Fire & Wind

by Leo Gher

  At last, they were in their suite, and Conor was watching as Tali pulled off her shoes and kicked each in the general direction of the closet. She unzipped her dress and let it slip to the floor. Next, she unhooked her bra and found a black satin nighty inside the dresser. Tali then picked up her wine glass and took a sip. She was now dressed only in nighty and matching panties. Taking in the full measure of her beauty, Conor stared unabashedly. Tali was a stunning 25-year-old with a swimmer’s trim and taut figure.

  He decided it was his turn to entice. So, he tossed his jacket on the chair, undid the two top buttons of his shirt, and then walked to the audio console and found a soft music channel that fit his mood. His explicitly wicked smile was an invitation, and Tali noticed.

  Conor snatched her wine glass away, sniffed the bouquet, and then set it on the dresser. He took her hand and gave it an energetic pull, bringing Tali into his arms. He held her tight, his body against hers, and began moving with the music, taking her along.

  “I’m glad to see you smiling,” she said.

  “When I’m with you, Tali, I can breathe, be something of a human once more.” The tenderness between them was charged with anticipation. He dropped his head down, stared intently into her coffee eyes, and then traced the tips of his fingers over her face.

  Instantly engaged, Tali teased, “What are you waiting for, Conor?”

  That was all the encouragement the 26-year-old needed. Conor reached down and grabbed Tali’s backside, lifted her up, and then pushed her against the bedroom wall, pinning her there with his hips. Next, he grabbed her face with both hands and kissed her passionately. She moaned mouth agape, leaving an opening for his tongue to penetrate. She responded with an erotic bump and grind. It was only a moment until they were on the bed.

  “Do you ever tire of me?” he asked.

  Tali rolled on top, then bent down and bit his ear lobe. “Never.”

  As she kissed his neck, he whispered, “You are a fearless lady, Tali.”

  “Don’t confuse fearless with lust, Conor.”

  He chuckled roguishly. “Time for making love, then?”

  “Yes.” It was her warning bell – get moving, Buster. Conor, soulmate and lover, had an exquisite physique, not muscular, but graceful, and his smile was cheeky-delicious. At the moment, his dark auburn hair was tangled and wild on his face, so he brushed it back, still staring down, his blue eyes bold and blazing, and it filled her with desire. Hypnotized, she pulled him into her arms and then bit his lower lip. She tugged gently, and he groaned, muscles clenching, trying to hold back.

  They paused momentarily, lying side-by-side, and then Conor traced a hand from Tali’s hip to her belly, and then up to the nape of her neck.

  “Panties, Conor, panties,” she moaned. Tali’s breathing had become quite irregular. Faced with what seemed an impossible predicament at a most important moment, he hesitated. Removing her panties seemed frustratingly slow, so he grasped the sides firmly with both hands, and then ripped them off. It wasn’t what she meant. “That’ll cost you.”

  Unapologetic, he growled, “I wasn’t thinking about cost right then.”

  Conor and Tali spent the next hour enjoying a beautiful and erotic encounter; all cares and concerns set aside. Afterward, as lovers often do, they cuddled. But neither could sleep and the night was still young.

  8

  The Bay Club

  When Vlad got to the base of the Korluk Ridge, he ripped his weapon apart and tossed the components into separate crags along the mountainside. He had finished his work in Kars and wanted to get out of Turkey and back home as soon as possible. So, he texted the concierge of the Baku Sporting Club: “Will arrive u in 7 hrs – prep my suite, VK.”

  A few moments later, the BSC desk replied: “The Kos Bey is looking for u – past three days – your brother too.”

  Kos: “Avoiding them. Notify my boys to be at the Club for wrestling championship on Wednesday.” The concierge understood his meaning and messaged Vlad’s companions.

  When he wished to escape his family, Vlad would stay in the city at the Bay Club. That’s what the legacy members called it, and every fourth Wednesday of the month, the Club held a citywide wrestling tournament. Vlad liked wrestling – more accurately, he liked the violence of the sport – and he planned to be in Baku in time for this last tournament of the year. But the weather was not cooperating. There was only a smattering of light left in the day, and Kos wanted to get off the ridge. So, he put on his leathers and helmet, hit the starter switch of his Ducati SuperSport, and took off down the mountain and headed directly east toward Armenia. Vlad’s outbound journey to Kars was a circuitous route that included Ganja and Rustavi. It took two full days because, of course, he needed to avoid any Armenian entanglements. But now he wanted to get home fast, and a more direct route through the heart of Armenia would save him 250 km and almost three hours. It was dangerous – especially at night – but Vlad liked taking risks. When he reached the Armenian border, it was raining, and an impromptu police roadblock was checking all travelers. Vlad wanted nothing to do with the authorities, so he pulled off the road and waited. In fact, he fell asleep, and when he woke some hours later, the border police had moved on. He arrived in Baku at nine the next morning, three hours later than expected.

  The Baku Sporting Club was located on the south-central shore of Baku Bay, next door to the Crystal Hall. That venue was the pride of President Guliyev and had hosted major cultural events, including the Eurovision Song Contest and the e-Sports World Championship. The BSC was a partner facility with a hotel. It supported boxing, karate, taekwondo, fencing, volleyball, and most importantly, wrestling. It was built specifically to pamper those Azerbaijani families who governed the nation through crony capitalism. If you weren’t one of the historically privileged few, but were wealthy enough to sponsor a national team, you could buy your way in as a benefactor. That’s how Viktor Kos became a member of the country’s ruling oligarchy. He sponsored the national wrestling program, among other “charities.”

  But it wasn’t easy. Decades earlier, Viktor’s grandfather had married the daughter of one of the old Soviet oligarchs. That linkage was the foundation of the Kos wealth – they supplied Russian-made armaments to dozens of central Asian and Middle Eastern autocrats. The Russian connection was also responsible for the Kos family getting a foothold with the ruling elite of Azerbaijan. A generation earlier, House Kos moved in with a large shipment of Russian tanks, which solidified the Guliyev’s hold on power. As a reward, Viktor’s father was made the Azerbaijani Minister of Oil. After the old man died, Viktor took his place.

  When Vlad appeared at the reception desk that late October morning, he was a mess: hair jumbled, boots soaked, leathers mud-covered. The desk clerk was unfazed, “Müserif Kos, your key.”

  “No interruptions,” he said, “not from anyone, even my brother. Understand?”

  “Of course, Müserif.”

  A few minutes later, Vlad was in his suite. He showered, threw on some pajamas, and then drew the curtains closed. He planned to sleep for five hours, and wake up at two, a full hour before his wrestling match with Bhima and three hours before his companions would arrive for the championship and party afterward.

  Meanwhile, at his father’s house, big brother Vanya was admiring himself in a mirror. He was six years older than Vladimir and physically very different: shorter by two inches, with a receding hairline and lifeless eyes. He had one distinguishing mark: on his throat, a three-inch-long Rosacea stain rose from his left collarbone to just below his chin. So, Vanya often wore turtlenecks to hide the mark.

  Vanya was waiting for Viktor to return from a meeting with his Ministry staff. “Well, Misha, what do you think?” Vanya asked the butler. “Do you like my new shoes?” They were Ferragamos, textured leather loafers, black highlighted with horse-bit trims – nothing that Misha could ever afford.

 
“Most extraordinary, sir.”

  Vanya replied derisively, “And how do you know they’re extraordinary?”

  “I just meant...” Misha stumbled for something that would please the future head of the House. “With your… they go well with the outfit.”

  “I’m glad you admire me,” said Vanya. “But it will not bring you favor in my eyes. Is that what you were seeking, my favor?”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  “I will never grant favors to the likes of you, Misha.” From early childhood, Vanya had delighted in manners that were cold and manipulative, especially with household servants. Some had suggested that he was just emulating his father, who had always made a game out of exploiting others.

  At that moment, the Kos Bey entered the study. “Misha, bring me a whiskey.” He then noticed that the fire in the fireplace was burning low. “And get someone to stoke the fire.” It was obvious that something was on his mind. “It’s freezing in here.”

  The butler responded, “And you, sir?”

  “Wine, Misha,” Vanya said, “a rosé, Veuve Clicquot, the one with raspberry and cherry.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Viktor waited for his butler to exit, and then said, “I have been with our associates.” The Kos Bey stepped to the window overlooking the courtyard. “The situation is grave, Vanya.”

  “By that, you mean the others are panicking?”

  “It will be impossible to keep them in line.”

  “How will this end, Viktor?”

  “Melania Mirsky says when the Azerbaijani economy crashes, so will our society and our power.”

  Vanya replied, “Why should we believe a Russian?”

  “She has no dog in this fight,” said Viktor. “She is an economist, not a politician.”

  “A woman economist, at that.”

  “She compared the Azeri economy to a spinning wheel. As long as the wheel is kept in motion, our society is kept in motion. If the wheel should stop, well… our nation would become an unpleasant, violent place, one defined by a struggle over inadequate resources.”

  “Again, the oil.”

  “The oil, yes.”

  “Assuming that is something beneficial to our cause,” Vanya asked, “how do we get that wheel back in motion?”

  “It is unclear. Azerbaijan has few viable industries.”

  “Alternatives, then?”

  “Guliyev thinks taking us into war with the Armenians is the solution. But how he plans on paying for such a debacle is beyond me.”

  “That Armenian scam has always been a distraction, meant to stir up the masses, nothing more. No other ideas?”

  “Entice a superpower, I suppose, promise a new, glorious empire.”

  “Iran? Russia?” the elder son speculated.

  “Both are running out of oil as well, and neither can control its people. As Mirsky says, ‘a struggle over inadequate resources.’ A disaster everywhere.”

  Vanya offered, “What about China or India, then?”

  “Rolan has dismissed the idea of soliciting such a partner. One thing is for sure, we must play our cards carefully and not reveal our hand in any overt way.”

  “Are the Saudis…?”

  Viktor interrupted, “Have you seen Vlad? I have been searching for him for days.”

  “Why would I know Vlad’s whereabouts?” Vanya replied. “He doesn’t inform me of his plans.”

  “If he’s done something rash…”

  “When he wishes to avoid family obligations, he hides at the Bay Club with his boys.”

  “Go there immediately, Vanya,” the Bey commanded. “See what he’s done.”

  In recent years, wrestling had lost much of its popularity to football, but it was still significant to many Azerbaijanis as their time-honored sport. There was a divide between the generations: young Azeris were into World Cup football and the X-Games, while the older generation still held onto traditional sports.

  When Vlad was young, he was captivated with wrestling. Viktor made the boy come along for the openings of each national event that the Kos family sponsored. He hadn’t wanted to, at first, but then he began watching the matches and was soon fascinated.

  When he met Guru Girish, coach of the Olympic team, he wanted to learn the sport. The Guru was the master of Indian style wrestling, and quickly became Vlad’s mentor. “But first,” Girish insisted, “You must learn its history.”

  “I have no interest in history,” Vlad complained.

  “If you want to learn the secret holds and locks, you will have to know about Lord Krishna, who founded the art, and Shri Krishan, the champion of the Mahabharata.”

  Vlad bargained with his teacher. “One history lesson each day, and then one secret hold.” The guru agreed.

  “In the olden days,” Girish began, “wrestling was much more extreme than it is today. It meant crippling or killing your opponent.” That was all Vlad needed to hear – he would suffer through history for the secrets of knowing how to kill a man. “In India, wrestling has always been a martial art,” Girish continued. “For example, in Jamuwanti style, a fighter uses atypical locks to dislocate joints or break bones.”

  Vlad was hooked by the break bones comment. Who would be his first victim? Brother, he thought. I’ll dislocate a shoulder or maybe a wrist, and say that it was an accident. Fortunately, the future Bey of House Kos had no interest in the art, and only once let Vlad show him how to execute the arm-trap half nelson. It resulted in a separated shoulder that plagued Vanya for a year.

  Vanya arrived at the Baku Sporting Club just as Vlad was finishing a match with one of the BSC “jobbers.” Mall Bhima was a musclehead, hired as a shill by the Club. He made a living losing to wrestling’s big stars, or to the sons of wealthy benefactors.

  After his shower, Vlad decided to have a sauna. When he saw his brother waiting, he said, “Join me.” The elder son took off his jacket and removed his shoes and socks. There was another man already in the sauna, red-faced and sweating profusely. Vlad poked at the man’s shoulder and said, “Get out.” Startled, the fellow recognized two of the Dark Triad and exited at once.

  “Make it quick, Vanya. I have an engagement tonight.”

  The elder son got right to the point, “You have done something, Vlad. Father and I want to know what.”

  “Why the drama? It had to be done.”

  “What?”

  “One of the pillars that prop up the Kedar Bey has been removed from duty.”

  “Who?” he asked, but then shouted, “You haven’t killed Mira Nadirov, have you?”

  “The other one, the butler,” replied Vlad, “a man of little consequence.”

  “Rufet Qurb?”

  “Yes. Rufet.”

  “Where?” Vanya was startled. “Did anyone see you?”

  “He was alone, hunting on a mountainside,” Vlad replied, “He has ‘disappeared.’ His body will never be found.”

  “How so?”

  “After Azreal left Kars – that’s where I found them… can you believe it, Kars, Turkey – after the Kedar Bey departed, Rufet was alone. I tracked him down, shot him, and then sent his body into a deep ravine. There is nothing to worry about.”

  “That’s it, then?”

  “Of course not,” Vlad replied. “I have sent an assassin after Azreal and his bitch cousin. Alex will report in as soon as they’re dead.”

  Grim-faced, Vanya chastised his brother, “This is a problem, Vladimir. You’ve put the entire family in jeopardy.”

  9

  Encounter at Ephesus

  The ship Tali saw docked in Istanbul was the Westerdam, from Holland America. It was a magnificent, Vista-class ocean liner, capable of carrying 2,000 passengers around the world, but its current cruise was full. Try as he might, the concierge at the Four Seasons was unable
to book passage for Conor and Tali. But he didn’t give up. He found a nine-day voyage on the Corinthian, a three-masted gullet yacht that accommodated 137 guests in grand style. It sailed on Saturday, October 21st and returned on the 30th. Perfect timing – Conor and Tali could fly to London after the voyage and be ready to meet with Ambassador Kazimov on November 1.

  Tali was delighted. They would avoid the hubbub of 2,000 passengers, and the smaller, wooden sailing vessel was ideal for exploring the shallow, coastal inlets of Turkey. When they stepped aboard the next morning, Tali noticed a distinctive smell – something a fiberglass cruiser, like their Zarifa, did not have. It was hard to pinpoint: mold, turpentine, linseed oil, and a hint of Tung? Yes, the wooden deck definitely had the satiny wetted wood look of tung oil. A few hours later, they were sailing through the Dardanelles and relaxing on lounge chairs they had claimed on the veranda. Tali was reading the Blue Star Line’s travel brochure.

  “Listen to this, Conor.” She read: “Tell me, O muse, of that hero who traveled far and wide after serving his king at the sack of Troy. Many cities did Eternal Odysseus visit while suffering much by sea trying to save his life and that of his men. But do what he might, Odysseus could not save them, for they perished through their own sheer folly, and were prevented from ever reaching home. Homer, 800 BCE.”

  “Sounds like a new Azeri emissary I know,” she said. Sensing that her hero had lost interest, Tali chided the dozing Conor, “Are you listening? This is the story told from the other side… truly, where East meets West.”

  “I’m listening.”

  She continued: “Your Corinthian Adventure will follow in the footsteps of Homer’s hero as he strived mightily to save his people. On your 9-day tour, you will experience Trojan highlights on your way to Turkey’s wonders in Ephesus and Cappadocia. Then you will spend four days cruising the best of the Aegean in Crete, Patmos, and Santorini. Your adventure ends where it started – Istanbul. Welcome aboard!”