“We are looking for a very special bottle of Absinthe. Our friend told us that you would be the one to talk to about acquiring it.”
The shop owner shrugged, “Robert is prone to flattery, but I can try. What are you looking for?”
I stood dumbfounded, “He didn't tell you why we were coming?”
The smile on the owner's face faded and a worried expression crept into his features, “No, only that you might be arriving in this week. He said you were connoisseurs and that I might have exactly what you needed.”
Chris looked at me, “Do you want me to hit you in the shoulder again?”
“What?” I said in surprise.
Chris didn't answer, instead he placed his index finger to his lips and silently “shushed” me.
I raised the palms of my hands in a “what's going on?” motion, but Chris had turned back to the owner and said, “We are hoping to find a bottle or bottles from a producer called J.L.T.”
The owner's eyes widened, “You... you know of J.L.T.?”
I couldn't help myself, “That surprises you?”
The owner made a move with his head and neck that wordlessly conveyed incredulity and said, “J.L.T. is extremely rare and the producer is not recorded in any documentation or literature. We only know of the work from the bottles found in forgotten cellars that date pre-ban, and usually are from the mid seventeenth century. Such a bottle of Absinthe is not for drinking. It is for a collector... or a museum.”
“And,” I asked, “You have one?”
“Perhaps,” the owner's eyes grew very serious, “was there a particular year you were hoping for?”
Without missing a beat Chris said, “1876.”
The owner nodded and removed a bottle of water from beneath the counter along with three crystal glasses, three slotted spoons and a small bowl of sugar cubes. “Come over, I have what you need.” Chris and I exchanged looks of confusion as we stepped up to the bar. The owner placed three small silver chalices, each resting on four winding legs, next to the glasses on the bar and turned from the bar to look at the wall of bottled Absinthe, before approaching and carefully selecting one of the bottles from the wall. He walked back around us, and with a practiced precision opened the bottle of spirits to set it on the bar for us to inspect.
“Oh!” Chris exclaimed as if understanding and picked up the bottle to smell the contents.
“That doesn't look like the bottle we asked for,” I said, stating the obvious.
“No, no it isn't. You are right. This is a very young bottle of Absinthe, but it is a fine example of the spirit. You will join me in a sampling?”
“Smells like licorice,” Chris said as he set the bottle back on the counter, “I thought all Russians drank vodka?”
The owners face screwed up as if Chris had just placed something fecal under his nose, “Vodka?! Peah!!” The owner had turned and mimicked spitting something foul from his mouth, “Tasteless potato water without any soul. There is no art to Vodka, only purity.”
The owner lifted the bottle and poured enough of the contents to fill each of the glasses in front of us about a third of the way up from the bottom. Then as he placed one of the small silver chalices on top of each glass he said, “See how the Absinthe is white and pale as it sits in the glasses now?” We nodded as he placed a sugar cube on each of the three slotted spoons and slid one of the spoons under the legs of each chalice to rest above each of the three glasses.
“Those things are Absinthe fountains? They seem so... basic, compared to the wild things you have on your wall.”
The owner nodded, “Yes, these are for individual tastings of only the finest bottles. My creations on the walls are for more...” he searched for the right word, “...commercial use. Mostly I sell them to the various Absinthe bars that are cropping up since the ban on the spirit was lifted in 1990's. They add the right ambiance to the room, as well as perpetuate the myth and majesty of Absinthe, but they are meant more for commercial use in diluting portions on a large scale. For us, we will concentrate on the singular glass as our sole focus”
Twisting the cap off of the water bottle, the owner filled each of the individual serving fountains, opening a spigot in each base. I watched as the fountain released the water, drop by drop in rapid succession onto the sugar cubes, which then dripped their way into the glass.
With a flourish of waving hands the owner gestured to our glasses, “Now watch for the green lady to appear.”
I wanted to roll my eyes at the David Copperfield-esque showmanship the owner was throwing at us. Of course Chris, former LAPD medical examiner and forever science nerd, was completely enraptured. His enthusiasm was addictive, so I turned back to my drink and watched as the sugar water dripped. At first nothing happened, however, as more of the sugar water dripped the contents of the Absinthe in the glass began to change. Before I knew it, I too, was watching with fascination as the translucent white liquor changed color until, when the last drop fell, the Absinthe was now a deep rich translucent green.
“The lady has arrived,” the owner declared and lifted his chalice off the top of his glass. Chris and I followed suit, and together the three of us raised our glasses to one another. “To friends and business, the best comrades make.” The owner supplied the toast and placed the glass to his lips.
Sensing the chance to ingratiate myself where I might have fallen short earlier I said in Russian, “Za fstrye'-tchoo.”
Both the owner and Chris looked at me as if I had just lifted a glowing hunk of Uranium out of my pocket. The owner smiled and translated, more in surprise than need, “Yes, ‘to our meeting,’ excellent sentiment.” He gently clinked glasses with me and together we shared a drink. It tasted very sweet, more so than the sugar that had dripped into my glass should have made it taste, and the flavors of licorice and floral herbs resulted in a flavor unique to any alcohol I had ever tried. There was little, or possibly none of the burn usually associated with alcohol, despite the surprisingly high percentage it contained.
I lowered my glass to see the shop owner looking expectantly at Chris, with Chris looking back and forth nervously between the owner and me. He hadn't sampled his drink yet and looked a little unhappy. My nerves suddenly perked up and I was worried that I had again missed something.
Chris shuffled his feet, now looking more self-conscious than worried, “I... I only know one toast...”
“What's up?” I said.
Perhaps it was his life revolving around alcohol and those who drank it, but the owner immediately had a smile spread across his face, “Oh, I can tell, this shall be a good one! Please continue!”
I looked from the bartender to Chris, “What…will be a good one?”
Chris shrugged, his inner turmoil vanishing with the words the owner had spoken and with a deadly serious demeanor on his face.
“Here's to the girls we love the best,
we love them most when they're undressed...”
“Oh crap...” I muttered as I put one hand over my eyes as if massaging a headache. The owner was near giddy with anticipation, his eyes twinkling with merriment as he listened to Chris' bawdy toast.
“We love them sitting, standing, lying;
if they had wings we'd love them flying.
And when they're dead, buried and forgotten;
we'll dig them up and fuck them rot-”
“Chris!” I cut him off on the last word, “Jesus man!”
But the owner got it and began to laugh. He laughed so hard that he had to put his drink down on the bar-top in order to support himself with his hands. Chris was laughing too, but if it was at his own toast or the owner's reaction I couldn't say. It was infectious and I found myself chuckling as well when the owner grabbed at his chest, feigning a heart attack as he continued to laugh uncontrollably for another few seconds. Eventually we managed to regain some form of composure as the owner retrieved his glass and raised it to Chris, “That was wonderfully horrible. Thank you for that.”
> They clinked glasses and drank. I drank the remnants from my glass as well and, as we set the glasses down the owner removed another set of keys from his pocket and turned to what appeared to be a storeroom door. He beckoned for us to follow him and, as Chris and I walked around the bar, I heard the owner chuckle some more and repeat the last line of Chris' toast under his breath before he opened the door to the storeroom and we all walked through. We found ourselves in a storage area with many crates, each filled with bottles of Absinthe and stacked haphazardly throughout the room.
“This business was far more lucrative when Absinthe was illegal throughout the world. I could sell it on the black market for several times its actual value, but then they lifted the ban and I thought I'd have to drink all of these myself. Thanks be to God and the internet for saving my business. Here help me with this.”
The owner pointed at a particularly large crate and together we all found a handhold and slid the several hundred pound box of booze to one side, revealing another small door.
The owner used yet another key to open it and said, “Watch your heads,” as he hunched over and went through. Chris and I did as we were told and walked into a completely dark room. A familiar scent filled my nose, but before I could give a name to it the lights came on and we found ourselves in a huge space, lined floor to ceiling with military grade weapons. The scent had been gun oil and cleaning solvent and for the second time in less than half an hour my eyes went wide in shock at what they were seeing. Automatic rifles, assorted handguns and shoulder mounted Stinger missiles were mounted on the walls, while grenades and other anti-personnel devices were in bins or stacked in neat piles on the floor. Folding tables were filled with collections of surveillance equipment on one side of the space while multiple pieces of body armor hung on clothing racks on the opposite side. The middle of the room was cleared from end to end, except for one small display case sitting in the center of the room and, once my eyes had gotten over the shock of the arsenal, both Chris and I found ourselves drawn to the display. The display was an old wooden stand topped by a glass box that rose seamlessly from the wood. Inside was a single bottle of 1876 J.R.T Absinthe, still covered in the cellar dust from which it had been discovered.
The owner noticed us looking at the bottle. “That is the Absinthe you requested, but the two of you are really here for the other items in this room, da?”
I managed to tear my eyes away from the bottle and nodded to the owner, “Yes.”
Chris was mesmerized, “Is it real? I mean, drinkable?”
The owner tilted his head inquisitively, then smiled, “Older bottles have been found, although not of this brand, and the spirit inside had only improved with time, as opposed to turning into vinegar or such as would wine.”
Chris frowned, “So it's not possible you have little more than salad dressing in there?”
The owner made a flourish of his hands like a magician taking a bow. “Only when the seal is broken and the liquid inside sampled will we know for sure.” He let those words hang in the air before adding, “But the chance of the Absinthe being… not only viable, but exquisite, is a very safe bet.”
The owner moved to the center of the room and stood next to the antique bottle of Absinthe, “Now gentlemen, I believe formal introductions are in order.”
“Fair enough,” I said, “my name is Steve Jacobs and this is my partner Chris Barnes.”
“Partner?” the owner's face screwed up in surprise.
I frowned at his expression, but Chris laughed, “Not that kind of ‘partner’ you Commie bastard.”
The owner shrugged, but there was a humor in his eyes when he said, “When it comes to dealing with you subversive American pigs, one must be prepared for all sort of things. In any case, my name is Igor Tonichev, and as a friend of Major Larson I expect you will find all you require here. If not, I can locate most things within a day or two, just let me know what it is you need.”
So I said, “Chris, give him the list, please.”
Chris removed a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Igor, who pulled a pair of reading glasses from an inner pocket to begin perusing the items we had listed.
“So,” Igor asked as he studied the list, “how have you enjoyed your time in our beautiful Nazran?”
I was going to say something benign about the city when Chris chimed in, “To say this place is a festering armpit would be a compliment to the town and an insult to the festering armpits of the world.” Then he added, “But you have a lovely shop.”
Igor laughed, “Thank you, and yes, Nazran is shit. I'd leave if business were not so good here.”
Shaking my head at how much better Chris related to people than I ever could, I asked, “Can you come up with the equipment we are requesting.”
Igor walked over to a crate and sat down on the planks, “Most of the items are indeed within this room.” He pulled a pen from his pocket and circled two items on the list, “These two will take me a day or so to acquire. You can wait or you will have to do without.”
Igor pulled out another folding table that had been leaning against a wall. It was heavy and of the old wood and metal variety, so I was surprised to see how easily the little round man was able to move the piece of furniture. Once the table was set up he lifted a duffle bag from the floor, set it on the table and zipped it open. He removed several boxes of ammunition of varying sizes first, and then removed what looked like a briefcase. Setting the briefcase on the table, Igor popped the latches and lifted the lid to reveal a disassembled Dragonov (SVD) Sniper rifle.
Chris instantly recognized the weapon, “Oh, that's mine! I call dibs!””
Seeking a long-range support rifle, the Soviet Union had held a contest among its elite gunsmiths to fill the void in their arsenal. In 1963 Yevgeny Dragunov's design was victorious, and the rifle design went into service within the Soviet Military. Very little has changed from then until now within the production of the rifle. The wooden stocks had been replaced with black polypropylene, and the original 7N1 ammunition, with its lead core and a steel jacket, was replaced by the 7N14 with a steel core within the steel jacket.
Chris scanned the boxes of ammunition, “I don't see any sniper rounds?”
Igor sighed, “Yes, acquiring that ammunition might have raised eyebrows around here, but the rifle shoots the standard 7.62x54mmR just as well.”
I frowned, “Acquiring the guns doesn't raise alarms, but looking for the bullets would?”
“I already had the guns,” Igor informed me, “but when they changed from 7N1 rounds to 7N14 I lost my stockpile of ammunition.” Igor closed and latched the case before sliding it aside. Next he pulled out two of the smallest automatic rifles I had ever seen.
“The Tsniitochmash 9mm SR.3M assault rifles. The rifle is effective to two hundred meters with iron sights, or four hundred meters with an optical sight, and is only sixteen inches long without the folding stock or silencers.”
I could see the folding stock attached to the side of what otherwise looked like a two-handed handgun and asked, “Were you able to get silencers for them?”
Igor smiled and set the rifles down on the table before lifting four cylinders that were almost the same length as the rifles, “The suppression system should last you between six hundred to one thousand rounds before degrading. A lot of shots to be sure, but I have an extra silencer for each weapon should the need arise.”
I blinked at the matter of fact professionalism Igor was showing as he described the killing machines he was presenting to us. He went into ballistics, armor penetration capabilities and a bunch of other informative characteristics for the rifles. The technical information passed completely over my head, but Chris was in a rapture and was hanging on every word. Igor removed everything else from the duffle bag, including body armor, surveillance equipment, Government issued GPS tracking devices, along with a first aid kit and flashlights.
When he had finished, Igor asked, “Now, have you found a need
for anything else since you arrived? Anything not on the list?”
“Just some answers, if you have them.” I said.
Igor seemed to consider the idea for a minute before saying, “All of my customers’ information I keep confidential. It is an important part of the way I do business, not to mention my own safety.”
I held up my hands, “We aren't looking for any specific information about any of your clients.”
Igor raised an eyebrow, “No?”
“No,” I said, “what we are interested in is information about what is happening in Nazran.”
Chris jumped right in, “We saw some things last night that don't make a great deal of sense.”
Igor turned to Chris, “Like what?”
“Like the way a police officer just watched as a mugging happened right in front of him and he did nothing to help. Then after the mugger had run off, instead of checking on the victim he called some men on the phone who looked as though they were going to collect the body.”
Igor looked at me suspiciously, “And then what happened? What else did you see?”
I considered telling him about the homeless man who attacked Dimitri's men, but decided against it, as the story might seem a little unbelievable to someone who hadn't witnessed it.
“Nothing else after that.” I said calmly, hoping my poker face was functioning properly.
I felt Chris come to attention when I said those words. Having witnessed the entire spectacle as well, he knew there was much, much more, but he read my intentions and went along with me without giving anything away.
Igor had been looking at my face the whole time, so I don't think he noticed Chris' initial reaction. “Come,” Igor said in a friendly manner, “let's go back into the shop where we can talk over a drink and I'll send Sasha to get us some food.” He gestured at the duffle bag with a wave of one hand, “You can leave your gear here and collect it when we are finished talking.”
I wondered if Igor had grown suspicious and wanted to distance us from the room and bag of weapons that we might turn against him, but he seemed calm and eager to please.
Rasputin's Prodigy Page 14