“Too early to tell,” DeBlanc said flatly. “But, as long as we can do away with the pretenses – we both know your research came from our mutual friend Rudenko so let’s not pretend otherwise – and as long as the points you offer for my services are where they need to be, then I’m quite sure you and I shall get along just fine, Zlat.”
Pulev, after returning to his seat, drained his wine, stretched his thick lips across his face in a wide, scheming grin, and then said, “Indeed we shall, my friend. Indeed, we shall.”
Later, DeBlanc and Pulev exited the restaurant and walked out onto the bustling casino floor to where McKnight stood at the ready next to Ambroisine Brasseaux, the casino’s pit boss for the evening. Brasseaux was a short, fireplug of a Creole with caramel-colored skin, alert brown eyes, and long frizzy hair bleached into a severe platinum blonde. A determined, hardworking woman nearing forty, she had been with the casino since it first opened, starting as part of its custodial crew and working her way up to become its first female pit boss, a distinction of which she was proud. But now she stood stiffly next to McKnight, unused to such close interactions with the owner of the island resort, holding with two hands a small plastic tray, its rows packed tight with black, one-hundred-dollar clay casino chips.
“Now that we’ve successfully concluded our business for the evening, Zlat,” DeBlanc said regally as he snapped his fingers twice and held out an expecting hand to Brasseaux, “may I invite you to enjoy our resorts many pleasantries?” Brasseaux carefully placed the tray into DeBlanc’s waiting hand, after which McKnight gave her a nod and she returned to her duties without a word. DeBlanc then offered the ten-thousand-dollar tray of chips to Pulev. “Please accept these as a small token of my gratitude.”
Pulev looked down at the chips greedily and then back to DeBlanc. “Ah, I’m sorry, Louis, but I must decline your generosity. Sadly, my position with the consul doesn’t permit me to indulge in such gratuitous pleasantries.”
DeBlanc laughed. “Ah, yes of course. Well, my friend, in that case, please feel free to spend significant amounts of your government’s money on our many pleasantries then.” He handed the chips to McKnight without looking away from Pulev.
“Yes, thank you, Louis, but perhaps some other time. If I’m not mistaken, Ms. Black has agreed to join me for an after-dinner drink.”
“As you wish, Zlat,” DeBlanc said with a slight bow of the head. “I shall bid you good night then and I’ll have Ruby join you soon. I hope you enjoy the remainder of your stay.”
“Yes, thank you, Louis. I believe I shall,” Pulev said, his mind already on the delectable pleasantries Ruby had to offer. “I believe I shall, indeed.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
BEFORE
He stands outside the closed door to the room from where the screams come, but he is unable to enter it, nor is he able to retreat from it: his bare feet are immobile, sunk deep and permanently into the tiled floor. The waves of torturous screams pouring out from under the door are pounding against him with such a force that they begin to bend him backwards, farther and farther, until he is bent so far back the bones begin to break at the point where his legs are sticking out from the floor. Astaghfirullah! Astaghfirullah! Astaghfirullah! With all his might, screaming himself in defiance against the pain and the relentless screams battering down upon him, he slowly fights his way back upright, struggling with a frenzy until his fingers are at last able to reach the edge of the doorframe, and then struggling further until he can grab the frame firmly and hold onto it tight. His grip secure, he again struggles to remove his feet from the floor, but instead of freeing them, the bones snap completely, and his legs are swept out from under him. His feet remain hopelessly stuck in the floor. He is still holding onto the doorframe, but he can feel he is losing his grip. The force from the waves of screams are pounding against him so hard now he becomes stretched out, horizontal to the floor. His legs, now wanting for feet, flap behind him like ragged flags flapping madly in the eyewall winds of a hurricane. He can no longer hold on; his hands begin slipping from the doorframe until he is hanging on only by one hand... and then only by his fingertips... and then only by one finger… and then—
Killian’s eyes popped open wide as he woke from the black void of the nightmare. After a brief moment of hypnopompic confusion, he realized he was still in the hospital waiting room and that there was a woman sitting next to him crying softly into her hands. He closed his eyes again, not wanting her to notice he was awake, not wanting to risk the chance of getting drawn into her sorrow.
Awake now, the fact that he was once again back in a hospital, when it had not even been a day since his own release, struck him hard, especially since he was in the hospital not for his own suffering, but for Diego’s. This caused him pain equal to any he had known, equal to the physical pain from the blast, equal to the mental pain from the inexplicable deaths of the young Yazidi girls. His suffering, he could handle. The suffering of others however, such as the woman’s next to him, not so much. And when he was the cause of someone’s suffering, such as he was for his dear friend Diego’s, he couldn’t handle it at all. His stress level began to rise and his heart began pounding hard, as if it were trying to break free from the confines of his chest. He couldn’t catch his breath.
He tried to blank his mind, to empty it from all thoughts, to escape to some meditative void far from the torment of the present. Even the nightmare prison of sleep would be preferable to sitting there helpless wondering whether Diego would live or die. However, even with his eyes closed and his mind focused on not thinking, the telltale signs all hospitals possessed in their common identity – their sounds, their smells, their haunting vibes that come from being a place where Misery is welcomed and where Death resides, a place where no one in their right mind would want to be – wouldn’t let him escape. The void wouldn’t come, nor would the sleep return. His mind, trapped within the present, spiraled with activity and wouldn’t allow it.
Unable to escape the present’s grasp, he turned his focus instead onto the throbbing pain where his head smashed into the window. It was the exact spot on his head where the damage from the blast had centered. He focused on the pain, not to feel sorry for himself, but to realize and understand it, to feel it wholly and accept it, and then, finally, to release it and the debilitating power it held over him. This realization, acceptance, and releasing of pain, a South Asian self-healing technique, was something he learned from an injured Northern Alliance freedom fighter during his first tour in Afghanistan, not long after the American invasion began in October of 2001.
When he heard someone walk up to him and clear his throat, Killian assumed it must have been a doctor coming with news about Diego’s condition, meaning he had no choice but to open his eyes and face it all, whatever the it all may be. However, when he opened his eyes, it appeared that what the doctor had to say was meant also for the woman crying next to him, the woman whose sorrow he had been trying hard to avoid intermingling with his own.
As the doctor introduced himself as the hospital’s chief cardiologist, Killian stole a glance at the woman and saw that she was listening to the doctor full body, as if each word that was being spoken by him were a matter of her life and of her death equally along with Diego’s. And it only took that glance for him to notice the long auburn hair hanging thick and lustrous down her back, and framing, despite the recent tears, an elegant, beautiful face with sparkling green eyes and creamy ivory skin; and then, from that same glance, he came to understand that, even though it had been nearly thirty years since he last saw this woman and she was then just a teenager, he knew exactly who she was.
When doctor dismissed himself, Killian realized that he hadn’t heard anything that was said beyond that Diego was in a critical condition. He hadn’t heard what his friend’s ailment was or what his treatment, or chances, would be. He looked back to the woman and for the first time, their eyes met. He wasn’t surprised when she leaned into him for a hug.
&n
bsp; “Oh, Killian, I’m so sorry,” she said through her tears.
Killian stood up. “Why are you here, Reggie Joe?” His question sounded like an accusation.
Regina Josephine Gunther made no effort to stop the tears rolling down her flushed cheeks. Her sea green eyes looked up at him, bright and questioning. But she averted them from his glare before saying with more than a little guilt, “I-I don’t go by Reggie Joe anymore, Killian. It’s just RJ now.”
Killian was surprised by the response, not understanding why it was so important for her to make that clarification now. “Reggie Joe, RJ,” he said roughly, “whoever you are now, you still haven’t answered my question.”
RJ stood up and this time she wouldn’t let Killian escape her hug. “Diego and I became friends, good friends, a long time ago,” she said, holding him tight.
She sat back down again, pulling him back into his seat next to her. “How are you, Killian?” she said, studying him. “Diego had been keeping me up to date with your progress.”
The bright fluorescent lights put a strain on Killian’s burning eyes. He needed sleep, real sleep. He needed to get out of the hospital. Too many hospitals.
“I’m sorry, Reggie Jo— RJ, but I’ve got to go.” He stood back up and started walking away.
RJ didn’t catch up to him until he had reached the elevator. “Killian, where are you going? Diego needs—”
“I’m getting the hell out of here, that’s where I’m going,” Killian shot back. “I’ve had enough of hospitals to last me a lifetime.”
The doors opened, and Killian entered the elevator. RJ hesitated, and then entered with him.
When the doors closed, RJ said, “Killian, I hope what you’re doing doesn’t have anything to do with me. Diego needs you right now, and I’m pretty sure you know it.”
“What difference does it make if I sit here and worry for him or I sit at home and do it. Besides, you’re here so you can assume the responsibility.”
“Jesus, Killian. What the hell happened to...” Her voice trailed off as she recalled what Diego had told her about all of his many physical and mental injuries.
The elevator came to a stop and the doors opened upon the hospital’s main lobby. The late hour gave the vast space the feel of empty abandonment.
Killian walked over to the information desk and asked the sleepy attendant if he could use the phone to call a taxi.
“Don’t be silly, Killian,” RJ said as she placed a hand on his back. “I’ll take you home.”
The attendant placed the phone on the counter and Killian placed the phone to his ear, but he spoke to RJ instead of dialing the number. “I think I need to be alone right now and try to get my head right. Besides, like you said, someone should be here for Diego.”
Killian turned his attention to the phone, but then realized he had no idea who to call. He turned to the attendant and asked for a phonebook. The attendant didn’t say anything. He just reached under the counter and brought out a flyer with a list of local numbers. He slid the paper to Killian.
“Well, I guess while you’re making your arrangements,” RJ said, “I should run to the parking garage and bring up your things.”
Killian stopped dialing. His brow furrowed. “My things? Why do you have my things?” he asked.
RJ smiled weakly. “Because I’m the one the sheriff’s office called to tow Diego’s car out of the creek.”
The furrow in Killian’s brow deepened.
RJ grew serious. “Yes, after all these years, I’m still running my father’s garage,” she said.
Killian looked at her for a moment, then his brow relaxed and he went back to dialing the number for a taxi.
When the taxi arrived, RJ helped Killian load his gear into the trunk. After Killian got into the back seat and closed the door, she went to the window and tapped on it. Killian lowered it.
“As soon as you get yourself settled, give me a call, okay?” she said, handing him a business card. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
Killian took the card and looked at it. Gunther’s Garage was written in bold letters at the top. He then looked up at RJ, offered her a sad smile, and then told the taxi his address.
RJ stood in the cold and watched as Killian rode away into the lightly falling snow, and then into the darkness beyond.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Vice Consul Vasily Rudenko, his suit jacket off, his necktie loosened, and his shirt sleeves rolled up, sweated profusely as he sat in his cramped cubicle within the Houston Consulate of the Russian Federation. Growing up in Omsk, a city located in southwestern Siberia, Rudenko, a solid man of average height with thick black hair, dark skin, and subtle Asian features noticed mostly in his eyes and cheekbones, was used to mid-winter temperatures hovering around zero degrees Fahrenheit or below, not threatening to break into the eighties like they had been all throughout the entire southeastern Texas region for the past five days. He considered calling the building’s maintenance services to once again plead his case for having the air conditioning turned on; however, he knew it would be a futile effort after having had called them three times already in the past four days and being told each time that it was the complex’s management policy that the air conditioning for both Park Towers, North and South, were not to be turned on until after the first day of spring, and then only after there had been a succession of at least three days with a temperature of eighty degrees or above.
Steaming further from the thought of such a seemingly arbitrary and tortuous policy, Rudenko grabbed from under the pile of papers on his desk the program for the Texas Stars versus San Antonio Rampage hockey match he attended this past weekend and began fanning himself furiously with it. But even as he worked futilely to cool himself off, he knew that it wasn’t just the abnormal Houston heat and humidity that was making him sweat: it was also the contents of the intelligence report on the computer monitor before him, a report classified as confidential and with a bold caveat at the top and bottom of the screen that read “Consul General’s Eyes Only.”
Thanks to Andrei Nureyev, the consulate’s Information System’s Security Officer, believing that Rudenko was in the possession of a video of Nureyev having sex with another man, Rudenko was able to persuade Nureyev to discreetly adjust Rudenko’s security protocols so that he, Rudenko, while only a vice consul, albeit, the second-most senior undercover Foreign Intelligence Service officer assigned to the consulate, would have the same access to classified and compartmented materials as would the consul general himself. In return for the access, Rudenko made it clear that, not only would the knowledge of Nureyev’s homosexuality remain safely and securely between just the two of them, and by the two of them, Rudenko was certain the security officer was savvy enough to assume that it meant Nureyev himself, Rudenko, and those individuals unknown to Nureyev whom Rudenko had doing his dirty work. The video of the illicit sex act itself, of course, would remain safely and securely with Rudenko alone.
While, technically speaking, homosexuality was not illegal in Russia, having been decriminalized in 1993 during Moscow’s attempt to convince the West it was committed to their liberal ideals in its efforts to democratize after just recently throwing off the repressive yoke of communism, practically speaking, however, because it had always been regarded negatively, hostilely even, by the vast majority of the socially conservative nation’s population. Just the accusation alone of being a homosexual could not only jeopardize one’s employment and social standing, it could also jeopardize one’s life, especially since the Russian president declared war on homosexuality in 2013 by passing a series of laws that made it known throughout the nation, and the world, that homosexuals, regardless whether they were Russian citizens or foreign nationals, were no longer welcomed in Russia.
One of the laws passed allowed for the arrest of any foreign national merely suspected of being a homosexual, or for even expressing pro homosexual sentiments for that matter. Another law classified as pornography any pro
-homosexuality discourse or, as the law actually stated it, any discussions of “non-traditional sexual relations.” Which meant in practice that now because it was classified as pornography anyone discussing homosexuality in a positive manner to a minor, even if he or she were the minor’s parent, could be fined and arrested.
Without a doubt these new laws, in addition to subsequent laws passed that forbade adoption of Russian children, first to homosexual couples living in Russia, then to homosexual couples living anywhere in the world, certainly made life near, if not completely, intolerable for Russia’s homosexual population, and may have even triggered a rise in hate crimes against them. But, by having a dog-whistle effect on a nation already predisposed to antipathy and violence toward its homosexual population, even before the discriminatory laws were passed, what may have been the impetus behind an even greater rise in hate crimes against Russia’s homosexual population was an oft-quoted statement made by the Russian president in 2014 comparing them, homosexuals, to pedophiles and declaring that homosexuality must be cleansed from Russia.
In most cases though, behavior that would not normally be acceptable in Russia was mostly overlooked when occurring by Russians traveling and working overseas, even for those Russians on assignment abroad in a public capacity for the state. However, and unfortunately for Nureyev, the consul general was, at least internally to the consulate, a vocal crusader against America’s liberal and decadent lifestyle in general and its unabated proclivity toward homosexuality in particular. The consul general made it well known to his senior staff, which included the likes of Rudenko, who then made it well-known to the rest of the staff, which included the likes of Nureyev, that any such debased behavior by any consulate employee would not be tolerated. Of course, when informing Nureyev of the illicit sex video Rudenko supposedly had in his possession, he made sure to remind him of the consul general’s outspoken aversion toward homosexuality and the consequences for its practice.
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