Shadow Touch

by Marjorie M. Liu

  As Anna walked around the front desk with a key in her hands, the hotel’s front door opened. A man and woman entered the lobby. Tourists, cameras hanging from their necks, fanny packs sagging down their waists. Sunglasses, tour books, brand-new clothes.

  “Honey,” cooed the woman, gazing up at the chipped mosaic of a naked sea goddess languidly sprawled on the ceiling. “Isn’t this fantastic?”

  It would have been more fantastic had they entered only two minutes previously.

  “If you may follow me,” Anna said, glancing nervously at the tourists. “I show you room.”

  “Da,” Elena said, giving Artur a hard look. “We follow.”

  Artur watched Elena disappear up the stairs with Amiri and Rik close behind. He wished he could go with her. He wished he did not have to be here, calling in old debts with a man he’d thought he would never again have to see. As far as former Mafia bosses went, Mikhail Petrovich was not a bad person. But he was a reminder of harder days, which Artur could have done without.

  He took off his gloves and tucked them into the back of his pants. Stretched his fingers, savoring the touch of air on his skin.

  Mikhail gave him a sly look, ignoring the American couple who wandered to the other side of the lobby. “Interesting company you keep. Far more exotic than I would give you credit for.”

  “If you harm them—”

  “I give you my word I will not. I have no interest in hurting you, Artur. Not really.”

  The Americans began to amble closer, talking loudly about the run-down “atmosphere” of the hotel. Mikhail frowned. “Come. We should continue this in my office.”

  The two men left the lobby. Shoulder-to-shoulder, of course. Mikhail was not stupid enough to expose his back either. The corridor was long and narrow. Pictures hung on the walls. Moscow in winter. Moscow in summer. Moscow at night.

  Artur said, “You like to punish yourself with memories.”

  “It is not a punishment. Just a reminder of different days. Besides, it is not such a bad thing to remember the places you love.”

  “Even if you can never return to them?”

  “Even so. Love hurts worse when you disparage it, when you try to drown it. If I did that to Moscow, I would be giving her no respect. I would be giving myself no respect. And as you know, Artur, I like myself far too much for that.”

  Artur almost smiled. Almost, until Mikhail said, “You do not trust the people you travel with.”

  Artur gave him a hard look. “Untrue.”

  “Really?” Mikhail gave him a knowing smile. “You could have invited them in with us. Ah, but no. You were afraid of what I might say, the things they could learn about you. Or maybe you just care what the woman thinks. I can see why. She is fine. High morals, that one.”

  “I could have been protecting you,” Artur suggested. “Your past is far more checkered than mine.”

  “Ack.” Mikhail held out his arms. “I am totally legitimate now. What do I have to hide? That is the secret, you know. The truth does set you free, Artur. When you tell the truth, there is no person on earth who has power over you. There is nothing that can cripple the momentum of your life when you are honest to yourself and others.”

  “So says Mikhail Petrovich, former Mafia. Wasn’t it lies that saved your life? My lies?”

  Mikhail scowled. He stopped in front of a narrow wooden door and held it open for Artur. “I still have not forgiven you for that.”

  “The dress or the doctor reports from the insane asylum?”

  “Both. Plus the stickers. If I could, I would kill you for the stickers.”

  “They were very glittery. A nice touch. Did Ekaterina like them after you were through with their use?”

  “My daughter liked them fine.” Mikhail shook his head. “You are a sick bastard. You do not look it, either—which makes it worse.”

  “I do what I must,” Artur said. “And in your case, you needed to be discredited.” Insanity and cross-dressing, with a dash of childlike regression, had seemed just the thing at the time. Enough, anyway, to keep the bosses from taking seriously the accusations that had been leveled: namely, that Mikhail was stealing weapons caches from them. Which was true, but that did not make him a bad man. Nor did his family deserve to pay, as they most certainly would have. Artur had taken pity.

  “You did fine.” Mikhail shook his head. “I think you even enjoyed it.”

  His office was small, with a large window set in the wall opposite the door. A wide mahogany desk sat in front of the window, with pictures and pens and several computers gracing its surface. Bookshelves lined the walls. Artur glanced at what Mikhail was reading nowadays. Nancy Drew, for the most part.

  “Do not get any ideas,” Mikhail said, paying attention to what Artur looked at. He sat down behind the desk. “Ekaterina likes to read here.”

  “Her English must be very good.”

  “The U.S. consulate supports an American school. She goes there. Harvard, she says. That is what she has her mind set on.”

  “Smart girl.” Artur sat down in a soft leather chair. He watched Mikhail open a drawer and remove two glasses and a bottle of vodka.

  “She takes after her mother.” Mikhail poured the drinks. “So. You are back in Russia. You are accompanied by three foreigners who are looking like punk-rock orphan outcast refugees, and you are desperate. No, no, do not give me that look. I know you are desperate, because you hate asking for favors—even those favors that are owed.”

  Artur took his glass—why is he here, my shipment is late and those people with him are so odd, something not right not right and it must be because of the summit—and sipped. “I cannot tell you anything, Mikhail. Not why or how. You are right, though. I am desperate.”

  Mikhail sighed. “You have always been secretive. I still remember that first time we met, down at the depot. Nikolai had just promoted you, remember?”

  Artur remembered. Up until that point he had spent his days on the fringe, a, bodyguard for Nikolai’s children, spoiled little brats who knew a lavish life paid for by drugs, weapons, and prostitution. Not that Artur could complain. Those same vices also paid for his food, a roof over his head—a little bit of false dignity when he walked the streets.

  “Yes,” Mikhail continued, eyes bright with memory. “He lifted you right up to his second hand. You know why, don’t you? Because you never talked about yourself. Not one word. You kept your mouth shut and you did your job, no questions asked. Nikolai liked that. He thought it was rare.”

  “I hated that job,” Artur said. “Every minute of it.”

  “Except when you got paid,” Mikhail remarked. He drank his vodka. “Do not pretend to be noble with me, Artur. You liked the money, just the same as all of us. You killed for money. You beat people for money. You stole and whored for money. And now … now you are back again, and still, it is for money.”

  Artur almost tossed down his drink. He fought the urge to stand up and tell Mikhail to go to hell, then hunt down Elena and the others and take them from this place, this living memory bearing down on his pride, his soul …

  “I am sorry,” Mikhail said. “That was uncalled-for.”

  “What do you care?” Artur listened to Mikhail’s echo in the glass he held, but heard nothing but the same concern, a low-level anxiety about some future event that had him thinking immigration, a new identity, maybe a place in Boston so Ekaterina could get a head start on her dreams—those sweet dreams.

  “I care,” Mikhail said quietly. “You saved my life, after all. I owe you some respect for that.”

  “There is something else,” Artur said, still tasting memory. “When I first arrived, you thought I was here for another reason.”

  “You cannot blame me for being cautious. It was your companions who convinced me, though. They do not look like assassins.”

  “You thought I would try to kill you?”

  “It is what you used to do.”

  Artur could not disagree. “So you think
you are in danger.”

  “Not yet, but I expect it. There are rumors coming out of Moscow, Artur. Bad rumors.”

  “How bad?”

  “The kind that involve unification.”

  Artur was confused. “I do not understand.”

  “All the syndicates, bound together. United.”

  “No.”

  “Under one leader,” Mikhail clarified. “The bosses are coming together for a meeting in eight days—a summit, they are calling it.”

  “For what reason? The bosses hate one another.”

  “You know them. Money, power. They only hate one another out of jealousy. Stroke all their dicks at once, though, and it will keep them happy. For a short time, anyway.” He took a long swallow of vodka. “Someone is stroking their dicks, Artur. Ironically enough, it seems to be an actual woman. She has presented them with an opportunity that is too good to be true.”

  A cold feeling twisted Artur’s gut: a premonition. “A woman? Do you know her name?”

  “Only that her representative is also a woman. Bentov saw her from a distance, said she looks like a skeleton.” Mikhail cupped both hands over his chest. “Needs implants. Some actual hips.”

  Graves. Artur closed his eyes. This changed everything.

  “Hey,” Mikhail said sharply. “Why do you look like that? I thought you did not know anything.”

  “Coincidence,” Artur said, and then stopped. “No, not coincidence. She knew what she was doing.” He stood and began pacing. He needed to move, to hit something. This could not be happening.

  Mikhail watched him. “When I look at you, I feel as though I should be reaching for my gun.”

  “That would be a good idea. This is bad, Mikhail. Very bad.”

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “First, do you know what she has promised the bosses? Do you know what they are supposed to gain?” Because the men Artur knew would not agree to be in the same place at once unless they were assured something important—something in addition to the proposed goal of the gathering.

  Mikhail stared into his drink. Quietly he said, “She is promising them all of Russia. And that is just for the meeting. If they join her, she is pledging the world.”

  Artur forgot how to breathe. “And they believe her?”

  “They do not have to believe. She has demonstrated enough power to make them curious.”

  Artur sat down. Beatrix Weave could do it. If she controlled all the crime syndicates in Russia, combined them with alliances she had made elsewhere, she truly could rule the criminal underground of the world. And if she managed to infect all those bosses with her psychic worm, putting them under her control …

  “I need to stop this,” Artur said.

  Mikhail laughed out loud. “You are insane. Crazy. There is no stopping this.”

  “I have no choice.” Artur leaned forward. He placed his hands flat on the desk and saw more drinks, contracts—oh, my God, yes, yes—a woman’s round, naked body, shuddering—

  “Artur,” Mikhail said, protesting.

  Artur shook his head, trying to block out the memory of Mikhail having sex with his wife. “No, I know you. You think Russia is already under the control of the bosses, so what does it matter if one strange woman tells them so? You think it is impossible for a woman—a foreigner—to have so much power as to simply give the bosses permission to take what is already theirs. You think, What balls! What nerve. You think they will kill her for sure once they hear her preposterous message.” Artur took his hands off the desk, clenching them into fists. “What you do not realize is that this woman is truly that powerful. If she wanted to, she could own every single leader of every single government in this world—and do it as simply as a touch.”

  Mikhail sat back. He no longer looked amused. “If she can do that, why settle for little boys with big guns?”

  A good question, but even as he thought about it, the words flowed to his mouth as easily as memory, truth—Beatrix’s truth, stolen from her mind during Artur’s brief encounter with her consciousness.

  “She feeds on the pain,” he said. “Politics do nothing for her. It is too refined. There are laws that would bind her. Beatrix Weave is a woman of immediate results, absolute obedience, total power. That is what the syndicates can give her, what she is striving for.”

  “You know her name, even?”

  Artur hesitated. “She is the reason I am in Russia. She … wanted something from me. From my friends, too. She has a home, a … facility almost one hundred miles from here. We managed to escape last night, and found our way here.”

  “A fantastic story,” Mikhail said, studying Artur’s face.

  More fantastic than you will ever know. Artur remained very still, looking straight into the other man’s searching gaze.

  “I do not suppose you will tell me how you or your companions became involved with such a woman?”

  “Only that it was against our will,” he answered. “Truly, Mikhail. You must be wary of this woman. She is extremely powerful. If she controlled all the syndicates in Russia—” He stopped, shaking his head. “You know how much damage they do just on their own. But united? Do not tell me you are not a little concerned.” More than a little, if he was thinking of packing his family up to immigrate. All of Mikhail’s arguments were nothing but air; he was worried, too. He would be terrified if he knew the actual truth.

  Mikhail said nothing for a very long time. He sat staring at his drink, holding it so that the light streamed through the crystal just so, striking rainbows on the rich brown surface of his desk. He said, “You have changed. The Artur Loginov I used to know cared for nothing except keeping his nose clean.”

  “I saved you, did I not?”

  “An aberration. I will admit, though, that I was happy when I heard you had run away. You were not suited for the life.”

  “Thank you,” Artur said, oddly pleased.

  Mikhail nodded. “You left because of a woman, did you not? The ballet dancer, Tatyana Dmitriyevna. I saw her once, onstage. Beautiful form. Pity what happened to her legs.”

  A shock, hearing Tatyana’s name from Mikhail’s mouth. Artur did not know the older man had ever been aware of his relationship with her. His surprise must have shown; Mikhail held up his hands. “Yes. Again, that was unkind. I am sorry for my running mouth. I always wondered, though, what would be the final line for you. I suppose now I know.”

  “Tatyana was a good woman,” Artur said quietly. “She did not deserve to be hurt.”

  “Good women never deserve that,” Mikhail agreed. He rubbed the rim of his glass. “And this new woman? The one you brought with you?”

  “You have said it yourself. She is also good.” Artur’s voice was dull, flat, hard: a warning against any more questions.

  Mikhail smiled. “I like her very much.”

  Artur ignored that. “I need to go to Moscow.”

  “To stop that meeting? Impossible, Artur. How will you do it? Call the police?”

  Yes, that was laughable. The police—even the army—would not be able to touch those men. They had their fingers in everything; for the state government to cut off their hands would require a monumental effort that was, quite frankly, impossible to muster. The mob simply owned too much of Russia. For Beatrix to promise them the country—and have them listen—meant she intended to do more than simply proclaim it theirs. If she did keep her word—doubtful, knowing what he did of her—then the gesture would have to be larger, more explosive.

  “Please,” Artur said. “I must at least try.”

  Mikhail’s expression soured. “I suppose you want my blessing, yes?”

  “More like your money,” Artur said. “At least, enough to get me there.”

  “Enough for your friends too, I think.”

  Artur shook his head. “It is too dangerous. I will find another place for them.”

  “You must be blind. Or dumb. Either way, I will give you enough money for everyone. Papers, too. God. I feel l
ike I am paying you to commit suicide.”

  “Or paying me to save your life again.”

  “I doubt that. After this we are even. Yes?”

  “Yes.” Artur rose and shook Mikhail’s hand. He was overcome with feelings of concern, pity, affection, a—he has come such a long way since I last saw him; what a loss; what a pity he will perish, because I think we could be friends—sense of pride. Mikhail did not let go of his hand.

  “You will die if you do this,” he said. “Call it gut instinct. I can feel it.”

  “I believe you.” Artur studied Mikhail’s earnest face, still grappling with the sense that here, under his nose, was a man who could have been a father to him, all those years ago. “I have no choice.”

  “And that,” said Mikhail sadly, “is the very reason the good die young.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Elena did not like guns. It was a personal thing, divorced from politics or philosophy. She simply did not think of them as safe, especially for someone as untrained in weaponry as she was. As soon as Anna deposited her and the others in a small suite on the third floor, Elena set the gun down on the king-size bed. The dark metal sank into the worn golden coverlet, solid and heavy and lethal. She backed away to stand by the window, rubbing her hands.

  “Lady,” Rik said quietly, “you are crazy.”

  “Just a little,” Elena agreed.

  “It was a good gamble.” Amiri paced the edge of the room, peering behind the mirrors, checking under the lamp shades. For what, Elena did not know. Monitoring devices? Bombs? Insects? “That man was prepared to shoot us—I could see it in his eyes—but his smell was all wrong for death. He did not want to kill.”

  “You could smell him?” Elena found that fascinating … and a little disconcerting. She did not want to think of how she smelled to a person with superscenting abilities.

  “I am of the shifting kind,” Amiri said simply. “My nose is good, no matter what form I hold.”

  Elena looked at Rik. “And you?”

  “My blood is in the sea. My senses on land are more limited.”