Deep Black

29

Foreigners throwing around wads of cash attracted several different types of attention in Russia. The most dangerous was the fawning, sell-my-brother-for-a-ruble attention; Karr realized that anyone being overly nice to his face was more than likely calling a mafiya connection to tip them off to a potential kidnapping candidate. The Russian gangs were considerably more difficult to deal with than the security police simply because they were unpredictable. Not even the NSA had the resources to track the myriad groups that operated throughout the country. A few were aligned with fairly well-known political or business figures, and a couple were essentially military units moonlighting in the open season for graft. But the vast majority of Russian gangsters were smalltime hoodlums with very small operations, many of which either were quasi-legal or would be entirely legal if the proper permits were obtained.

The corruption pained Karr, even as he took advantage of it to do his job. The price for the jet fuel and the two large drums to transport it was so low that the fuel was either watered down or stolen.

Fashona swore it wasn’t watered down, and since they pumped it themselves, they got reasonably close to the amount they had paid for. They rolled the barrels up the single wooden plank into the back of the ancient Zil they’d hired, and moved out of the airfield. Karr fingered his pistol as they passed the guards, but he could tell from the men’s faces they were too depressed to even bother stopping them to ask their business.

His mother had come from Russia as a young girl, the daughter of a refusenik. Though she loved America, she still talked fondly of Russia and often spoke of going back to visit now that the country was a democracy.

He wanted to tell her about the country, but security concerns absolutely forbade him to. It probably wouldn’t have done much good; she wouldn’t believe what he’d tell her. At best, she would blame the woes on the Communists.

Karr wouldn’t completely dismiss that. But it seemed to him that the problem had more to do with greed — a disease imported from the West. As Russia tried to catch up to America, it had lost something of its nobility.

Most people had a depth and warmth that hardship only enhanced. But others were deeply infected with greed and cynicism. It was if it were one of the mosquito-borne viruses plaguing the new oil fields.

Heading back toward Sitjla, the driver of the truck became somewhat talkative. In his early thirties, he owned the truck with his brother, who was riding in the back and carried a small pistol concealed — or at least intended to be concealed — on his calf.

“I can tell my children I helped the CIA,” said the driver, whose name was Varnya.

“If I was with the CIA, I wouldn’t have run out of petrol,” laughed Karr. “And I would have paid you twice as much.”

The man laughed, though he insisted he knew that the two men were both American and members of the Central Intelligence Agency. According to Varnya, the CIA ran Russia, but this was an improvement from the days when the KGB had. Varnya’s grandfather — it may have been his great-grandfather, as Karr couldn’t quite stay on top of the accented and slightly drunken Russian — had been a political prisoner in one of the camps. After twelve years, he had been released with the understanding that he would stay out of western Russia. A similar story could have been told by half of the local inhabitants, if not more.

Varnya began to speak of things that his grandfather had told him — bodies in the river, a forest of skulls. His anger started to build. He offered to share his vodka. Karr agreed, knowing that to refuse would be a serious insult. He blocked the mouth of the bottle with his tongue every time he tipped the bottle back. The sting of the liquor helped keep him awake on the long ride.

It was dark when they got back to the helicopter. Varnya and his brother volunteered to help roll the barrels toward it. Then, as Karr knew they would, the two men pulled out weapons and tried to rob them.

“What would your grandfather think?” said Karr, shaking his head.

Varnya’s chest inflated, alcohol-fueled anger rising within him. He looked at Karr as if he were the KGB man who’d locked his grandfather in exile and tormented the family for three generations. He raised his pistol to fire, pushing his arm toward the American.

Fashona’s first bullet caught him in the side of the head. He didn’t bother firing another. By the time Varnya dropped, Karr had shot the brother twice in the forehead with a Glock 26.

“Motherfuckers,” said Fashona. “I told you they’d wait to see if we really had the chopper.”

“Yeah,” said Karr. He slid the Glock 26 back into its hiding place up his sleeve. “Kinda pains me that they didn’t believe us. Nobody trusts anybody these days.”