Bad Company

by P A Duncan

  Exhausted, Alexei let Lewis lead him into the meeting hall. Everyone in Patriot City awaited him. As he limped down the aisle, they stood up and applauded. Elijah waited on the stage, a smirking smile on his face. When Alexei and Lewis were a few feet away, Elijah snapped to attention and gave the stiff-arm salute.

  “White power!” he shouted.

  Every voice in the room screamed the same words.

  The noise assaulted Alexei, angered him. He looked around, seeking that one face… He found a familiar one, not the one he wanted, but it grounded him.

  “A little further, son,” Lewis murmured, his hot breath against Alexei’s ear, “and you can have her.”

  The frenetic shouting, its cadence faster and faster, was hypnotic. Reality slipped away. His ankle and arm throbbed in unison with the chanting. A headache started in his temples.

  Lewis led him up onto the stage. Elijah came to Alexei and put his hands on Alexei’s shoulders. Elijah’s eyes bored into his. Alexei stared back, the intensity making Elijah blink.

  “Brother Sergei, will you kneel?” Elijah said, barely audible over the din.

  Alexei knelt, more to take the weight off his ankle than anything else.

  Elijah held up a hand, and the chanting stopped. “Let us pray!”

  Heads bowed around the room, chairs scraping the floor as people shifted to a prayerful posture. All of it grated on Alexei’s nerves. He closed his eyes but wouldn’t bow his head. That would look as if he bowed to Elijah.

  “Brothers and sisters, we give thanks to Yahweh-Yahshua for the heart and soul of our newly baptized brother Sergei. God has filled him with Christian righteousness. God has made him his servant, his instrument, his weapon for the destruction of the darkness which imperils us. Yahweh, look down upon this proud, white, Christian warrior. Bless him and soon, we pray, the issue of his loins. In the task before us, guide the aim of his gun, make his every shot ring true, fill his heart with love for his race, the white race, the master race. We ask this in the name of our father Yahweh and his son Yahshua, in whose names we fight. Amen.”

  “Amen!” the crowd responded.

  Alexei moved to stand, but Elijah’s hands on his shoulders kept him on his knees. Alexei opened his eyes and saw Charlene, in a white dress, approaching, a smile on her face. He hated her in that moment, as much as he hated Elijah and the Nazi scum beside him. He hated every man and woman who’d chanted “white power.” He wanted to kill them all.

  When Charlene passed him on her way to the steps leading up to the stage, he saw fear in her eyes.

  The meeting hall was quiet now, and the woman’s footsteps on the wooden stage rang like gunshots. Her hand rested on his shoulder, and it was all he could do not to shrug it away. She peeled his windbreaker and shoulder holster off his torso. When she started to remove his shirt, he resisted. What the hell did they expect? That he fuck her here on the stage?

  “It’s okay, Sergei,” she murmured. “Lift your arms.”

  He let her pull his shirt off, and pain stabbed from his wound down his arm to his fingers. He leaned back on his haunches, the wooden floor adding aching knees to his complaints.

  Charlene began to brush his hair. He heard scissors, felt hair fall on his shoulders. He’d wondered why they hadn’t insisted upon it before. His hair wasn’t the longest it had ever been, but it was far longer than any man’s here.

  “Cut off thine hair, O Jerusalem, and cast it away,” Elijah said. “Who you were has died, and you are reborn a soldier for Yahweh.”

  Their voices soft, the others in the hall repeated those words.

  What the hell. Hair grew back.

  In a few minutes, she’d trimmed his hair to within an inch of his scalp. She wet his hair with towels soaked in warm water and lathered his head with soap. The gentle scraping motions meant she’d taken a razor to his head. She hesitated only when she must have uncovered the slick scar that ran almost from ear to ear, the reason he wore his hair long. She was careful there and soon finished. With a dry towel, she patted his head, chest, and back dry.

  “My brother,” Elijah said, “you have joined our cause. Will you receive the symbol of your salvation?”

  God knew what that was, but Alexei said, “Da. Yes.”

  Elijah placed one of the blue berets on Alexei’s bare scalp, the wool harsh against the freshly shaved skin.

  “All rise and acknowledge this newly anointed warrior of Yahweh!” Elijah said.

  Someone helped him to his feet as the stiff-arm salutes and the “white power” chants began again. Alexei swayed. If he didn’t get something for his pain, if someone didn’t stop the bleeding on his arm and face, this “newly anointed warrior” might pass out. Lewis came up to him and put something in his hand. Alexei’s fingers curled around the familiar neck of an open bottle of vodka.

  “For the pain,” Lewis shouted over the clamor.

  Alexei brought the bottle to his mouth and drank it like water. He would have drunk it all, but Lewis took it away. Another reason to kill him.

  An older woman everyone called “Healer” came up onto the stage and took him by the arm.

  That rancid, Nazi breath again at his ear, Alexei heard Lewis say, “Healer will take you to your quarters and deal with your wounds. When she’s done, she’ll bring you to my office. Go with her.”

  Amid the chanting, the thick-hipped woman walked him back down the aisle and out the door.

  Alexei showered first in cold water to shock the vodka from his system, but he felt its after-effects in the pounding headache, the trembling of his hands, and the dark depression heavy on his shoulders. For the second time that afternoon, he stepped from the shower and stood naked, water cascading off him, his back to the medicine cabinet mirror. He didn’t want to see himself. He remembered all too well what he’d looked like after the Romanian secret police had tortured him.

  He turned around and examined his wounds. The cut on his cheek still bled and would need stitches, as would the entry and exit wounds on his upper arm. His ankle was swollen and could be broken. He dried himself and redressed but carried his shirt in his hand.

  Healer probed and moved the ankle and declared it sprained not broken. She wrapped it expertly in an Ace bandage. She disinfected his arm to the point he was ready to smash her head against the wall from the pain, but she was deft in suturing the wounds closed and bandaging them. She repeated the disinfection and suturing for the cut on his cheek. Only five stitches and easily covered with a bandaid.

  After a generous shot of a broad-spectrum antibiotic, she handed him bottle of aspirin. He thumbed that open and dry-swallowed three. Not the worst of his various injuries, but he was over fifty, after all. The time it took to heal had increased with each year. Still, better than that “return ticket” Lewis had mentioned, and he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. There was the matter of Lewis’ computer awaiting Alexei’s touch.

  He stepped into his shoes, pulled on his shirt, and reached for the beret.

  “No,” Healer said. “You can’t wear that out in Babylon.”

  “Out in Babylon?”

  “Lewis will explain.”

  “My scar. Too much attention.”

  “Wear a ball cap. Come on.”

  Alexei pulled a baseball-style cap over his irritated scalp and followed Healer.

  “I have fought against many Soviet soldiers,” Lewis said. “Their fortitude impressed me at Stalingrad. They were godless men, but they were damned good soldiers. You have done Rodina proud, Sergei. I, too, am proud of you, syin.”

  Alexei brought to mind an image of strangling Lewis and managed to smile.

  The dog sat at Lewis’ side, its slim head shifting from Lewis to Alexei, tail wagging. Alexei realized he needed a plan to deal with the dog, whom Lewis let out to roam at night. He’d figure that out later, when he wasn’t about to drop from exhaustion.

  Lewis took a wad of money from his desk and counted out ten hundred-dollar bills before putting the m
oney away. He slid the bills across the desk toward Alexei, and he picked them up and shoved them in the front pocket of his Dockers.

  “That is a bonus, Sergei,” Lewis said.

  A thousand dollars would buy him a ticket home. “Spaceba.”

  From another desk drawer Lewis took a plastic card and handed it to Alexei. A Missouri drivers license in Sergei Nevansky’s name. Alexei pulled out his wallet and stowed that inside.

  “Looks authentic, does it not?” Lewis said. “We have a man here who can produce one for any state. Your salary will be deposited in an account in a credit union in Springfield. We set that up using the information from your Green Card and the Social Security Number on the license. A real one, by the way, assigned to a child who died. You may withdraw money when you need it from the account, but be careful how you throw cash around. That in itself can be suspicious.”

  “Yes. I understand.”

  The IRS would eventually crack this wide open, Alexei thought, unless they have someone inside the IRS.

  “Ah, Sergei, Elijah said he wished you could have seen how the instructors, the trainees cheered you on. Three women have already asked to bear your children, but there is plenty of time for that. You have solidified your trainees’ respect and loyalty. I foresee a long and fruitful time with us. When the people of this country rise up, you will have a high place in Yahweh’s new order. I know you want that, Sergei.”

  No, strangulation was too easy. A good knife and a few hours in a locked room with Lewis would ease a lot of pain.

  “I am impatient for this to happen,” Alexei said.

  “We all are, but the time is not right, though it’s sooner than you think.”

  Alexei glanced at his watch. “It is almost time for evening prayer with Prophet.”

  “No, you’re excused from that today. You have earned some rest.”

  “Thank you. I will go back to quarters and—”

  “No, you and Charlene will go into Springfield for the evening. To get to know each other. There is a safe house for you to use. Be back tomorrow in time for lunch and afternoon services.” Lewis smiled. “What do you think of that?”

  He could go home, but with what? No hard evidence. Patience, Alexei, he told himself, wait for a chance at the computer.

  “That sounds good to me,” he said.

  “In case you are unclear about Charlene, Elijah wants your seed in her as soon as possible.”

  Bloody hell, as Mai would say. “Yes, I understand.”

  “Good. See you tomorrow. You are dismissed.”

  Outside the main house, Charlene stood by a Ford Taurus. She still wore that damned white dress, as if a bride, his bride. And in that moment he wanted to kill her, too.

  Her smile, however, didn’t quite make it to her eyes. “Congratulations,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Ready for some rest and relaxation?” She managed to imbue that with an overabundance of innuendo.

  “I am tired from test.”

  “You need to relax, Sergei. I know a place with good food. You deserve to let your hair down a little.”

  All right, I’ll play along, he thought. “But I no longer have hair.”

  She laughed, he thought with a tinge of bitterness. “You’re just adorable. Let’s go.”

  35

  Revelations

  Springfield, Missouri

  Their arrival in Springfield confirmed for Alexei he was in Missouri. The restaurant Charlene selected was called Big Whiskey’s, not haute cuisine, but the portions were generous and different from the coarse, high-carbohydrate fare at Patriot City. There, pork and shellfish were taboo, and the steady diet of red meat and potatoes made Alexei welcome the strenuous daily exercise.

  He ate a plate of fried chicken with abandon.

  Charlene picked at her salad and watched him, looking away whenever he met her eyes.

  “So,” she said, finally speaking, “what happened to your scalp? A car accident?”

  “No. When I was in army, I was captured by enemy. Their commander had fondness for American cowboy and Indian movies.” That part was true.

  Her fork dropped into the bowl of salad, and she looked him in the eye. “He scalped you?”

  “He tried to but did not do it right.”

  “Was it the same people who killed your wife?”

  “Da. Yes.”

  She picked up her fork and toyed with the greens again.

  “You’re the real deal. Most of the guys who come to us are soft, never been in the military. You’re what they think they are.”

  If only you knew, he thought. “I make them soldiers,” he said.

  “Good luck with that.” She continued to play with her food. “Tell me more about yourself.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  She shook her head and set her fork down. “Well,” she murmured, “I’m supposed to fuck you later, and I thought it might be nicer if we got to know each other first.”

  That seemed almost defiant, but Alexei remembered she was here to spy on him. He focused on finishing his meal, and she stayed quiet. They both said no to dessert, and as Alexei paid the check, she suggested a country music club where there was dancing. Her eyes pleaded with him. Was she putting off going to the safe house? That he could agree with, and he concurred.

  The night club had a faux cowboy decor and a passable live band. Charlene ordered a frozen daiquiri, and Alexei opted for light beer. Anything stronger and he’d fall asleep in his chair. The dance floor was crowded, and Charlene kept her eyes on the dancers, not him. The level of noise made conversation almost impossible, though had her chair been closer to him, she’d be in his lap.

  They watched the dancing for close to an hour before Charlene put her lips close to his ear and said, “I need to go freshen up. I must look a mess.”

  He decided to play his part; he didn’t want her to have too much to report on him. “I think you look very lovely.”

  Her eyes hardened, but she smiled and said, “You sweet thing. Be right back.” She slipped from her stool and wended her way among the dancers toward the women’s restroom.

  The men’s room was opposite the club from the women’s. When he’d used the restroom upon their arrival, he’d seen a line of pay phones in the hallway.

  What was stopping him?

  Nothing at all.

  He signaled their waitress. “Bring us another round, and tell my friend I’m in the restroom if she gets back before me.”

  Luck was with him. No one used any of the phones. He took the one closest to the restroom. There were partitions between the phones, affording a little privacy as he dialed his home number and a long-distance account number. In the middle of the second ring, Mai answered.

  “Fisher.”

  His groin responded to her voice. It had been more than a month, after all. He couldn’t find something to say to her, so focused was he on her voice.

  “Alexei?”

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  “Are you all right? Where are you? What have you—”

  “I don’t have much time. I’m all right. I’m in Patriot City. It’s run by a man called Elijah the Prophet. No idea on his real name. He’s mid-thirties, five-ten, 185 pounds. Probably ex-military. Got that?”

  “Yes.” A pause. “Alexei, I know about Pinkus von Hollenbrand.”

  He didn’t have time to get the how out of her. “Yes, he’s here. I have it under control.”

  “Where are you?”

  The Caller ID would give her a starting place, but if he told her, she’d be on the next plane here.

  “I need evidence. I’m going to raid the compound’s computer. When you get email from me with files attached, I’ll be coming out. Mai, I’ve got to go.”

  “No, wait—”

  “Sorry. I can’t.” No, don’t let it go unsaid. “Mai, I love you.”

  He hung up before he could hear her reply, or lack thereof. He was still alone but went into th
e men’s room to splash cold water on his flushed face. He leaned on the sink and got his emotions under control. The call was a mistake. It had distracted him, but the sound of her voice… He’d needed that. One of the pay phones began to ring. Mai calling back after seeing the number in Caller ID. He stayed in the bathroom until it stopped.

  When he got back to the table, Charlene was still absent. The fresh round of drinks awaited them. Alexei leaned back on his stool and drank half the beer in one swallow. It wasn’t vodka, but it would have to do.

  Charlene had waited until a popular line dance number began before going to the bathroom. The song would last ten minutes or so, and the ladies room would be deserted. Two stalls had doors closed, but neither was her goal—the second stall from the window. She went in, locked the door, and waited. After she heard flushes from the other stalls, there was some primping before the mirror, but both women soon left.

  Charlene lifted the top off the toilet tank, pushed up the sleeve of her dress, and plunged her arm in, bringing out a large Ziploc bag. The cell phone inside it was dry as a bone.

  She dialed a number from memory, and a man replied, “555-1750.”

  “Don’t tread on me,” she said, her code phrase.

  “The Force runs strong in me,” responded ATF Supervisory Agent Lucas Walker, a Star Wars aficionado nicknamed “Sky.”

  “What’s up, Boss?”

  “It’s been a while, Karen.”

  For a moment she didn’t recognize her own name. “It’s been a paranoid several weeks, and I’ve had a recruit assigned to me.”

  “That recruit, is he a Russian named Sergei Nevansky?”

  What the hell? “Yes. How did you know?”

  “He’s from some super-secret agency I don’t have the clearance to know about. When I asked what he was doing there, the answer was ‘need to know.’”

  “What am I supposed to do with him?”

  “Officially, you’re to work together. Unofficially, from me, keep him out of our business.”