by Mark Nolan
The Western side of Germany, aided by America, had been a land of freedom and prosperity. The Eastern side controlled by the Soviets had been a nightmare police state of slaves imprisoned in poverty.
During his time in the West, Zhukov had discovered a book titled, Death by Government. It told the truth about how the totalitarian governments of past regimes had killed tens of millions of innocent citizens in Russia, China, Germany, Japan, Turkey, North Korea, Cambodia, Pakistan, and other nations.
Zhukov had a photographic memory, and he could still remember what the research about Russia had concluded:
“Probably almost 62 million people, nearly 54,800,000 of them citizens, have been murdered by the Communist Party—the government—of the Soviet Union. Old and young, healthy and sick, men and women, even infants and the infirm, were killed in cold blood. They were not combatants in civil war or rebellions; they were not criminals. Indeed, nearly all were guilty of… nothing.”
And part of the killing was so random and idiosyncratic that journalists and social scientists have no concept for it, as in hundreds of thousands of people being executed according to pre-set government quotas…
We lack a concept for murder by quotas because we—including the journalist, historian, and political scientist—have never before confronted the fact that a government can and has killed its own people for apparently no reason.”
Zhukov knew this was the true and brutal history of his country. In the past, a memo would go out ordering the death of 10,000 “enemies of the people.” A memo would come back saying that 10,000 enemies had been found and killed.
The murder victims were simply random citizens who were denounced and falsely accused by their neighbors. People felt compelled to turn on their friends and families in a desperate attempt to save themselves from the insane asylum of death. What had been accomplished by the mass murders? Had it simply been a secret agenda of depopulation?
When the Soviet Union collapsed, the men who had caused over sixty million random murders had not gone away. When many of them and their heirs found themselves unemployed, they simply began participating in organized crime. Every country had similar criminal groups and Russia was no different.
First, the KGB had made Zhukov into a trained killer, and later the Russian Mafia had recruited him as a hired gun. The two organizations had molded him into the instrument of death he was today. He’d spent many years killing people for pay, doing it for his masters like a deadly puppet on a string. These days he no longer killed for his government or for political reasons or for organized crime. Now it was done to increase the wealth and power of the shadowy elite.
When Zhukov’s life of violence had first started, he’d had little choice. If he didn’t do the masters’ bidding, he would die a slow and painful death. He had merely been a cog in their machine. Eventually, he’d killed his handlers and had gone on to become a freelance assassin, working for the highest bidder and with loyalty to none.
However, deep down inside he was the same as other Russians, who were like most people everywhere else. Most just wanted a normal life with an education, a good job, enough food to eat, a roof over their heads, some friends, and maybe a marriage and kids.
He wondered about the random path in life that had led him to get caught up in this world of secrets and death. Could he ever be completely free of it and have a normal life like the people he saw walking down the street?
He had something in common with former Soviet leader Gorbachev. They were both the descendants of Gulag prisoners, as were millions of other Russians. He’d felt that his life was meaningless until he’d met the one person he genuinely cared about… Tatiana. A single tear ran down his cheek now. Not for the tens of millions of individuals who had been imprisoned and executed, but for the one and the only woman he’d ever loved.
He felt a painful nostalgia for those winters when he and his beloved Tatiana had gone ice skating in Gorky Park. He remembered the summer weekends they’d spent at the dacha. Evenings at home where he’d drawn charcoal sketches of her while she cooked the delicious Shchi soup and pirozhki pastries. And bedtimes when they had held each other tight and whispered of plans for their future.
The Organization had said that he needed to prove his loyalty. They’d said he had to be tested. They’d said Tatiana was too curious, and she knew too much. His masters had told him he would one day understand why they’d killed Tatiana and that he would find another woman who was just like her or even better.
They had said he would soon forget her.
They had been wrong.
Thinking about Tatiana was always a mistake. It made him feel angry and sad at the same time. But how could he not think of her? She was in every sunrise, in every drop of rain, and in every beat of his heart.
Zhukov reached into the black bag and brought out a different pistol than the one he used to kill other people. This small one was only used once in a while for another purpose. It was an antique snub-nosed revolver that only had one bullet in the cylinder.
An end to his pain was only a bullet away. If there were an afterlife, maybe he would be reunited with Tatiana. If not, he would find nothingness and the escape from his tortured memories. Zhukov tried to talk himself out of using the pistol. He told himself once again that the pain was a part of him now, and he would die soon enough anyway. Why be in a hurry? Tatiana would want him to live on and to find love again.
The self-talk didn’t work. It never did when he was in a terribly dark mood. He’d only loved one woman in his life, and he would always love her; he couldn’t help it.
With wet eyes and a broken heart, Zhukov spun the pistol’s cylinder. He kept one hand on the wheel, and used the other hand to hold the gun to his head in the age old game of Russian roulette. He kept his finger on the trigger as he listened to the rest of the song about Katyusha, and drove on alone through the darkness of this strange and foreign land.
Oh, you song. Little song of a young girl,
Fly over the river and in the sunlight go.
And fly to my hero far from me,
From his Katyusha bring him a sweet hello.
Let him remember this plain young girl,
And her sweet song like a dove,
As he stands guarding his proud nation,
So Katyusha will guard their love.
Zhukov thought of Tatiana’s sweet, sad smile as he slowly pulled the trigger…
Chapter 28
Early in the morning while Jake was sleeping he started having one of his recurring dreams. It was about a battle he’d fought in while deployed to the Middle East. The dream unfolded in slow motion with the sounds of gunfire, explosions and the screams of the enemy.
Jake had blood dripping into his eyes from a scalp wound, but he kept wiping his eyes on his sleeve and firing his rifle and reloading it. The enemy continued coming at him and his platoon. The Marines were outnumbered, but each one fought like a fierce killing machine. The slain bodies of their enemies fell dead all around them.
Terrell Hayes yelled something at Jake as a rocket-propelled grenade flew past and barely missed both men. It hit the ground some distance away and exploded with a deafening roar. The shock wave caused Jake to stagger and go down on one knee. Terrell also got down on a knee by Jake’s side. The two men nodded at each other and then turned and fought back to back as they kept on firing round after round at the enemy…
Jake awoke with a start and sat up in bed. He reached into his nearby pack and grabbed his pistol and held it in front of him. For a moment he didn’t know where he was. He took deep breaths and realized he was not deployed in some dangerous place. That was over with and he was out of the Marines now. He was not in bed with his fiancée Gwen either. That had ended too. And he was not on the Far Niente, waking up to the sound of water lapping at the hull of the boat. No, there had been shots fired last night, and a car chase.
Jake felt a pain in his thigh from an old war wound. It would come and go with cha
nges in the weather or his dreams. A Corgi dog entered the room through a doggie door and jumped onto the bed and licked Jake’s face. Jake smelled some good coffee brewing, and he heard Rihanna’s song Cheers (I’ll Drink to That) playing on a sound system. A woman started singing along with the song.
Oh that’s right, he was in the man cave garage at Terrell and Alicia’s place. That was Alicia singing along with the music.
Jake put his pistol back into his backpack and then petted Boo-Boo. Jake listened for a moment to the song and then started singing along with Alicia at the top of his lungs. Boo-Boo started howling along. After singing a few verses, Jake heard Alicia laughing.
There was a knock on the door, and Alicia said, “Good morning Jake.”
“Good morning Alicia, come in.”.
“Are you decent?” Alicia asked.
“That’s what they say about me, but I’m trying to raise my rating to average,” Jake said.
Alicia came into the room carrying two cups of coffee. She handed one of the cups to Jake and then sat on a nearby chair.
“I played that song for your wake-up call because I remembered you liked how Rihanna sang about Jameson Irish Whiskey,” Alicia said.
“Rihanna is obviously a woman of good taste,” Jake said.
“So what brings you to the man cave this time?”
Alicia had a knowing look on her face. She was obviously well-aware that Jake was breaking up with Gwen.
“Oh, I just… misplaced the keys to my condo,” Jake said, and he shrugged, not wanting to talk about it.
“Uh-huh, and that’s your story?” Alicia glanced at Jake’s keys on the coffee table.
“That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Thanks for this great coffee, though, what kind is it?”
“It’s from Ethiopia, the birthplace of coffee. But I like how you changed the subject.”
“Darn, I never could BS schoolteachers no matter how hard I tried, they are simply too wise.”
“You better believe it, teachers are what make the future generations not suck.”
“Please tell me you put that on your business cards.”
“I promise to add that on the very next print run.”
“Good plan. Seriously, I came by for your good coffee and conversation.”
“Speaking of conversations, if you ever want to talk about anything you can always talk to me you know,” Alicia said.
“Okay, if I ever want to talk, you’ll be the first to know,” Jake said.
Jake knew that even though Alicia was aware of his breakup, and how Gwen had been acting crazy, she probably had no idea that someone had tried to kill him last night. That was not something Terrell would share with her. He tried to shelter her from the disturbing crimes that cops see and hear about.
“Let’s go get some breakfast; I’m making bacon and eggs, and Terrell is flipping some gluten-free pancakes made with coconut flour.”
“I was hoping to have extra gluten in mine,” Jake said.
Alicia smiled and shook her head as they walked toward the kitchen. Jake saw Terrell there, wearing a big chef’s hat shaped like a white mushroom.
Alicia filled a bowl with dog food for Boo-Boo and added a half a slice of cooked bacon while Terrell delivered three plates of breakfast to the table and sat down.
Alicia smiled and looked at Terrell.
“Now what?” Terrell said.
Jake said, “You can take off the hat now Chef Ptomaine, you’re on a break.”
“Oh sure. You two are just jealous of the hat. Come on admit it now. You know it’s true.”
Jake had given the hat to Terrell. It was one of several he’d worn when he’d worked as a cook at an Italian restaurant in his youth. But he played along with Terrell’s joke.
“Okay, I admit it. I want to borrow that chef’s hat. And I’m going to rent a convertible and drive around the city while I’m wearing that mushroom on my head.”
They all took turns putting butter and real maple syrup on their pancakes. It was quiet for a moment as they enjoyed their food. The music mix had ended and now a morning television show babbled in the background on low volume. The talking heads were doing a report about a new restaurant.
“Where’s the TV remote?” Alicia asked. “Let’s turn that off.”
Jake saw the remote near his coffee cup so he picked it up. A commercial came on the TV that featured a young woman wearing a white doctor’s coat and black horn-rim glasses. She was holding a Dalmatian puppy while smiling at the camera and talking about her veterinarian clinic. Jake stopped and stared at the TV. The remote control in his hand was pointed at the television but frozen in midair.
Alicia smiled. “Oh my, Jake must really like that puppy huh?”
Terrell looked at the TV and then at Jake, and nodded. Jake didn’t notice. He was watching the woman on the television with rapt attention.
The woman on TV said, “You can trust us to take good care of your pets. We’re located right across the street from the new dog park. Bring your four-footed family members to our veterinary clinic this week to say hello and get a free chew toy.”
She laughed as the Dalmatian puppy licked her cheek, and then she handed a rawhide chewy to the dog and patted it on the head.
“I think maybe Jake got shot by cupid’s arrow,” Alicia said.
Jake was quiet as he watched the commercial ending and then he turned off the TV and said, “What?”
Alicia just smiled. Terrell said, “You were in a trance there, hypnotized.”
“Well I literally bumped into that woman at the news station where I work, and she just seems so… real and unpretentious,” Jake said. “Lots of people you meet these days are fake. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes she seems like a genuinely nice person, and she loves dogs just like you do,” Alicia said.
“And she wears glasses,” Terrell said. “Jake seems to like smart, nerdy girls who wear glasses and read lots of books. I keep telling him he should join a book club or start dating a cute librarian.”
“You should borrow Boo-Boo doggie and take him to that pet clinic to get a free chew toy, and get the phone number of that veterinarian,” Alicia said.
Jake nodded his head. He’d been thinking the same thing.
Chapter 29
Ivan Zhukov woke up that morning in a new hotel, and an even more elegant suite than the previous one. Money was no object. He earned an almost endless supply.
He brewed some strong black tea in the carafe of the in-room coffeemaker, then he sat at the fancy dining table as he sipped the hot tea and thought about the next lawyer he was going to kill. Today’s murder would be more flamboyant, and disturbing to the public. A true work of art designed to create panic and to help his employers carry out their latest scheme to make windfall profits.
He noticed that his morning hangover from the vodka was not too bad, considering the amount he’d consumed the night before. And he felt grateful that the game of Russian roulette had not killed him just yet. Someday it might, but so far so good.
On most days, Zhukov valued his life and his plans for the future; so the game was a stupid gamble. He knew that if he would just take his medicine and stop drinking, he would not have so many mood swings from mania to depression. Yet if he did that he would also give up the intensity of emotion and depth of sensation that made him feel alive. At the moment, he preferred to live dangerously rather than live as an emotionless robotic machine.
Banks had said that it made the Council nervous when they heard rumors that their hired killer was off his meds. Good, let them suffer, Zhukov thought. They were elite privileged snobs who needed someone to kick them off their high horses. One day he would do just that.
Zhukov watched the sun come up from his view out of the hotel room’s sliding glass door. He drank tea and sat in quiet contemplation as he worked on some new sketches in charcoal. The latest one was another rendering of the beautiful Golden Gate Bridge. He was infatuated with the i
conic engineering marvel. His previous drawings had been taken from him, but he would simply create more and better works.
His curiosity about these American people who built the Golden Gate Bridge had led him to discover that they’d also invented just about every other modern miracle.
These facts were never taught in Russia. The school teachers there always bashed America and taught negative propaganda that criticized the USA. Now Zhukov was learning that the old Soviet indoctrination had all been lies.
There was a knock at the door, and a waiter from Room Service announced a delivery of breakfast to the room. Zhukov didn’t open the door, he called out that he was not dressed at the moment, so please leave the breakfast cart in the hall. He told the waiter to add a fifty percent tip onto the bill for himself. The waiter was more than happy to oblige. Zhukov waited until the waiter was gone, then put on one of the hotel’s plush bathrobes to cover his tattoos, and a pair of glasses to change his facial appearance. He put his pistol in one of the bathrobe pockets, then opened the door, checked the hallway for threats and brought the rolling cart into his room.
The breakfast tray held orange juice, bacon and scrambled eggs, croissants with butter and preserves, a plate of fruit and a teapot of black tea. He carried the tray out onto the balcony and set it on the patio table, then sat on a padded chair and slowly savored his breakfast as he watched the people of the city going about their lives at the start of a new day. This was not his usual Spartan meal, but life had felt different lately for some reason. He was in the mood to enjoy the small luxuries of the warm croissants, the cool pats of butter and the fresh raspberry preserves. In this business, you never knew if it might be your last meal, so you might as well enjoy it.
Once he’d finished breakfast, he lit up a Perdomo Champagne cigar. It was a light and creamy smoke with a smooth sweetness, and it tasted almost like a slice of toast spread with honey. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps it seemed to taste even better because it was stolen from a man who had angered him.
As he was smoking the cigar, the sliding door of the room next to his opened and a distinguished looking man stepped out onto the balcony. He appeared to be in his fifties, and he was followed by a younger woman about half his age. The woman had bed-tousled auburn hair. Zhukov appraised and profiled them, and it seemed obvious they had spent the night together. They were wearing matching hotel bathrobes, with their bare legs and feet showing below where the hems ended at the knees. The man wore a wedding ring, but the woman did not. They both appeared to be highly pleased with themselves, as if they had outsmarted other people and now felt bulletproof. Zhukov knew better, nobody was bulletproof.