“That’s illegal,” Zimin frowned. “We’d have no end of problems. Ilya, keep digging—that’s a good thread to follow.”
“I know.” Azov settled back into his chair. “Kif, if I find anything out, I’ll let you know.”
“Those two already told me they played,” I said, throwing my two cents on the table. “I asked them right before I left.”
Zimin snapped his fingers. “One point for them.”
“Maybe not,” Azov replied. “So far we’re just playing with what’s out in the open, and they know that. This part doesn’t mean anything; it only gets more interesting from here.”
We drank for another three hours at least, until it started to get dark outside the windows. Zimin finally decided it was time to wrap things up.
“All right, let’s end our grand welcome there. Kif, how are you feeling?”
I felt fantastic, though my head was buzzing. The cognac was great, and I hadn’t slept the night before.
“Well, I guess,” I started off with exaggerated gestures. “You know!”
“Ilya,” Zimin said, looking over at Azov. The latter didn’t look the least bit drunk—the only change I noticed was that his face was a slightly different color. “Take our friend downstairs, please. That’ll be easier, first of all, and that vixen of his won’t give him too much trouble if you’re there. She’ll be afraid of you.”
“No, no, no,” Valyaev said with a wave. “I’ll be taking old Kif downstairs. I have an errand to run down there anyway.”
Zimin rolled his eyes, though he didn’t say anything.
The girls at the reception desk looked at us oddly when we staggered out of the elevator arm-in-arm. We were even singing an old student song.
If I don’t die of intoxicated revelry (Valyaev gave the finger to the world at large and quickly added, “like that’s going to happen”)
Then I’ll come back to you one day!
“The goliards[2] really were fantastic people, Kif,” Valyaev said. “They drank and they stole, but they were fantastic.”
Just then he saw the girls and let go of my shoulder in astonishment. He wavered noticeably, though I stayed on my feet and headed in their direction.
“Excuse me, you naughty little girls,” I said, for some reason in an Eastern mood after the songs we were singing. “Would any of you happen to know where I could find the sultry rose of my heart, the illustrious Vika ibn Travnikova?”
“Well played,” Valyaev said approvingly. “Just like some Khorasan sheik. Respect.”
The rose of my heart appeared five minutes later led by a pretty blonde with a large braid.
“And there’s my malika al jamal,” Valyaev said, purring like a cat.
“What language is that?” I asked.
“Arabic.” Valyaev, unlike me, walked steadily over to the girls. “And how did we come to have two beauties like yourselves in our wretched building? Vika, you’re as lovely as ever—allow me to kiss your hand.”
With one loud “muah,” her standing in the eyes of the girls at the reception desk went through the roof.
Vika, who had only ever seen Valyaev once, and in a rather delicate situation at that, kept her wits about her and chatted with him politely.
I stood there watching as Valyaev confidently set his trap for the light-haired beauty. With a hiccup, I told Vika it was time to head home. She looked me over, shook her head, and glanced back at Valyaev.
“Kif,” Valyaev said, coming over and giving me a hug. “You’re a good man! Go get some sleep.”
Letting me go, he turned back to the girls.
“Have you already ordered a car for him?” They had, and he nodded in satisfaction.
We hugged again, after which he went back to working Svetlana over. Vika took me by the arm and led me toward the car.
“No sense heading to the office for you,” she decided, settling me into the back seat, looking at my smiling face, and pulling out her phone. I’m not sure who she called—I was already fast asleep.
Chapter Four
In which the hero mostly takes care of a bunch of little things.
I slept as soundly as a baby. Vika somehow woke me up when we got home, though I walked up to the apartment on autopilot, crashed into bed almost immediately, and fell right back asleep. There were no dreams, the shades of harmless Federik left me alone, and the work I had ahead of me receded for a time. In short, my exhaustion and the cognac did their job—I was out for almost twelve hours.
The next morning, I woke up a few minutes before my alarm as fresh and cheery as a garden cucumber. That’s when the hunger hit me.
“Mm, you’re awake,” Vika mumbled sleepily, some sixth sense telling her that I’d crossed over from the dream world. “I’ll go make you some breakfast. You could probably eat a horse, right?”
“You got that right,” I replied. I was pleasantly surprised at how intuitive she was. “How did you know?”
Vika opened her eyes, snorted, put on a robe, and headed in the direction of the bathroom.
I watched her go, realized she was again a step ahead of me—I wasn’t just hungry—and went to have a smoke.
“Are you staying at home today?” Vika asked, happily watching me growl as I shoveled chopped steak and buckwheat into my mouth.
“No, I’m coming to the office,” I said to her satisfaction. “I can’t leave the new kids by themselves, or just with you. We have to keep track of them, make sure they don’t get out of hand with all their newfound energy and enthusiasm.”
“Excellent.” Vika sighed in relief. “You know how it can be…”
“Of course, I know,” I replied reassuringly. “Better than anyone.”
Only a few months before, I’d been an underling just like them. I may have had an independent streak, but I had no idea I’d soon have my own team to guide—not to mention a team as colorful as ours.
“Vika, call and order a car for us.” The previous day I’d decided that I needed to start taking everything Raidion offered, given how comfortable they were getting drunk with me. Even if I had to pay for it afterwards, the receipt would be so long that little things like ordering a car or having dinner at the company’s expense wouldn’t make a difference. I’d be bankrupt one way or another.
Vika nodded approvingly and went to find her phone.
“They’ll be here in an hour,” she yelled a few minutes later from the other room.
I finished eating, washed the dishes, and headed over to where she was, intending to dig through what I’d gotten in the plump packet. Needless to say, I’d grabbed it when I left Zimin’s office. That plan turned to naught, however, when Vika decided that an hour was plenty of time to have some fun. She and all her charms were waiting for me when I got to the bedroom, and there was no sense trying to put her off with arguments like how I’d just eaten.
Once in the car, Vika went into vivid detail describing how she’d spent the day before at Raidion, how fantastic it was there, and how they had everything you could ask for. The building was designed with the employees at the heart of the company in mind: there was a gym, a very nice cafeteria, a variety of services, and, to my surprise, even a small theater. The fifth floor was also a living area, with apartments for a number of the middle managers. They often spent the night there, and the higher-ups, Vika learned, were pretty much permanent residents. Capsule rooms were set up for lower-level employees.
“I wouldn’t mind working there,” she said sadly in closing. “Everything there is designed with people in mind.”
Vika looked at me meaningfully, expecting a response. I knew exactly what she wanted to hear, though I was in no hurry to say it—I wasn’t sure if the driver was one of Azov’s people or if he was working for someone else. I was sure he was working for someone, that much was clear, and so my answer was vague and evasive.
“We’ll do good work, and that will be enough to get us places.”
Judging by her face, she was looking for something dif
ferent, though a second later she nodded in agreement.
The silver Mercedes was in my spot yet again. Vika grimaced.
“I’m going to find whoever that rat trap belongs to and kill them. And if I don’t figure it out, I’ll slash the tires. That’s our space!”
Vika had very clear ideas of what belonged to her and what didn’t. It wasn’t that she was a cheapskate or greedy; it was just that she was highly scrupulous when it came to purchasing, expanding, and protecting her material assets. I once happened to glance into her clutch, where I noticed that she had charts detailing all our income and expenses. There was even a graph, complete with wavy lines, notes, and reference points.
As soon as she settled in with me and our relationship stabilized, she found the stack of bills I usually only paid when: they started to build up, I had money, and I was facing something like getting my electricity turned off. It actually had been turned off once, leaving me to bang my knees on all the furniture until they turned it back on. The people who work with utilities can be the worst bureaucrats… The “one window[3]” idea was a good one, but the problem was that it was taken too literally: only one window in the entire the office was ever left open…
Anyway, back to Vika. She’d worked on my bills all that evening, and the next evening went to see the housing commission (or maybe the building operations office). She spent her time there telling them off, letting them know she was a journalist, and promising to expose them and have them all fired. Finally, they recalculated things and left us without anything to pay for half a year. At least, it was something like that—I didn’t really bother getting involved.
I’m not sure how she lived before we met, or what she was like then, but the idea of “mine” was sacred to her. The idea that someone might take what was lawfully hers (“mine” and “his,” from what I could tell, and long since melted into “ours,” which then circled back to “mine”) enraged her.
“Oh, come on,” I said quietly, earning myself an indignant glance (That’s our spot! And that’s what you think of it?) that told me how important it was to talk with Shelestova. It didn’t really bother me that she was in my parking space, though I wasn’t sure Shelestova would make it through the day if Vika figured out that the Mercedes was hers. And given how stubborn she was…she’d figure it out sooner or later.
Things were bustling at the office, even in our old area. The new offices were looking great from what I could see through the open doors. The newcomers even had their own desks, though everything was going on back where I was used to it happening.
They were crowded around a table burdened with four piles of paper and looking at Gennady, who was pulling pages from each pile and reading them aloud. Then he gave his commentary. There’s a mentor for you…
“Well, humans, everything going well?” I asked the group.
“Yep,” Gennady replied. “Hey, boss.”
Everybody greeted me individually, with Soloveva coming over to shake my hand and then Vika’s. That got an ironic smile from Shelestova, who curtsied.
“Everyone all set?” I asked the new blood. “Office supplies, cups and spoons, all of that?”
“We should buy some heaters before it gets cold,” Zhilin said unexpectedly. “This isn’t a great building, probably built in the 70s, so it’ll be way too cold for the girls. We need a new cooler, too. I checked ours: it’s ancient, and nobody’s ever replaced the filter.”
Well, look at you.
“Vika, take Sergey to see the building superintendent on Friday,” I said. “Those are some good ideas. Sergey, you take over the process since it sounds like you’re familiar with it.”
“Yes, sir,” Zhilin replied. “Can I push them if I have to? I’ve known a superintendent or two in my day—they wouldn’t give you snow in the winter.”
“Go ahead. Just make sure you don’t do anything that might leave permanent marks,” I responded.
I couldn’t have cared less about the superintendent.
Back in my office, I spent a couple hours hammering out some nonsense for the From the Editor column. I was very well aware that nobody besides me, the typist, and now, probably, Soloveva would read it. Nobody cared about it, though it was my job and I had to do it. It was tradition: good publications always had the head editor write something smart or boring.
I finished the job, went for a smoke, and didn’t close my door when I got back. That gave me an excellent view of my contentious team: they were discussing the different sides of quality and quantity when it came to filling up the news column.
“I’m telling you, we need to go hard on quantity,” Soloveva asserted a bit shrilly. “That way there’ll be something for everyone.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Shelestova parried imposingly. “Readers will skip the first part, then skip the second, and not bother reading any further. A few weeks later, we won’t have any subscribers left. We’ll get fired in six months and they’ll hire someone else to take our places.”
“If not sooner,” Vika called over from her corner.
“Agreed,” Shelestova replied. “If not sooner.”
“We need more free stuff,” Tasha chimed in suddenly. “People love free stuff. We have one competition, but it’s simplistic and cumbersome. We need a bunch of small, easier ones, something about game knowledge with unexpected surprises. An uber-sword, for example, items nobody else has, unusual potions. Maybe even a tour of Raidion as a prize, letting players see where the game is made and chat with the programmers and scriptwriters. Everyone loves things like that.”
“True,” agreed Zhilin. “Not a bad idea.”
“I’m with you,” Yushkov said. “Good thoughts—both the prizes and the competitions. Something like Where can you find this boss? or Where is this location?”
“But do you think the higher-ups would really go for that?” Soloveva asked, jealous in her doubt. The idea was right in the open, but she wasn’t the one who saw it. Frustrating!
“We can ask Vika,” Shelestova crowed. “Vi-i-ika, we had an interesting idea, and we thought you might want to discuss it with your boss. It’s easier for you, since you have access to his person whenever you want it, right?”
Oh, great. She had to know I could hear her.
“Okay, Elena, if it comes up, I’ll let him know,” Vika replied implacably. “It’s just a shame you didn’t think of it yesterday—I could have discussed it with Max or Nikita personally.”
“With who?” Soloveva asked.
“Zimin or Valyaev,” said Vika, her voice calm. “We keep things simple—they don’t like formalities between friends.”
Soloveva practically jumped out of her shoes from envy, Tasha didn’t appear to have been paying Vika the slightest attention as she picked through some papers, Zhilin mouthed an impressed wow, and even Shelestova narrowed her eyes. Her barb had missed the target.
So which of them is it?
I grabbed four small pieces of paper and drew the newcomers’ outlines on them, one per page. I’m a terrible artist, so they were more caricatures with exaggerated personal details: one had a pimple, another a very nice figure.
Spreading them out in front of me, I sat back in my chair and started to think. There wasn’t much to think about, though the invaluable sources themselves were nearby and starting to argue again.
Each of them had reasons why they might or might not be the mole. Zhilin was a marine, easy-going, and smart, but completely laid-back. I could tell Shelestova was wrapping him around her little finger, and he didn’t have a problem with that. Shelestova? Sure, she was beautiful and smart—practically a modern-day Mata Hari. But she came with a rich dad, and he probably kept tabs on her every move. I had to imagine he’d veto a dangerous tryst with the Consortium. I wonder what happened to that guy at the White Sign. Probably nothing good. Still, she clearly enjoyed her adventures, preferring shots of adrenaline to praise and adoration. A life without adventure was like soup without salt for her. The rest of the group
was the same: everything and nothing.
I purred an old song under my breath and tried to make a hedgehog out of paperclips. It didn’t work. Then I unbent a few of them and tried to stand them on end. I came up with something, though definitely not a hedgehog.
“Oh, you got yourself a porcupine,” Vika said with a soft giggle as she walked into the office. “Bored? Did you write your article?”
“Yes, I wrote it, I’ll send it to you in a minute,” I replied with a nod. “Bored? No, not really. Just thinking.”
“Did you hear what Tasha said?” Vika sat down on the edge of the desk. “It was really my idea—I wanted to mention it to you yesterday.”
“Sounds good, I’ll talk with Zimin. I don’t think he’ll have a problem with it. He won’t give us uber-swords or tours of Raidion, I don’t think, but we’ll figure something out.”
Vika bent over and kissed me. “I don’t doubt it. Go home—I can tell you want to play your game. I’m going to start being jealous soon, to be perfectly honest.”
“No sense in that,” I said, taking her hand. “That’s part of my job description, too. And I have to do good work there if we want one of those apartments on the fifth floor.”
“I’d like one.” She squeezed my cheeks between her hands, her eyes staring unblinkingly into mine from a few centimeters away. “I hope you understand that this is our chance, the kind you don’t get every day. If we blow it, we’ll spend the rest of our lives regretting it.”
And she’s only 25? I was looking up into the eyes of a wise, experienced woman. The trap sprang shut…
“Okay, get out of here. I’m going to go find out who that Mercedes belongs to.” Vika walked out of the office.
Yeah, about that…
“Elena!” I yelled as soon as Vika was out in the corridor. “Come in here.”
“Yes, my general!” A second later Shelestova was standing to attention in front of me, her perfect breasts sticking out at me without any visible support underneath her alpaca sweater.
Sicilian Defense Page 5