by Tia Siren
When Slava's fist slammed into Moltov's mouth, he saw a tooth fly out and plop down into the water below the pontoon they were standing on. Moltov sank to his knees, rolled his eyes, and passed out. Octavia, curious to know what Slava was doing, came on deck and looked at the man lying on the ground.
“Slava, what on earth?”
“He's come on behalf of my father. He wanted to send you back to the US. He was rude, so I knocked him out. I think I must have hit him very hard. Indeed, he's lost a tooth.”
“Oh my God,” Octavia cried. “They're going to split us up. I can feel it. They want me back in America and you back in Moscow. I'll never see you again. I'm going to call my father and tell him where we are. He'll get someone here to protect us.”
Slava went back onto the boat and took her in his arms “No. They'll take you from me. I couldn't bear that. We'll leave and go somewhere else.”
“But, Slava, if they found us here, they will find us any other place. At least my father can keep us safe.”
“Okay, but I want to speak to him as well.”
Octavia opened her laptop and dialed the number. The president’s secretary answered. “June, it's Octavia. Can I speak to my father?”
“Octavia, where are you? Everyone's so worried.”
“I'm fine. Obviously our secret service isn't as fast as the Russians at finding me. I'm safe and well.”
“I'll get him. Please wait.”
When Octavia's father came onto the screen, he looked ashen, and Octavia instantly knew that she had caused him a lot of anxiety. “Hi, Dad. Listen, I'm—”
“Octavia, for god's sake, where are you? Your mother is having a nervous breakdown, and me too come to that.”
“I'm fine. I just want to talk to you, if you'll let me.”
“Okay, baby, talk. You know we love you more than anything in the world and only want the best for you.”
“I know, and I love you guys too. This is Slava. Do you remember him?”
Slava shuffled along the sofa and into the president's view. “Hello, Mr. President.”
The president seemed as if he was going to explode into a rage, but he took a deep breath and controlled himself. “Yes, of course, Slava, I remember you. I would be grateful if you would please bring my daughter home safely. I could send a few armed men to get her, but none of us want that. Just bring her home, please.”
“Sir, I love your daughter and she loves me.” Slava was resolute, and it seemed he had no fear of who he was addressing. “I have all the respect in the world for you, but Octavia and I have made a decision. Neither of us wants to continue our studies. We are bored stupid by them. We each have a dream that we intend to follow. We ask your blessing in doing so.”
Again, the president drew a breath. “I understand. Maybe if we had all talked about this in the first place, we would have been able to work something out. I am first and foremost worried about her safety. It's a dangerous world, and somebody could quite easily kidnap her. I ask you to think of the consequences of that.”
“Sir, I have, and I understand.”
Octavia decided to intervene when she noticed her father's voice change. It had taken on a more conciliatory tone, one he used when he wanted to reach an agreement.
“Dad, what we are saying is give us a chance. Both of us have enough money, and we have a home. I don't want to be part of the political world. I'm artistic, and I want to write. Slava wants to sail and design yachts. We're not dropping out. We're just following what we really want to do.” She paused and decided she would tell him. “I'm having a baby, Dad. You and Mom are going to be grandparents.”
The president was torn between congratulating her and flying into a rage. “That's great, honey,” he said. “Listen, how about we make a compromise. Come home with Slava, just for a few days if you like. Come and talk to us. Tell us what you want, and I promise I'll support you in any way I can.”
“No tricks?” Octavia asked.
“None at all. Come home, talk to us, and, if you want, go off again on your boat. But one thing I will not budge on is the security aspect. We'll talk about that at the time, though.”
Octavia looked at Slava, and he nodded. “Okay, sir. Octavia will come home for a few days, and I'll join her when I can.”
When the president had gone, Octavia turned to Slava, angry. “What do you mean? I'm not going anywhere without you.”
“Listen to me. My father will have you killed. I am convinced of it after the visit we had. The last thing he wants is to see is me marry an American. He hates Americans and everything they stand for.”
“Jesus. Do you really think he'd—” She stopped mid-sentence when he nodded. “And how the hell would he kill me? You heard Dad; he wants to help us with security. Your father would never get near us.”
“Did you see how they murdered Andrey Yevchenko? They put poison in a cup of tea. Or what about Yuri Davydov? They stuck the poisonous umbrella into his ass when he was walking across London Bridge. There are so many examples where good people have been murdered and nobody noticed the killer.” He looked at her, at distress in her eyes, and decided then and there that he was going resolve the situation. “Listen, I want you to go back to your parents. They are good people; they will let you do as you want once it all has been discussed. I'm going to St. Petersburg.”
“No. You mustn't. What if I never see you again?” Octavia said, now more worried than ever.
“I need a few days there. I will have my father returned to Russia in disgrace, and then we will be able to get on with our lives.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
*****
Slava sat in an office overlooking the River Neva in St. Petersburg and looked at the young man in front of him.
“Slava, it's so good to see you. We haven't seen each other since graduation day at school. How are you?”
“Igor, I am very well. There are things happening in my life now that are so fantastic; I can't begin to tell you.”
“You must. How about dinner this evening?” Igor asked. Igor Krasnoyarsk had been born on the same day in the same year as Slava. They had gone to school together and had been inseparable friends. As often happened, their lives took them separate ways. Igor went to work as a trainee journalist in St. Petersburg, and Slava went to university in Moscow.
“You know why I'm here, don't you, Igor?” Slava said in a somber tone of voice. Igor was just five feet five, but he was handsome with his dark hair and blue eyes.
“Yes. It's time, isn't it?”
Slava nodded. “Yes, it's time. The day has arrived, as I knew it always would. He has to be stopped. My mother is exhausted by his regular beatings, everyone who works for him is afraid of him, and now he has turned on me.”
“Okay. I understand,” Igor said as he stroked his stubble. “How do you want to proceed?”
Slava laughed. “You're the investigative journalist. I thought you might tell me. But as you ask, here are the names and addresses of five people who can bear witness against him.”
“Do you think they would testify against him? Wouldn't they be scared?” Igor asked.
“They will be scared, but they are old now and have little to lose. I will provide them with all with the necessary security. And besides, the State Security Service won't protect my father once the accusations come out. They'll drop him like a piece of hot coal.”
“All right. I'll go and interview them all. What about other evidence?”
“I have a weapon, which the witnesses say was used at the time, and I have a shirt.”
“A shirt?”
“Yes. The one worn at the time. It's got blood on it.”
“Great. How did you come across these articles?”
“They were sent to me by an old woman named Petrova Abdulova. I also have the letter she wrote at the time.” Slava placed a bag on Igor's desk. “All the things you need are inside the bag. I know you will do me proud, Igor. Thank you for your friend
ship over the years, and I do hope our paths will cross a bit more often than they have in the last couple of years.”
“Let's chat about old times this evening. I'll pick you up at your hotel at seven.”
*****
“Octavia, oh, Octavia” her mother cried as the bulletproof limousine dropped her outside the White House. “What have you been up to? We were worried sick about you. Promise me never to run away like that again.”
Octavia didn't say anything. She looked at her mother, the First Lady, a woman of average height and above average looks. A brunette, not a hair out of place. She had married Octavia's father when she was just nineteen. She was more popular than her husband among the public, because she was always on TV to raise funds for children. “Your father has canceled all his appointments this afternoon. We're going to sit down and have a nice chat.”
Octavia hoped the “nice chat” didn't turn into a monolog lecture. She went up to their apartment and into her room. It was predominately white and full of cuddly toys that well-wishers had sent her at various points during her life. The journey from London had tired her, and she undressed, had a shower, and slipped under the sheets. She woke when her mother called her at around three p.m.
“Octavia,” her father exclaimed. “It’s so lovely to see you. Come here.” He took his daughter in his arms and hugged her. She was surprised by how warm he was toward her. They were in the sitting room in the Presidential Suit in the White House. It wasn't a large room; it was cozy. There was a large round window in one wall and double doors in another that lead to the rest of the suit. There were two sofas opposite each other and a glass table between them. Octavia's father sat next to her mother with Octavia across from them.
“Your mother and I are so happy you are having a baby. We're really proud of you, and we want to tell you we will give you all the support you need throughout your pregnancy. If you think Slava will be a good father and you love him, we will support both of you equally.” He looked at his wife, who nodded in agreement. “Where we do have a concern is with you traveling around unprotected.”
“Mom, Dad,” Octavia began, “I hate Harvard and law. I want to be a writer. I want it so much that I was prepared to run away from you. Slava and I have found a way to make our dreams happen. He wants to sail, and I want to write. That's what we'll do, live on his boat and follow our dreams.”
“All right, if that's what you want. But what about your baby? He or she will have to go to school one day,” the president said.
“Of course, and we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now we have our plan, and we're going to follow it.”
“Okay then. Now that we understand what you want, we can support you. Why didn't you tell us you were so unhappy at Harvard?” her mother asked.
“Because I was worried about what you would think. I could see the headlines: President's daughter drops out.”
“Leave the press to me. When I'm finished with them, they won't dare to mention you anymore,” her father said.
*****
As he was about to leave for the airport, Slava's phone bleeped. It was an email. He opened it and read:
Hi Slava,
Please find attached the first in the series of articles. I hope you like it.
Igor
Slava clicked on the attachment and began to read.
St. Petersburg 2015
Night of Knives - The First in a Series of Articles About the Unsolved Murder of a Woman.
She was a woman in her forties. A woman to whom life had not been at all kind. Neighbors remember her as being slight and extremely pretty. What stood out most, though, was her kindness. She was willing to help anybody, and she regularly looked after some of the older women in the street. The street she lived on was just like most of the other residential streets in St. Petersburg: full of apartment buildings and play areas. It was a close-knit neighborhood where people knew each other and took an interest in each other.
You could be forgiven for thinking that the woman in question worked in a local factory or shop, but you would be wrong. Illona Kuklov was a prostitute. On the night of January 13, 1985, it was bitterly cold, and she had just let her last client of the day out of her apartment. Somewhere around ten p.m., there was a scream. It was a scream that makes those I have interviewed about the incident still have sleepless nights.
When neighbors rushed into her apartment, they found Illona struggling for breath in a pool of her own blood. She had been repeatedly stabbed, and the weapon was still poking from her chest. Illona's murder has remained unsolved, but it shouldn't be. There is more than enough evidence to bring the murderer to trail. Several witnesses, a murder weapon, and a shirt are all pieces of vital evidence that have been ignored by investigators.
This newspaper has uncovered the truth about this gruesome murder, and we are able to reveal that the chief suspect in the murder is Stanislav Kuklov, Illona's son. He is better known today as the Russian Ambassador to the United States of America.
Follow each day this week as we exclusively reveal how this man has avoided arrest for so many years and what can now be done to bring him to trial.
Slava put down his phone and smiled to himself as his plane took off for New York.
*****
“But how do I hold her?” Slava said as he looked at the tiny bundle in his arms.
“Oh, I can see you've got a lot to learn,” Octavia said as she walked up the gangplank on Serene. “Bottle feeding and diaper changes—you can learn the lot.”
“Octavia, come here please,” he said. As he put his arm around her, he kissed her. “You have made me so a happy, I can't tell you. She is so beautiful. I'm afraid I will never be able to give her away to another man like your father did on our wedding day.”
“You will if he's as good a man as you,” Octavia said.
Later that day, Slava received a text message from Igor.
“Judge says he's an animal. Gave him thirty-five years.”
*****
THE END
Sports Romance Collection
More Than a Game
“Grades matter, they matter a lot. I worked harder than anyone else to get here, and I have the report cards to prove it. The lowest grade I had was an ‘A-‘, and that was because the teacher hated me. It’s a black spot on an otherwise spotless record. I don’t want another black spot. It would make all the effort I put into getting into this college moot.”
“What was your name, again?”
“You know me, Coach, I’m Christine. I’m in your athletics course on Monday, and Wednesday at 9 am. I noticed that my grades had dipped into the ‘B’ level and wanted to know what I could do to improve my grade. I need to get an ‘A’ in this course, or I may not be able to transfer to a graduate degree program.”
The coach rolled his eyes at me; I’d seen it happen before and was quite use to it at this point. His old leather chair was a bit worse for the wear, more duct tape than chair it would seem, and his hand grasped at what I could only assume was a playbook.
“Are you telling me to change your grade to an ‘A’ because you asked me to?”
“No, I want to know if there’s anything I can do to improve it. I have looked through your syllabus and have recorded my performance.”
I produced a notebook that I had kept through the entire course. I recorded my athletic improvements including my jogging speed, blood pressure, and several other factors that I felt would prove my point.
He took the book and flipped through the pages.
“Are you serious?”
I pushed my glasses from the tip of my nose.
“I assure you, I’m quite serious. I believe I’m showing major cardiovascular improvement in the class, but if my own improvement isn’t enough to sway your grading scale then I would like to know what may?”
He threw the notebook back on the desk; I felt he may be impressed by my research. He rolled his chair to a filing cabinet behind him and thumbed thr
ough the files for a minute.
“What’s your last name again?”
“Reynolds. Christine Reynolds.”
He pulled a folder from the cabinet and pulled a few papers from it.
“Have a look for yourself; it shouldn’t be hard to figure out why you have a ‘B.'”
I took the papers from him and started to read. All the categories had numbers and checks except for one; participation.
“Is this saying that I don’t participate in class?”
“That’s to say that you never engage your peers. It’s a class. I may be your teacher, but you’re actively choosing to play by yourself. You seem to go out of your way to avoid the other students.”
I scoffed. “I participate in the class activities. Isn’t that enough?”
He stood himself up and came over and leaned on the desk in front of me, snatching the papers out of my hands.
“School is about more than accomplishing the task at hand. I like to think that my class also teaches students how to handle situations in life that may be overwhelming. You have to know when to ask for help and know how to help others. It’s part of being human. Self-reliance is a great asset, but being a team player is what most sports and athletics are about.”
I sighed and stood up.
“So you’re saying all I have to do is engage with the other students, and I’ll get an ‘A’?”
“Yep, that’s all I’m saying.”
I gathered my things, including my athletic journal.
“Then that’s what I’ll do,” I said as I made my way toward the door.
He smiled and nodded.
As I grasped the handle, the door tore open, pulling me along with it and causing me to collide with the person on the other side.
My face was jarred so hard that my glasses flew from my face and fell to the floor. The world became blurry as I did my best to focus my eyes to make sense of what I was seeing and possibly find my glasses.
