Timothy McDaniel’s odinochka, situated three miles outside Chistochina on the edge of the Saint Elias Mountain Range, occupied a prosperous location. The twenty-meter-by-twenty-meter building was sectioned off from the entrance by two long counters. One served as a bar, now thick with loud inebriates.
The second counter served for dry goods and other merchandise and was populated by two patient Indian women who waited for the proprietor’s attention. A pall of tobacco smoke wreathed the heads of those who stood. Cassidy didn’t like the stink. Never had.
Stale beer, unwashed bodies, and the sharp bite of cheap whiskey also mingled to overwhelm his nose.
“Yukon Cassidy? We haven’t seen you around here for at least a year!” Cristina Petitesse seemed ageless. He remembered she had looked this wrinkled and jaded ten years ago.
He had never seen her inhale her trademark Russian cigarette. It was as if her lungs filled through her nicotine-stained fingers. She blew out a cloud of acrid smoke.
“What can I do for you?”
“Petrol for my utility, a mug of beer, and some answers.” He noticed the drop in conversation around him as more of the denizens quieted to hear the stranger’s words.
“Petrol is six coppers a liter, and four coppers for the beer,” she said, waiting for payment.
He slapped money on the bar. “And how much for the answers?”
“That all depends on the questions.” She turned and pulled a tap handle over a smudged mug. She set it on the bar as if making an offering, but the four coppers disappeared before his hand touched glass.
“Looking for a man called Riordan, Major Tim Riordan.”
He drank off half the beer without examining the mug.
Cristina frowned at the name, but Cassidy recognized her I’m thinking about it look and waited. Her eyes returned to his.
“Never heard of him. Is he in this area?”
“He’s somewhere in Russian Amerika, that’s all I know.”
“Well, for once you know more about the situation than I do. No charge. I’ll have Boris top off your utility.”
She turned away and the ambient conversation resumed its previous volume. Someone nudged his left elbow. He looked down at a small, heavily bearded man. No, small didn’t come close. This person stood barely more than a meter and a quarter.
“Who are you?”
“Someone you need to know!” The surprisingly deep voice held no question, only assertion. “You’ve got one chance in four to get out of this room alive.”
“Wha—”
“And one chance in six to get back through the gate before you bleed to death, no matter how fast you drive.”
Cassidy glanced around. Nobody paid them the slightest heed. He tried not to grin as he lowered his gaze to the man. “Nobody seems to give a damn whether I’m here or not.”
“Just for drill, shut up and listen. Two of Riordan’s men are in this room. They’ll want to know why you’re looking for their boss. If it’s not to give him, and them, a job, it means you’re one of the growing throng who wish to see that bastard Irishman dead. So, which is it?”
Cassidy surreptitiously glanced around again.
Still no detectable interest.
He looked back to his informant, no longer feeling like smiling.
“So which ones are they?”
“The first one will remain unknown for the moment. I’m the second one.”
Cassidy grinned. “You’re looking for another job, aren’t you?”
The beard moved and Cassidy saw a flash of teeth.
“You’re pretty quick for a guy your size. Your chances of living just changed dramatically, if you make the right decision.”
“Which would be to hire you?”
“Yes. You need a guide and someone who knows the Freekorps and can fight at your back.”
“Nobody gets behind me that I don’t trust implicitly. So far you don’t fit that description. Hell, I don’t even know your name.”
“Listen hard,” he spoke quickly, “we don’t have the time to go over it a second time. I am Roland Delcambré, a man of wit and education who has fallen on desperate circumstances. I hired myself out as a mercenary soldier to…”
Cassidy snorted what began as a laugh.
Delcambré’s hard, dark eyes burned up at him. “You have a big man’s attitude. Don’t confuse size with ability. You haven’t seen me shoot.”
“Forgive me, you look more the poet than the warrior. Please continue.”
“Perhaps I also misjudged you,” Delcambré again flashed his grin. “You’re pretty good at sucking up for a man your size.”
Cassidy bristled and his good humor vanished. “Okay, you little—”
The snick of a sling blade flashing to rigidity, and the slightest touch of a fine, sharp point under his scrotum, decreased the latter’s size by half.
“The thing you big guys don’t seem to realize is that someone my size is very much closer to your weak spots.”
“Make your point, verbally, if possible, and let’s be done with it.”
The blade vanished.
“I am a mercenary, and a good one. I can shoot the eye out of a camp robber at 150 yards.”
The screeching, constantly active Steller’s jay bobbed in Cassidy’s mind for a moment. “And?”
“I’m one of Riordan’s intelligence agents. The big guy with me is my bodyguard.”
“Which big guy?” It took all of Cassidy’s willpower not to look around the room with new eyes.
“The promyshlennik by the door. The one who looks like he’s deep in his cups? He hasn’t had a drink.”
Cassidy turned his head and scratched his neck sporting a disbelieving look on his face. He spotted the bodyguard, noted the hard stare from beneath the lowered eyelids over a falsely jovial mouth.
“Alright. I believe you. Are you as good at your job as he is at his?”
“Much better. He’s stupid and happy where he is. I am looking for other employment.”
“Why? Seriously?”
“Listen, I’ve been serious from the first. You were the one with size prejudices that got in the way of rational thinking. This is your last chance to hear me out; would you like to use it?”
“I don’t apologize twice. What’s your proposition?”
“For half of what you earn and find, I will lead you to Riordan, if you wish, or help you avoid him: your choice.”
“I really don’t make all that much.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. So here’s the situation. Potempkin over there is waiting for me to either scratch my chin, or pull my ear.”
“Potempkin—what kind of a name is that?”
“He was named after the ship his grandfather was on; they shot a bunch of traitors or something; you’d have to ask him about it right before he cuts your throat.”
“And what would you do first to get my throat sliced, scratch or pull?”
“Scratch,” Delcambré said, flashing his smile again. “Scratch means ‘kill’ and pull means ‘no worries.’ ”
“You’re scared of him, aren’t you?”
“Okay, I’m now completely convinced you are my mental equal and I would be happy to share your circumstance, no matter how miserable, if you would just say the word.”
“Can you cook?”
“Yes, but I don’t clean and I am utterly subservient and devoted to women when it comes to sex. Just wanted to make that clear.”
“It seems we agree on a great deal.”
Cristina materialized out of the crowd. “You owe me sixty coppers or the equivalent for the petrol.”
Cassidy counted out six silver coins into her steady hand.
“Thanks, and good luck with your questions.” She stared hard at Delcambré before disappearing into the crowd.