive but peculiar un-matching eyes - her long flaming-red hair completed the rest by force-funneling the shivering man's attention to her magnetic unusually beautiful eyes - one bright emerald-green, and the other, a deep sapphire-blue eye, arrowing over to the seven-foot blond army giant.

  "Oh my word! I never knew! You're beautiful! I mean, your eyes...! How did you manage to keep it..."

  "A secret? Contact lenses covered them up"

  "I'm sorry. I am just surprised to see you. I didn't think that the rumours were true" Andrei knew his instructor from years before, very well, and kept a safe just-over two meter safe distance away from her, and as backup, a clear unobstructed space over the pure and freezing minus sixty-five degrees Celsius snow, behind him. Rubbing his leather gloves with increasing speed, did absolutely nothing to warm his hands and the frigid wind, tugging on his thick and tightly knitted wool scarf that coiled his neck three times, also proved too severe for his Moscow uniform.

  "Then I will start. I'm fine thank you, and how are you?"

  "This place is freezing Iris, how do you even survive here? It's like hell, but a frozen one"

  "That was strike two..."

  "Good morning Iris"

  "Good morning Andrei. Since you drove all the way out here, you can just as well be useful. Grab that end of the cooler, please"

  "Heavens! What's in here? It must weigh a ton!"

  "You've been in America too long. Exaggerating doesn't suit you."

  "What? I mean pardon?"

  "Hayak"

  "Hayak?"

  "Yes, Hayak. It's flavour and colour is reminiscent of fatty oil. My own recipe copied from our ancestors. It's whitefish and Kyorchekh. Much like ice cream. Shaved frozen fisk, add fresh cow's milk, whipped-in berries, partially frozen and converted into cakes. The best form Omega-3 acid"

  "My G_d, it sounds terrible! What is it good for?"

  "To survive here. It strengthens the heart, more than anything else will do, produces massive amounts of energy to stay warm, and slows down the ageing process"

  "Mind if I look inside before we take it out the Landrover?"

  "Be my guest"

  "This is it...! I remember now! This is what you had us eat during training?"

  "Yes, it tastes better if you don't have a clue what's in it. You all loved it, as I recall? And it kept you alive. Worked better than the steroids or the adrenaline injections. 'That', the dear old doctor eventually proved. Remember?"

  "And this?"

  "If you are vegan, or vegetarian, you'll die out here for sure. It's reindeer meat, and more raw shaved frozen fish..."

  "No, these..."

  "Oh that? My favourite. Ice-cubed horse blood. We used to be served this as a treat, for helping around the house"

  "You're not serious. What do you do with it?"

  "Eat it of course... With macaroni"

  "I think I'm going to be sick"

  "I hope not. You need to help me carry this inside. Or, or you can say thank you for the chat and leave, and I'll drag the cooler across the snow myself. It's only two hundred meters and I do this once a week. Unless I have company, then it's twice a week. This is a week's supply of food, just so you know. So? Are you helping, or leaving? I'm getting chilly, and I'm in the mood for hot chocolate..."

  "Oh, so there is something, not smeared with the smell of fish or covered in some animal's blood? Of course, I'll help, let's go"

  "You're funny"

  "No, saying that you're feeling chilly, while I freeze my balls off... that would count as funny. Apologies, I didn't mean to be rude"

  "Not at all. I am surprised they still have those in Moscow"

  "Damn this is heavy...! Have what in Moscow?"

  "Balls. Since they sent you and not a platoon of the others."

  "Yes I heard what happened"

  "And? What did you hear?"

  "That they sent a handful to force-fetch you. And you let Moscow know that their puppets were too hypothermic to call them, so you did...?

  "So? Will you will you come? I can't imagine what draws you to, probably one of the coldest places on earth"

  "Coincidentally, Oymyakon 'is' the coldest inhabited place on Earth. Put that away, those gloves are of no use. You're not on a parade through town to impress the Vodka-guzzlers. Take these, else you're going to die out here. It has wool inside, you're going to lose your hands of you don't, frostbite is no rumour. It's minus sixty-five degrees Celsius. Wait, come on, lift. And one, and two... and..."

  Iris could care less about office politics, but being overlooked twice, because of nothing other than her gender, didn't sit well. One morning she left a letter on the General's desk, and that was that.

  (I've had enough. I'm going home. If you need me, you know where to find me. Love "I") As the most decorated officer and would-be head of the highly acclaimed Spetsnaz, the Gods apparently did not agree with Iris's ambition. Seldom she bothered to still being involved in the training of Russian military and on occasion, the Police - normally on invitation only, with PLEASE in bold letters, and not even by her father, but the minister of defence himself.

  Growing up under the icy cloak of remoteness, where mother nature must have skipped Sunday school when forgiveness and mercy were discussed, here, in Oymyakon, the ground is in places permanently frozen for tens of feet, to the point where the soil has to be heated with a large fire, at least three days prior to burial, and cars run twenty-four-seven, if not parked in heated garages - Iris, having qualified Cum-Laude in the medical field, was as good as it got to offer survival- and field-medic courses.

  "Coffee?"

  "I'd kill for a cup. Yes please"

  "What are you doing with that!?"

  "The general said to give this to you... Why are you switching the little off? And what's with the look?"

  "Long story. I'll tell you on the way. Come let's go. Well have to have coffee another day. Bring your kit:

  "Go where? And the coffee?"

  "To the barn"

  "The barn? Why?"

  "You'll see. Come"

  "What do you mean you brought the helicopter back? Which one? You mean to tell me we were missing one?"

  "Yep"

  "I can't wait to see how this day will end... Anyway, back to matters at hand. Why him? Thought you're above framing friends? That's cold Catrina..." A surprised look instantly replaced his skew smile on his wrinkled pale old face. The deep vertical cut on his cheek from his left eye down, and getting lost under his thick grey beard, have healed decades before, but the much necessary nerves for his younger charm, for all within smiling reach, had stubbornly refused to grow back - morphing a young and intensely attractive, thick haired and square jawed twenty-two-year old Russian wrestling champion, into a freakish specimen of manhood. As always prior to classic concerts, he was impeccably dressed in a velvet black bow-tie, satin white shirt and black Armani suit, and as final touch, a pair if golden Templar cufflinks - the only giveaway that the master he served, was not necessarily Russian politics, but a great leap higher. The general pushed his large hand against the frozen office window, then, after surveying his finger nails, removed his hand, staring at the steamy shape which instantly vanishing again. Eyeing the unusually high amount of snow-laden cars downstairs as they battled trough the deep snow to find parking, he frowned at the symbolism.

  'Much like Iris'. He thought.

  "For her, it had been a solitary and troublesome existence - first having to find a place to be, then, like before, to melt away in the snow. She was no stranger to coming face-to-face with unforgiving challenges, and the unenviable minus
fifty-six degree Celsius temperatures that the village on Oymyakon in Russia boasted, had been just one of a number of hurdles.

  "I know I would have to play along with her today, if at all, I valued this life. Please let the Gods protect me, as well as her" Looking up at her, he paused rubbing his left side cufflink with his thumb and index finger. He noticed she was unnaturally insistent that he had some coffee to warm up, and uncharacteristically went with it. Also, he knew her well enough to know she'd limit any information she shared, only to what in her mind had outlived its usefulness, never more. Strangely, he preferred it that way. After all, he wouldn't be around much longer to look out for her. Not that she wasn't independent, or incapable of managing the wishes of the Order, but times were changing at break-neck speed, and Iris found herself in a modern world where her type were hidden in obscurity.

  "So tell me the part... the "official' part. I have to write something in the file, you understand that...?" Looking up from the frozen landscape downstairs, across to her, he could just as well have been looking at her mother at the same age. A splitting image, advertising the same jet black shoulder-length hair, the same smile that lifted her ears just a little when she did, and the same darting eyes sharing a similar peculiarity, but hidden by brown contact lenses.

  "You prefer to call me Catrina, when you're worried. You always have. Not that I mind, I know how much you loved mother." Iris walked over to the fireplace and took a closer look at the somewhat faded old black and white wedding photograph.

  "In all the years, you never told a soul?" She looked over at him as she removed her gloves and rubbed her hands at the fire place, waiting for a response.

  "What would you like me to write here?" He shook his head in disapproval briefly, thought of her mother, then shared his skew smile. She already knew the answer to the same question anyone in her position would ask. Creatures like Iris was as much myth as unicorns and the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, for the world outside.

  "Ok then. He's married, young, arrogant, have lots of mistakes to make still and..." Iris paused, still warming here hands and staring into the bright yellow and orange tongues as they patiently ate away through the thick dry logs then made her way to the wood-and-leather clad office's door and locked it. Tilting her head sideways, she removed her contact lenses and retrieved a tiny box from her coat pocket.

  "Well, I hope there's more? I mean at least for 'this' file?" The general sat down, leaned forward on his elbows and patiently waited, while his golden fountain pen hovered the blank pages.

  "I chose an attorney loyal to my, rather 'our' cause. In South Africa the system differs from here. You asked that I secure funding for Sam... So, I did. I'll not have you or anyone question my motives and judge me... They call it 'back-to-back' transfers. In essence, both the seller and buyer sign over their authority to the attorney central to the property change of ownership, but never do the parties meet. The attorney would act as agent for both parties and would submit to their Deeds Office all relevant information to transfer ownership. The attorney would not technically be the new owner, but the vast financial difference between what the seller 'at least' on paper sells for, and what the buyer buys for; although not for the buyer's benefit, would at no stage be reflected accurately at their Taxation authority. So the actual profit on the sale, added to the fact that the attorney does not pay tax or transfer duty to their government, adds up to a small fortune over time. Replacing residential buyers with high-density residential developers, have increased the profit margin seven fold depending on land size. The records of the illegal transactions over the past few years are being delivered to a greedy opposition-attorney's firm as we speak. I didn't have to use 'our' budget as the South African Revenue Services offer an attractive percentage as informers fee for successful prosecution of tax evasion. Not to be confused with tax avoidance as I explained last time, which is a legal way to maximise allowable taxable business expenses".

  "And the funds, or proceeds from the illegal gain, how will that be transferred?" The old general was making notes as Iris explained.

  "Well a new partner had been introduced to offer financial assistance, after we had to delay some bonds on the properties via a mortgage originator, also loyal to our cause. It caused adequate financial stress at the time. After prosecution, while judgement is delivered, the new partner, will transfer the funds into this account and liquidate the legal firm. Most of the attention in a local newspaper will naturally be focused on disgruntled estate agents who lost commission and an unscrupulous bridging financing firm who's currently milking the system by paying out massive amounts in the hope that they'll recover on deal registrations with interest accrued." Iris held out an envelope containing a newly opened bank account, an application for a visa to Russia, the fake South African passport of the newly partnered attorney, and a stamped share certificate with a blank line to be completed for the accompanying transfer of ownership for twenty-two-million South African Rand.

  "Eager to get out of South Africa, is he?" The general smiled at her design and people's inherent greed.

  "Who's the beneficiary?" The general held the share certificate up in the light from outside which penetrated the steamed-up windows, and raised his eyebrows.

  "We'll get to that. It's more complicated. The issue of their current regime’s previous and unclaimed arms cashes... Previously both sympathetic Churches and international well-meaning Anti-Apartheid rock bands have generously funnelled funding towards the hoodwinked democratic ideal. They unknowingly donated to the training of so called freedom fighters. The rest of the money for setting up training camps in Africa and the training provided by Moscow were derived from sporadic small scale bank robberies and looting poorly trained and ill-equipped cash in transit vehicles. Since the second world war our enemies have funded both sides of the conflict and military armament have been dumped on the African continent ever since. Flooded them with fairly good Chinese copies of Russian Kalashnikovs, Draganovs, Tokarevs and a variety of substandard but not totally useless antipersonnel-mines." Iris continued and sat down opposite him. We both knew at the time that the hundreds of hidden arms cashes in Zimbabwe and South Africa would fall through the cracks of the political floor in the wake of the excitement of their elections. It was by this very office's design as I recall, not by any strange or unfortunate coincidence..." Iris carried on and pulled on her leather gloves as she timed his reaction. Glancing at her wrist watch, she knew had less than five minutes to bring her unannounced visit to conclusion.

  "I don't follow, what does that have to do with our duties, or my office?" The general tugged uncomfortably at his bow-tie and sat back with his arms folded then looked out at the heavy falling snow.

  Outside in the hallway a platoon of polished boots were thundering closer on the wooden floors and echoing up to the locked door and bolted down to an office, at the end of the hallway. The loud and distinctly crashing-sound further down, of a locked door being kicked from its hinges after much shouting, had the general jolt l-up from his desk in amazement.

  "At a hundred-and-twenty kilos, I thought you'd be sleeping already... father." Iris's voice echoed somewhere in the back of an endless ringing sound, and blinding flashes followed by smoke filling his office. He found himself on his office floor with Iris pulling at the mask of a black clad giant of a man aiming a 9mm carbine at the general before the dagger from her boot disappeared into the back base of his head just under his protective helmet. Two thuds pounded down next to the general. First the man on whose mask she had been pulling on, then immediately after, another attacker whose neck too met with the business end of Iris's cold dagger. Iris was on form like nothing he'd witnessed in battle - and a third man had the utter misfortune of bursting into the office neglecting to check whether she was alive on the floor, and rushed up to the general. Iris had already put the dagger back in the sleeve inside her left boot when the man in a black combat suit paused over the general, his finger on the trigger, sl
amming straight forward, dead before he hit the hard wooden floor, face first. It was the third deafening thud in so many minutes, and again she took an unnatural twisted position at the door lying on her side, eyes closed and waiting - as if she died while clasping her chest.