The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

CHAPTER 27

THE GENERAL WOKE up excited and enthused. He was expecting news about the Tesla woman this morning. What started out as a matter of honor was becoming an even more intriguing proposition.

After washing and dressing he took his breakfast in the study. He never ate breakfast with his wife. He had his butler deliver it to his study instead. If he were to eat breakfast with Asya, the layers of fat in her chin might hypnotize him. He might start counting them. By the time he was done it would be time for lunch. That was unacceptable, eating two meals back-to-back with no productive activity in between, even for a retired military hero.

What a cow she’d become, he thought. Once she turned fifty, her metabolism slowed and she shed all inhibitions about portion control. Divorce was allowed in the Orthodox Church and he owned a few judges. He could have dumped her for a nominal settlement years ago and married the ballet instructor. She was always making eyes at him and his Mercedes AMG, the one with the hand-built engine. But if he divorced, the other four remaining members of his hunting club, the Zaroff Seven, would have never looked at him the same. They were old-school Soviet boys. Appearances mattered. Screw the farmer’s daughter—or son—if you had to, but for God’s sake do it in private, and don’t dissolve the marriage.

The General was realizing the truth more and more each day. He had no choice. There was only one way out, one course of action that would allow him to save face. He was going to have to kill her. But this would cause his grandchildren to cry at her funeral. He couldn’t stomach the thought of seeing his grandchildren cry for any reason. And so he went on with the status quo, eating his buckwheat cereal with blueberries in his study every morning, surrounded by the trophies that hung on his wall. Bear, wolf, lynx, argali sheep, red stag, Caucasian tur, snow sheep, wild boar, Siberian tiger. The heads of every animal worth hunting within the boundaries of the former Soviet Union.

He finished his breakfast and tried to motivate himself to deal with the horror that awaited him in the other room. First however, the phone call that would deliver him good news.

It came at 9:05 a.m. Sevastopol time.

“You’re five minutes late,” the General said. “I hate tardiness.” Saint Barbara knew that, and still he hadn’t called on time.

The General’s former protégé had been a colonel in the Russian army. The colonel had earned his nickname in the Chechen republic of Ichkeriya in 1999. Article 148 of the local criminal code forbid anal sex between people of any sexual persuasion. First and second time offenders were caned. Third-time offenders were beheaded or stoned to death. These local laws were against Russian law. When the colonel personally intervened to prevent a mute prostitute’s murder, the General began to call him Saint Barbara, the patron saint of delivery from sudden death.

“Don’t blame me,” Saint Barbara said. “Blame the woman in front of me that ordered five lattes to go.”

“You should have allowed yourself a larger margin for error. A great hunter allows for error.”

Saint Barbara didn’t answer but the General could picture him rolling his eyes on the other end of the line. Insolent child. But what was he expecting? Saint Barbara was only forty-nine. This younger generation was for shit. No wonder Russia was falling apart.

“Some punks tried to steal her luggage,” Saint Barbara said. “I made an executive decision and stepped in. Otherwise she’d be wasting time replacing her things instead of getting on with her search.”

The General paused to think. “I agree. And even worse, it would ruin her disposition. We can’t have that. We need her to be happy. Optimistic. Until it’s time for her to be realistic. Good decision.”

“Thank you.”

“She saw your face?”

“They both did.”

“Both?”

“She’s traveling with her brother.”

The General thought about this development. “I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing. That there are two of them now.”

“I thought you might say that.”

“And as for seeing your face, that doesn’t matter. As long as you don’t let her see it again. Until the time comes when it’s the last face she sees.”

“The brother’s at the Central State Historical Archives this morning. And she’s at Simeonovich’s offices.”

“Keep me informed.”

The General hung up and rubbed his hands together. It was going to be a good day after all. Then he remembered his appointment. His semi-annual horror awaited him. And now he was ten minutes late. He cringed. They would make him suffer for being tardy, especially since he’d reamed them new assholes for keeping him waiting five minutes one time.

The General reached into his desk drawer and grabbed the only weapon that would work against the enemy he was about to face. Stormed out of his office determined to dispose of it within five minutes.

He walked down the hallways and burst into the grand living room. There they were. The liberals. Three of them, all women, none over the age of thirty-nine. Or so they said. Pride, Prejudice, and Prada.

“There you are, General,” Pride said. She glanced at her watch. “We were beginning to worry your clock might have stopped.”

The General bowed. “My apologies, lovely ladies of the Siberian Environmental Protection Committee. Some issues at one of my aluminum plants. Let’s see if I can make it up to you. Look.” He brandished his weapon and held it like a hatchet. “I’ve brought my checkbook.”