by Leo Gher
He understood – the demon bastard – and paused for her to quiet down before resuming once more. After a short breather, his hands started moving in a widening circle around her sex, pushing and pulling. Against intrusive hands and fingers, Lindy’s hips began a rhythm of their own. Her body screamed as she struggled to keep her hands on the tub. Then a wholesome orgasm seized her entire body, repeating its potency over and over for the next few minutes. She could no longer hold back, and let out a long moan from her core.
Once Lindy caught her breath, she leaped out of the tub, water sloshing everywhere. She turned around and reached out her hand to Jake and pulled him from the bathtub. “Your turn,” she screamed, and they both raced toward the bedroom.
When Jake opened his eyes the next morning, he heard the sound of a coffee pot percolating, and, in the background, the creaking of cabin logs as the winter winds found their voice. At least, there was no clamor of Chicago traffic, no racket of televisions, not even a sunrise chorus of Carpathian birds on this daybreak. Jake and Lindy had enjoyed each other’s company for the night, but soon the CR Camp would awaken, and both had to prepare for the business meeting with Tad Tadesian and commanders of the Vartan Alliance.
Jake looked at his watch. It was eight am, December 24th. “Christmas tomorrow,” he said.
Lindy was dressing for their big day ahead. “What did you say?”
“It is Christmas Eve, Lindy.”
She frowned, “Armenian Christmas is two weeks away.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot.”
“We had this discussion last year. The Armenian Church was established two centuries before the Roman Church and never felt the need to change the date. The Armenian faithful have always celebrated Christmas on January 6th – it’s called Asdvadza-Haydnutyun – meaning the Revelation of God.”
“Couldn’t we at least have a candle or something?”
“Let it go, Jake. We’ve got more important things to think about.” Lifestyles, poles apart and contradictory; Lindy wondered if they could ever work out such matters. Lindy knew that Jake was stubborn about religion, even though he claimed he was not.
An hour later, Tadesian opened the session with a crucial question, “Initially, the Armenian powers-that-be asked the VA to supplement its defense forces with 5,000 volunteers. The Armenian military, they told us, was undermanned and needed additional troops.”
“Balance of power,” said JJ, “that’s what they said would deter the Azerbaijanis.”
Mike Bedrosian was flabbergasted by Frank’s naive remark, and responded, “This isn’t World War I, JJ.”
Jake added, “Even the Russians have moved beyond counting tanks and troops.” It was easy to see that Tadesian’s aide was embarrassed by the off-handed comment.
“Artificial intelligence and robotics have changed the nature of modern… future warfare,” Lindy said
“Autonomous weaponry.”
Tadesian, the man who had raised millions from the Armenian diaspora and paid for the unproven armaments, was unconvinced and nagged, “Drones, you mean?”
“Drones 4.0,” Lindy corrected.
“The technologies have come a long way,” said Jake. “The big Predators were first used as eyes-in-the-skies; after that, they were weaponized.”
“Military technocrats imagined a vastly different future: AI, miniaturization, and robotics made it possible.”
“It?”
Mike said, “AWS, Autonomous Weapon Systems – third-wave weapons – after gunpowder and nuclear missiles.”
Colonel Davidian, who had always been skeptical of diaspora forces, was not persuaded, “Boots on the ground; that’s what wins wars, not toys.”
Knowing the high likelihood of skepticism, Lindy had developed a Videopoint presentation: “As you can see, an alternative to inspecting electrical power lines, AUVs can be utilized to monitor troop movements and find mobile targets.
Frank asked, “AUV?”
“Unmanned Aerial Vehicle,” she said. “Instead of delivering parcels, some AUVs have been designed to drop ordnance; instead of spraying crops, drones could broadcast nerve agents.”
Tadesian interrupted, “Hasn’t the U.S. military developed lasers and microwave guns that can blast drones out the sky?”
“True,” said Jake, “the larger Predators and Reaper drones, flown by pilots at air force centers hundreds of miles from the front line, are vulnerable to such advanced countermeasures.”
“But our UAVs are different,” said Lindy. “They are self-directed. Autonomous Weapons Systems means they fly and make tactical choices independently. Think self-driving cars.”
“Is that possible?” asked Tadesian.
“This afternoon, we will demonstrate the capabilities of our new AWS for everyone to see.”
Jake added, “It is based on swarm technology – think 10,000 weaponized micro UAVs.”
Tadesian was impressed, but he had a concern. “The timeframe is critical,” he said. “Captain Bedrosian, if we approve the new tactics, equipment, and weapons, when will the AWS team be ready for action? When will we be able to deploy to Armenia?”
Mike turned to Jake for the answer. “We’ll have to weed down the present contingent to 500,” said Jake. “But we can be ready in ten weeks; no later than the first week of March.”
That was enough to convince most of the doubters in the room. Tadesian said, “Good enough, we’ll gather up after lunch, see the demo, and then strategize about our next move.”
21
Novruz
It was late February, and the frigid winds of the north Caspian Sea had finally settled down. It was the season of expectancy when Azeris looked forward to planting the flower buds they had nourished through the winter, going to the market to find fresh vegetables, and seeing their neighbors on the street. Most importantly, however, was Novruz, the spring festival when all Azeri citizens get a five-day holiday to celebrates the beginning of the new year.
On Baku Bay, where the Caspian bends against the shore like a crescent moon, city workers were already busy putting up placards and streamers along the main thoroughfares and squares. They always begin on the hills of Upland Park, where the elite families have built their estates. The view there, more than 100 feet above the bay, is spectacular.
Viktor Kos’s Victorian manor house sits at the end of Lemontov Street, about a block above the funicular railway. At its grand entrance, the mansion has a panoramic view of the bay below, and from his personal study at the back, Viktor can scrutinize, verify, and record all the comings and goings on Parliament Square.
It was eight minutes past 11 pm, and the leader of the Dark Triad was putting his long-deliberated scheme into action. Rolan Guliyev had arrived 20 minutes earlier, and the two men had been ensconced in Viktor’s study finishing tea and cakes. The Oil Minister and the President were sitting on the couch in front of the window that overlooked the courtyard. “I see you have many Russian icons, Viktor,” said Rolan.
“An inheritance from my grandmother, a daughter of House Gusin,” Viktor replied. “She was an Orthodox Christian, and she loved her icons.”
“Are they valuable?”
“Some. The ones of Jesus from the Hagia Sophia image are valuable… and the originals of Mary too.”
“Yes, the Virgin.”
There was an urgency to this late-night meeting. Two days ago, the President had faced and barely survived a no-confidence vote. Kos and his alliance had abstained, and Rolan realized that Viktor’s “Russian bloc” could make or break him in the next ballot. A deal had to be made; Guliyev’s adventures for the Armenian war depended on it.
“You would be a fool, Viktor, to oppose me,” said Guliyev. “Only I can steer this nation through the troubled waters we will soon face.”
“Fool that I am, Rolan, I intend to keep my options open.” Viktor’s s
arcasm was a clear message to the President that his alliance’s support would not come cheaply.
Guliyev stood up and walked to the window. Though it was very dark, the Parliament building stood out distinctly against the hill. Rolan said, “You have an extraordinary view of the government here.”
Meanwhile, in his second-floor bedroom suite, Vanya was finishing a communiqué for his committee meeting the next day. The one job where Vanya Kos performed actual work was as the Director of the Novruz Festival. The day of the vernal equinox varies, of course, but throughout the Caucasus, the festival begins on day one, month one of the Iranian calendar. Westerners are usually surprised that not everyone uses the rule-based Gregorian system, but the observation-based, Iranian calendar makes a lot of sense. In Central Asia, the New Year starts the moment the sun crosses the celestial equator and equalizes night and day. For the coming year, that date in the western world translated to the 21st of March.
Vanya treasured Novruz because it was seven days of spectacle: the folk song jubilee, medieval warriors’ parade, wheatgrass cookouts, boat regatta, wrestling tournaments, and horseracing were just a few of the events planned during the pageant. Most importantly, Vanya would be at the center of the attention, and that suited his vanity perfectly. This year, he planned to add a new element to the festivities: every night, a thousand burning campfires on the hills above Baku. They were meant to be symbolic: the fires signified a final purification of the people and the elimination of past Azerbaijani failures. He would see to it that all media would cover his lighting of the torches. When Vanya finished the communiqué, he walked to the mirror and began rehearsing his introduction.
There was a knock on the door. “Müserif,” Kos’s butler announced, “The Kos Bey would like you to join him in his study.”
“I have important matters here. Tell the old boob I cannot be bothered.” Vanya knew the butler could not deliver such a message, but he delighted in the conundrum he created for the man.
“He said to tell you that it is a most consequential government matter.” With that, the butler exited. Viktor had instructed the man to deliver the same message to his younger son, but the whereabouts of Vladimir Kos were unknown.
Fifteen minutes later, Vanya entered his father’s study. He was startled when he saw Rolan Guliyev. Viktor signaled for Vanya to pull up a chair. “I’m sure you remember my firstborn, Vanya Nikolayev.” Though he did not rise, Rolan offered his hand. As he did, he thought, this House is steeped in Russian custom, politics, and blood.
“Vanya, President Guliyev is here to discuss a most consequential government matter.”
“And you asked me to moderate?”
“To listen,” his father scolded. “And where is your brother?”
“Am I my brother’s keeper?”
“He is not in the house, sir,” said the butler.
Guliyev could wait no longer. The President turned to the Oil Minister and said, “Viktor, let’s put our cards on the table.”
The next day, the Kos household was awash with activities. The kitchen staff was busy preparing for a banquet that afternoon – Madam Aydan in charge. Viktor Kos had two wives. Aydan, four years his senior, was his first wife and the taskmaster of the household. Their union was a marriage of convenience. She was a daughter of House Bagirov, which controlled the Agricultural and Fishery industries. Dina, the second wife, was 15 years younger than Aydan, the love of Viktor’s life, and the mother of Vladimir. Needless to say, the two women did not get along.
The animosity traced back to the days immediately after Dina entered Kos family life. Aydan insisted that the new wife read the lessons of the Obedient Wives Club. Aydan’s lectures followed. According to the book, it was Dina’s job, as the second wife, to provide all kinds of sex to Viktor as a first-class prostitute would. Dina didn’t object to the sex part, but she did to the prostitute part, calling it the objectification of women, disrespectful and degrading to wives. She fought back, “Islamic marriage is not merely a sexual exchange.”
When Vladimir was born, Aydan began complaining to Viktor that “the prostitute and the boy she had produced” were hell-bent on supplanting her rights as the first wife and Vanya’s position as the next Bey of House Kos. For the next five years, Aydan threatened Viktor relentlessly; she would go to her clan and charge Viktor with breach of contract and with maltreatment of a dutiful wife. Frustrated by the constant bickering, Viktor finally settled the matter: he threatened to ship them both off to his Russian relatives in Chechnya; they would remain there permanently, and then he would look for a third wife. The open warfare ended quickly after that, but not surreptitious battles between the wives and their sons.
For dinner that afternoon, Aydan had prepared a menu she thought befitting the clan’s rising social position: rare roast beef, mushroom soup, bitter greens and zucchini with a dash of pepper, noodles in a wheatgrass sauce, and for dessert, rhubarb crème brûlée. Present were several Kos allies, but mostly, it was a family affair. One distant relative had been invited, though, a man named William Gusin of Chechnya. As they were finishing dessert, he said, “I have never enjoyed such an exquisite meal, Madam Kos.” Aydan smiled at the Bey of House Gusin, but then her gaze fell unkindly on the woman sitting next to him, his wife. In these troubled times, it was unusual that he brought her along because she was the daughter of an influential Armenian family. Her name was Susan, and she was the sister of Tad Tadesian, the leader of the Armenian diaspora in America. Soon afterward, Vanya told the gathering of his plans for the coming Novruz Festival.
Then it was time for tea and cordials. The servers placed Waterford crystal at each guest’s plate, and then the wine steward presented the Grand Marnier Cuvee 1880, an exquisite cognac with hints of dried apricot, hazelnut, and a subtle fragrance of orange for a finish. Vanya rose up and said, “Our father has an exciting announcement.”
Viktor Kos first acknowledged his appreciation to House Vidadi, House Bagirov, and especially to William Gusin, and then said, “As you know, there are difficult days ahead….”
A deal between Rolan Guliyev and Viktor Kos had been struck. Kos would throw his team of allies behind the President in the next vote. In return, Viktor would become the Azerbaijani Vice President. Vanya would take Viktor’s place as Minister of Oil, and Vladimir would be named as the chair of the newly formed National Security Council.
Later that evening, the Dark Triad had retired to Viktor’s study for a nightcap. Vanya paced back and forth in front of the fireplace. “I am curious to know what the duties and responsibilities of this new Security Council are.” He was speaking to his father, but the words were directed at his brother, who was smoking a cigar on the sofa.
As he picked cigar bits from his mustache, Vlad guffawed, “Why concern yourself, big brother?”
“Such a Council has powers over the Secret Service, powers to spy on Ministers.”
Viktor added, “And what the Azeri President is doing.” It was an undeniable sign that at some point in the future, Viktor Kos had ambitions grander than just being vice president.
Vanya wasn’t pleased, “You’ve given him power over me.”
“Nonsense, Vanya, the position is the tool we need inside. Remember, Guliyev has his plans, and we have ours.”
From across the room, Vlad had another question, “What about the Kedar Bey? He has been quiet for many months.”
Viktor did not hesitate, “With Rufet already out of the way, and despite your clumsy efforts at Ephesus, everything is falling into place.”
“And what of Mira Nadirov? Has she recovered from her injuries at Istanbul?”
“She can barely walk these days,” said Vlad. “She is recovering in Gobustan.”
Then Viktor added vindictively, “We will deal with Azreal next.”
22
Bәla is Coming
In the meantime, at Warsaw’s Chopin Internat
ional Airport, LOT Flight 2525 had just lifted off, heading east for Tbilisi, Georgia. For the past few minutes, Iza Beggs Mansour had been gazing out the window of the Boeing 757 as it climbed to cruising altitude. When the plane entered a cloudbank at 12,000 feet, she pulled down the window shade, turned to Sam and asked, “Did you message Conor… tell him we are on our way to see Mother?”
“I did. But he said he couldn’t talk very long, a business meeting or something.” It was the first week of March, and the university was on spring break. Sam and Iza had left Chicago for New York the previous night, and then, to avoid peak-hour traffic, they took the red-eye flight to Warsaw. It was a long ride – 22 hours altogether – but the Polish Airlines fare was cheap enough that both could make the trip.
“What did he have to say?”
“That the London meeting last fall with Jake was a disaster.”
“The business about the treasure?”
“Yeah. Conor said Jake claimed he never got the text about not
selling it.”
Iza was puzzled. “But Jake needed the money, right?”
“Conor told Jake he would loan him the money for school, but that just made him mad. There’s always been a problem. You heard what Jake said when he and Lindy visited last fall.”
“Worse now?”
“Conor is frustrated; he doesn’t know how his problems with Jake can be resolved.”
“Too bad.” Iza frowned. Then she changed the subject. “Natia has a new boyfriend.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You’ve got to get closer to the girls, Sam. Before you know it, they’ll be out of the house, and you’ll be wondering what in the world happened.” It was true. He loved Natia and Elene, of course, but too often it was hard for him to maintain a wholesome father-daughter bond.
Sam said, “I don’t know what to do.”
