by Niles Kovach
Misha drove me in my car, while the others followed in the Mercedes. We spent most of the time in silence, but I ventured to ask a question or two of my own.
"You don't really think they will hurt me badly, do you?"
"I know they will.”
This took a moment to digest. "How badly?"
"I cannot explain it because you have never experienced it. You have no basis for understanding. That is why you are doing this, because you do not know what you are doing."
"I don't understand."
"Exactly. It is the argument I gave Vasily, but he is adamant. He gave you advice. I give you a way out. If you tell them where the icon is, they will simply shoot you. There will be no more pain. It will help us if you wait as long as possible to tell them, but how long is up to you."
"You're not going to come and get me?"
"Yes, we will, but you are not our priority. When it becomes too much for you, you are free to get out."
He parked the car on a dark side-street somewhere on the South Side, having driven the last mile slowly and without lights.
"Now listen," he said. "Go two blocks, then left. It is on the right. The place is called Rick's. Give me two minutes, then start walking."
"By myself?"
"Yes. There is no danger here. Rick's is a sovereign house. No killing, no exchanges, no secret work, only talk, at Rick's and within the approaches. These extend half a kilometer all around the place. We are within that radius. You can walk to Rick's."
"What is a sovereign house?"
"It is a bar, and sometimes a restaurant, where everyone can go, in some safety, to talk. There are several of these places, in different cities around the world. Inside, it is usually divided into three or more sections. To the right is the West, to the left, the East. In the center are the neutrals, true anarchists, and the indiscriminate. In countries with more factions, there are more sections. At Rick's, you will find Ill Wind in the center. Just ask the barman. When we come in, be sure you do not recognize us."
"But I'm hopeless. You know that. They will see it all over my face."
"No. They are not that good, and you are not that bad an actress."
"Where will you sit?"
"We do not usually work for the East, for many reasons, not all of them ideological. We will sit on the right."
Rick's occupied more than one building. It was actually a collection of several small buildings, each built hard against he other. Any spaces between the buildings had been walled up, making the place whole, but all of the doors remained. All were painted the same color and matched the paint on the brick walls so well that the structure was a monotony of grey in the moonlight. There was what seemed to be a main entrance, lit by a small neon sign saying "RI_K'S," but this was the only distinguishing mark.
I entered through the lighted doorway, and descending three steps, found myself facing a long bar that began in front of me and stretched away to my right. Clutching the section of icon hastily wrapped in two brown paper sacks under my arm, I asked a man behind the bar where I would find Ill Wind.
His answer was perfectly bland. He pointed to my right and said, "Third table, down the center."
At the end of the bar was another step down into a large room, filled with booths and tables, but clearly divided into three sections. The room was about two-thirds full. There were only a few other women sitting down, and none of us looked like ladies. The waitresses ran from tables to bar to kitchen, back to tables
Traffic between the sections was very free, and there were animated discussions in various languages at most tables, sometimes between tables, and even a few shouting matches between sections.
I approached the third table in the very center. Two enormous men and several smaller men sat at a table for six. I could not accurately count the other men because they kept coming and going.
The two big men were quite still. Misha had understated their size. These were giants. Whereas Louis was the only member of Charlemagne who even reached six feet, topping it by only an inch or two, these men were well over that. I estimated six-six or more. And they had the bulk and the mass to match their height. I tried to convince myself that their bulk was probably fat (they looked self-indulgent), but when one of them stood up and offered me a seat in a mock gesture of exaggerated politeness, I could not find evidence of even a spreading middle. He was as perfect and as muscular as Vasily or Misha or Louis, but much, much larger. Things were looking bleak. I began to doubt that I was on the winning side.
And they had minions. They had countless nasty little men, little Borises, hangers-on who hovered around the table and eyed me with disgusting glee.
The one I came to know as Achim spoke to me first. "Buy you a drink?" he said.
"Yes, please. Vodka." This had been Misha's instruction. It would be good preparation, he said, without filling me up or making me too stupid.
Achim caught a passing waitress by the waist, pressed her to himself, and ordered my drink. I saw many things in his behavior and felt relieved.
He had straight black hair, an olive complexion, and a full mustache that would have given him a Latin look, but for the large, straight coptic nose that suggested an Egyptian origin. What I saw that relieved me was in his black predatory eyes. He was not much smarter than Boris. Or maybe he had once been, but now his mind was concerned with other things, comforts and excesses, and lacked the discipline to think clearly. He was a voluptuary without discernment — no match for the men of Charlemagne. I observed his brother and to my inexpressible joy found that he, too, was little more than a lesser animal in human form.
"And what can we do for you, little girl," said the brother, Ahmed.
"Brent Grayson sent me."
There was immediate interest.
"Yes?"
"He said to give you this." I handed my package to Achim. He seemed to be in charge.
He tore a small section, then ripped the paper off completely. "Where is the rest of it?" he demanded.
"Brent said we should talk about it."
"Why isn't he here?"
"He's indisposed."
"Where is he?"
"At my place, taking a bath." I thought this was clever, and was pleased with myself for one or two seconds.
"And where is your place?"
Payment for breaking Misha's rule, "Don't be clever." I was no longer in charge of the questioning. I had to get it back on track, before they strayed into more questions I could not answer.
"That's not important," I reminded him. "The icon is."
"And where is that?"
"I'll tell you when we come to an arrangement."
"What arrangement?"
"We - Brent and I - want a better price and some way to hand it over safely." I emphasized the word "safely."
"What price?"
"Seventy-five. It cost us more than we expected."
"Forget it."
I stood up. So did Achim. I started to leave, but he took my shoulder, covered it, in fact, with one enormous paw, and held me fast. He looked at me sharply and for a moment I saw the man he once had been or that he might have become and it frightened me. He was formidable.
"You know where the icon is?" he asked.
This was the crucial question. This was the point from which I could not turn back. I had been strictly instructed to answer this question with the truth. The operation hinged on it. I had also been told the likely consequences of my answer.
"Yes," I said.
The two brothers spoke rapidly in a language I did not recognize. Achim told me to sit down, took the icon, and disappeared down one of eight shadowy corridors off the main room.
Ahmed began a conversation, obviously working his way to the subject of the icon. He tried several times to get me to reveal where it was, each attempt so clumsy and transparent that I found it hard not to smile as I evaded his question. Ahmed resembled his brother except that there was no trace of the shrewd mind I had noticed in Achim. He was also in less
perfect condition; his excesses had begun to show in his puffy face and swollen middle.
"Do you see those men over there?" he said.
"Where?"
He pointed behind me and I turned. Vasily, Louis, and Misha were being shown to a table by a fawning waitress.
"Which men?" I said.
"The ones just now sitting down. Do you see them?"
Yes I see them you fool and I want to run over there and throw myself at Vasily and beg him to protect me from further contact with the likes of you except that would displease him and might even kill him so I will put up with you a little while longer.
"What about them?" I said, turning back to Ahmed.
"We are going to kill them — tonight."
That's what you think, you slug.
I pretended to be mildly surprised and impressed.
"You see..." he continued. "Do you see the blond one, the Austrian?"
I turned again and said, "How the hell do you tell who comes from where?"
"The blond one, the one on the right."
"What about him?"
"He thinks he is very good with knife. We know differently."
You know nothing.
"Oh," I said. "And how's that?"
"Look at him! He is half Achim's size. Achim's arms are twice as long..."
"Like a gorilla, I thought.
"...and he thinks he is smart." Ahmed was still talking. I had missed something. "But he will discover brains are shit against a mountain, eh?"
He roared at his own joke. "Now the bomber..." He was suddenly serious.
"Bomber?"
"The one with the messed up hand, the shortest one."
"They're all sitting down. I can't tell which is shortest, and I can't see their hands."
"The one with light brown hair, like yours."
"Yes?"
"He is the best. He is certainly the best." Achim's voice was lowered, his tone respectful. "He can blow up anything. He can place a charge in precisely the right place and precisely the right amount and detonate it at precisely the right time. He is incredible. Everyone agrees. He is the best. It is a pity he will die tonight also. And the other one. They say he can listen to any conversation. Maybe he is listening now eh? Maybe he has a gadget that can pick up what we are saying right now. What do you want to say, eh?"
"What?"
"What do you want to say to them?"
Get me out of here.
"I think they're kinda good looking." I took one more look at them.
Ahmed laughed loudly, drawing everybody's attention, including the three I was looking at. I turned away quickly.
"Their women, the ones who live, are high class. Way out of your league, little slut. They say," he leaned toward me like a conspirator, "that the Austrian can cut your throat before you know he's there."
I could see that he was trying to frighten me with the one thing that most frightened him. I tried to look frightened, not hard to do under the circumstances.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you will die tonight, too." His voice was still low, conspiratorial. "How badly you die depends on how soon you tell us where the icon is, eh? If you are a very good girl, we'll do you a favor and let the Austrian sharpen his knife on you. If he can find us, that is. They say there is little pain."
"I'm leaving." I got up to go.
Achim was suddenly behind me, speaking rapidly to his brother in their own language. I was bundled down one of those corridors, protesting uselessly. Nobody paid the least attention. So much for the safety of a sovereign house.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE