His face twisted in epic torment, he raised his fists toward the heavens and shook them as though exhorting God.
“Have I not suffered enough?” he cried. “Must I be cursed by this god of science? Will you not yet forgive me?”
“Let go of me,” Sveta said.
Drogol snarled and stepped back away from her.
“You think that I’m crazy, don’t you? But you have seen with your own eyes the beast. And it is from that world that he comes. I don’t know why or how, but sometimes I am sent into its world and it is sent into ours. It is not I that it is the beast, don’t you see? I am innocent, truly innocent, but still they hunt me.”
Sveta did see.
Drogol was really and truly out of his fucking mind.
Worse, she now knew that he had not released a beast the night before, he was the beast.
Chapter Twenty
“Come closer to me, Ivan, and tell me again of the beast.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Anna Kazakova let out a long, painful sigh. He knew how weak her body was; if they did not capture Drogol soon, she would certainly die from the stress.
“It is a comfort to hear you call me mother, now that I have no son.”
“Indeed.”
The door was closed and locked. No one would disturb them. He was a pale white specter, leaning against a side wall, listening to her breathing, remembering other old women he had attended. Remembering other old women whose last breaths he had captured in his smooth hands to feel their death slip through his thin fingers. It was a sublime feeling for him, a fleeting moment of exultation.
“Mishka is organizing the men and their weapons?” asked the old woman.
“He is.”
“Water in a vodka bottle.”
“Pardon?”
“Clear like vodka, but with no strength. He is not man enough to run this cell of our organization. When we have what we want, you must dispose of him. It must be … instructive to the others.”
Ivan nodded in the darkness. His eyes suffered so from bright light that he was never without his sunglasses during daylight hours. But at night or in darkness, his eyes could see without pain. The old woman did not mind that he turned the lights out. She did not fear the dark. In the thin quiet of the office room that had been cleaned out to accommodate her, the only light was that faint shadow of fluorescence that came from beneath the door. Somewhere in the building, hard men were loading up automatic weapons and ammunition into dark SUV’s, but Ivan could scarcely hear them. None dared disturb the rest of Anna Kazakova, the Iron Lady of Ryazan prison.
“As you wish.”
“But enough of that, Ivan. Come to me and tell me of the beast.”
Ivan moved through the darkness to stand behind her. She lay on the medical cot, hooked to wires and electronic devices that could do nothing to save her from the disease that ruined her body. He reached out and ran his hand across the few wispy hairs that clung to her cold, sweaty scalp.
He began to speak, and his voice was warm and relaxing, deep and resonant with secret knowledge.
“Siberia is the land closest and dearest to the gods of the seven levels, Mother, and from there come the only true priests, the Weavers of Worlds. Seven bloodlines run throughout its peoples, but only one of these is chosen by the gods. These are the Buriat people. And in ancient times only one family among the Buriats was chosen to see the mysteries and to travel between the seven worlds, to attest to the divine knowledge and presence of the gods.
“Over the generations, these people grew arrogant, and defied the gods of the seven levels by intermarrying with those not blessed by the gods, and so not all of that family’s descendants were able to be Weavers of the Seven Worlds. Each, therefore, had to be tested. Most were found to be hollow of spirit, and the shamans began to fear all was lost. But after many years, one qualified person was found, and his name was Rasputin, whom we later named Drogol. This boy passed all tests given him.”
The old woman coughed. Her body palsied, but when Ivan placed his hands on her, she grew still. He wiped her mouth and chin clear of spittle with a clean cloth, and then let her sip water.
“Shall I stop, Mother?”
“No. Tell me the rest.”
Ivan folded the cloth with which he’d wiped her face, and then threw it in a wastebasket before continuing. The smell of her drool was death’s own.
“They began to teach him in the old ways. When he was ready, he was given herbs to unbind his mind. One teacher blindfolded him and made him sit, and then poked and prodded him to make sure he was no longer in a waking state. When he did not respond, that teacher began to beat him across the back with a switch while others sang. Another teacher slapped him on the forehead to help further loosen his thoughts. Sacred plants were burned and the night air filled with the perfumes of magic. Teachers gathered around him and began to chant. This continued through the night until the moon rose to its highest point in the sky.”
He told her this story many times. But over the last several months, she asked for it more frequently, as though to reaffirm her sanity.
“When the moon rose to its fullest height, the cloth was taken from his eyes and if he saw a red moon, pale like thin blood, then he was a true Weaver of Worlds. That boy, called Rasputin, saw the blood moon that marked him as a true Buriat. The knowledge of the blood moon is the knowledge of the sacred. Because of this, we named him Drogol.
“It is our way that after that night, he be sent into the forests alone. There, he must make his way for the passing of one cycle, or what you call a month. At the end of that time, his teaching and obligation to the people would begin. He would be a true Weaver of Worlds. This as it always has been and always will be.”
“But he betrayed his heritage,” spoke the old woman.
“Yes, Mother, he betrayed his heritage. While in the forests he met a hermit who, when he learned why the boy was alone in the forests, began to lie to him, to tell him that he was deceived by demons. And before the cycle was through, Drogol denied his heritage and his obligation and became a holy man of a foreign faith. Because of this, the gods of the Buriat cursed him.
“For this has always been so, that whosoever is chosen by the gods of the Seven Worlds must accept that honor and obligation. Whosoever turns away from them is cursed and cast out. And I was chosen by the elders of the Buriat to kill this man who violated our faith. It is a great honor for me, to be chosen to kill this traitor.”
“And so you will,” whispered the old woman.
“Yes, Mother.”
“Ivan?”
“Yes, Mother?”
“I want a computer screen in here with audio/visual feed. I want to see everything that those men see. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Then you, you personally see to it that no one kills the beast until the doctor has samples of its blood. I will not die an old, sickly woman when Drogol lives on filled with vital energy. I want his blood. I want to live, damn him. I want to live for over a hundred years and more and stay young like he does. If one of those men kills him, I want you to chop of his head and feed it to the others. Do you hear me?”
Her voice had risen to a raspy scream so quickly and unexpectedly that Ivan involuntarily stepped back.
“Yes, Mother,” he said. “I hear you.”
“Then go bring me the blood of my enemy.”
*****
Dr. Pazyryk stood smoking a cigarette, watching men loading a generator and metal nets onto the back of a truck placarded “Detroit Utility Repair.” Three men loaded flame throwers into a van while others dragged the propellant and flammable liquid containers toward the same van.
“Hey,” he yelled out, “are you crazy?”
The men kept walking.
“I said, are you fucking crazy?” he screamed.
Suddenly, the three men carrying tanks turned, set them down and stared at him. Not good. He had seen men like this before. Tattooed necks
, short, cropped hair and dead eyes. The doctor let his cigarette fall to the concrete and then nervously ground it out.
One of the three smiled at him, made a hand motion and said, “Come here, little girl.”
This man was the shortest of the three, but he had shoulders wide as a forklift with a neck so thickly muscled that his head looked too small to be his own.
“Actually, I was just trying to keep you from getting hurt,” stammered the doctor.
‘You called me crazy,” said the man, and he pulled out a long, thin knife from somewhere beneath his jacket. “So you come here and blow me like a little bitch or I come to you and cut your throat.”
The doctor ran his eyes around the room looking for Mishka or anyone else he knew.
“I’m with Mrs. Kazakova,” he said in a voice tight as a garrote. “I’m her doctor.”
“Is that right?” said the man, and he took two steps forward.
“That’s right. She wouldn’t like it if you annoyed me. She’s not in a very good mood anyway and you know what she did to her own son, don’t you? And besides, I was trying to keep you from getting hurt. If you drove around with flammable gases in your car then just the slightest leak and maybe a spark and you’d be blown to bits. Mishka would be upset losing a perfectly good van. He’s not a very nice man, you know.”
The man’s face went pale, and he stopped where he was and started to back away.
“I didn’t mean nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all. Sorry. Thought you was someone. Someone else.”
“What’s your name?” asked an emboldened Dr. Pazyryk. “I believe I shall have to report you.”
The man held up his hands in horror. The two men behind him picked up their tanks and moved quickly toward an empty pickup truck.
“Please. Sorry. So sorry,” said the man as he turned and followed his comrades.
Dr. Pazyryk looked around to see that other men were turning away from him as though they had seen nothing. He straightened himself and nodded in satisfaction. There were certain advantages in being Mrs. Kazakova’s person physician.
“May I speak with you, Doctor?” came a voice from behind him.
He swallowed painfully and turned to see Mishka standing only two feet behind him.
“So I take it I didn’t scare those men off?”
The handsome young man narrowed his eyes and shook his head.
“That short one is very bad. You don’t want to know how bad. You should stay away from him. He enjoys hurting people very much. Do you understand?”
“I was only trying to save his life. Did you see him? He was going to put flammable materials in an enclosed van. Even if the cylinders leaked but the gas didn’t ignite, they could still be suffocated by the gas.”
Mishka put his hand on the doctor’s shoulder. A bright sparkle of diamond flared by the overhead halogen lights caught his eye. It was the biggest diamond ring that Dr. Pazyryk had ever seen.
“Will you take a walk with me, Doctor? We need to talk and time is short. Can you do that?”
“I’m waiting for Ivan,” said Dr. Pazyryk, looking around nervously.
“Who exactly is he?” asked Mishka. “Tell me how has he gained so much power that Sasha is locked away in a cage?”
“You’ll have to ask Mrs. Kazakova.”
“My guard tells me you went to see Sasha.”
“What is it you want?”
“Are you his friend?”
“I am a loyal member of the organization.”
“That’s not an answer to my question.”
“As I said, you’ll have to talk to his mother. I am loyal to her.”
Mishka moved to stand beside the doctor, grabbing his elbow as he did so.
“Walk with me, Doctor. I believe we have things to discuss. We have mutual concerns, I think.”
“I should wait here,” said Dr. Pazyryk nervously.
“Voices echo a long way in big, empty storage rooms, did you know that? Would you like me to repeat what you said to Sasha while you were there?”
Suddenly the loading and staging area seemed much too small. The doctor looked about frantically for Ivan, but all he saw were Mafiya soldiers loading weapons like they were going to war with the entire city of Detroit instead of just one old man named Drogol.
“Ivan said to wait here.”
“Tell him you had to go to the bathroom.”
“You don’t know Ivan. He’s as scary as her.”
“We have to chance it. I don’t know which of my own men to trust anymore and time is very short. And you, you are not safe either. This is my building. I have surveillance equipment installed everywhere. Would you like to know whether you’ll be leaving this city alive? I can let you listen to what your patient had to say about that. You wouldn’t like it. She has plans for you. You won’t like them either.”
Overhead fans kicked on to exhaust the emissions from the vehicles as drivers turned over their engines. Things were moving much too quickly.
“Then we’d better walk while we still have the chance,” said Dr. Pazyryk. “Because I know what her plans are for you and they’re probably worse.”
“I don’t think so,” said Mishka.
The doctor blanched.
“We have to get away before they move on us.”
“They’ll wait until after the raid.”
“We can’t take a chance.”
“We have to free Sasha. I have a few men I can trust.”
Dr. Pazyryk had an idea, a sudden flash of inspiration.
“No,” he said. “I can bring help, but I have to know where that car is.”
“Help? From who?”
“No time. That’s Ivan. Coming our way. No don’t look around. Where is that car?”
Mishka told him.
By the time that Dr. Pazyryk put his cell phone back in his pocket, Ivan was on them.
“Doctor, hurry,” said the albino. “We are ready to leave. Where is your medical equipment?”
“In the transport van,” said Dr. Pazyryk. “I was told to wait for you here. But I would like to check on Mrs. Kazakova before we leave.”
“She does not wish to see you.”
The doctor nodded nervously and clasped his hands together. It was clear from his face that this news frightened him.
A small man in a navy pea coat and wearing a roll-down cap approached them.
“Excuse me, Mishka,” he said. “Everything is ready for your inspection.”
“Go, make sure everything is ready,” said Ivan. “The doctor and I will ride together. We have much to discuss.”
But before Mishka could leave, the room was filled with screams of “I am innocent. Unchain me. I will kill you all if you do not set me free.”
Sasha was being moved to the medical van on a forklift that carried him cage and all. He looked like a feral animal. His face was distorted by rage and terror. The workers pretended as though he were not there.
“Where are you taking me?” he shouted and rattled his chains like a madman.
Ivan shook his head and then spoke to Mishka.
“It is not good to choose traitors for friends,” he said sadly. “Now go, redeem yourself with Mrs. Kazakova. Make sure that we have what we need then report back to me.”
Mishka stared as the forklift driver slid the cage into the ambulance, then withdrew the forks and drove away. After a few moments, he gritted his teeth, turned and left.
As the young man walked away, Ivan stared after him, a pale white figure whose eyes burned with barely disguised arrogance beyond his pinkish-red sunglasses. He ran a thin, neatly cut fingernail across his lower lips as if to test its sharpness.
“What were the two of you discussing?” he asked as he turned his face toward Dr. Pazyryk.
The doctor stared back at him, willing his face to be blank, willing his knees not to shake and his brow not to sweat. Before the drinking and the deaths, he had been a good surgeon, with solid, unshakable nerves. But this was a
different situation, and he was now a different man. As a surgeon, one small slip could mean the death of a patient. Here, one small slip could mean his own death.
“You,” he said finally. “We were discussing you. He asked who you were. I told him you were a holy man in some backwater Siberian cult that Mrs. Kazakova had come across. He asked what she needed a holy man for.”
A tight smile appeared on Ivan’s face. A tremor in his jaw muscles told the doctor that he was fighting for control.
“And what did you tell him?”
“I told him he could bloody well ask the old woman himself. I said I was a medical doctor not a witch doctor so it wasn’t my department.”
Seconds passed.
Ivan did not move. He did not speak.
“What?” asked the doctor.
“A sufficient answer.”
Ivan drew out the word sufficient, elongating the sibilance of the letter c.
“I still think I should see her before we leave.”
“Get in the van, Doctor, and wait for me there.”
Dr. Pazyryk counted off the seconds, not breaking away from the red-eyed man’s stare. But as the seconds passed, he felt sweat forming on the back of his neck.
“Very well, but I will see her immediately when I return. Her health is my responsibility.”
“That is why you will oversee the collection, purification, and injection of the wolf-beast’s blood.”
Having made his point in a small measure that he was personal physician to the Iron Lady and could not be pushed around, the doctor nodded and started in the direction of the medical van.
“And doctor?”
“Yes?” replied Dr. Pazyryk with stopping.
“I would very much like to see your cell phone before you take another step, if you please.”
Dr. Pazyryk’s stomach clutched like a tight fist.
Chapter Twenty-one
“Twenty two launch fired gas tubes,” said Traxler. “Ten of one, twelve of the other.”
He ran an age-spotted hand over his forehead.
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