“Given what we’re working with, here, the whole ritual makes me uncomfortable,” Mike admitted. “But I think I can still squeeze it in. Hang on.”
He walked to the phone and hit the speakerphone.
“Nielson?”
“Here, Kildar,” the colonel said. “I’m up to my eyeballs, though…”
“When is a good day to close down the caravanserai for a whole night?” Mike asked. “Don’t say ‘never.’ ”
“After the mission?” Nielson asked. “I mean, we move in four days!”
“Not good enough,” Mike said. “Give me a day. One night.”
“Jesus, Mike,” Nielson said but Mike could hear keys tapping. “Tomorrow looks best. I’ll have to shift my flag down to the Keldara, though.”
“Block out three hours in the evening for all the Keldara,” Mike said. “And everybody in the caravanserai gets locked down. If they have to come and go, they use the back door.”
“Will do,” Nielson said. “What’s this about?”
“It’s a Keldara thing,” Mike said. “I’ll get back to you.” He turned back to Father Kulcyanov and shrugged. “Tomorrow night?”
“Very well, Kildar,” the elder said. “We will be prepared.”
“And while I enjoy talking to you,” Mike said, holding out his hand, “I am also up to my eyeballs in work. And now I must finish it faster.”
“I will go and ensure that Lydia is prepared,” Father Kulcyanov said, nodding.
“I’m more worried about Oleg,” Mike said after the door was closed.
“Mr. Bezhmel?”
“Yes,” the security specialist said, sitting down at the booth. He’d gotten a call from someone he occasionally did business with who had set up the meet in the Moscow hotel bar. No names as usual, which was just the way that the business worked. “You have the need of special security arrangements?”
“I have information that you need,” the man, an American, said in Russian. Then he smiled. “And a special security need. You’ve been investigating the attacks on Rozaje and the Club Dracul?”
“Perhaps,” Bezhmel said, shrugging.
“It is known that you work with the Dejti clan,” the man replied, smiling still. “So I’ll take that as a yes. You might be interested to know that the next target is Lunari, probably the Club Aldaris. Their mission is to extract this girl,” the man added, sliding a picture across the table. “Her name is Natalya. And possibly to capture the DVDs from the Rozaje villa. This wouldn’t be good, would it?”
“No,” Bezhmel said, frowning. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I’m your friend,” the man replied, then laughed quietly and shook his head. “God, I crack myself up. No, the reason that I’m telling you is that I need this girl killed before they get their hands on her. And this man…” he added, sliding another picture across the table along with a thick envelope. “No idea what name he’ll be using but he’ll be near Natalya. There is thirty thousand euros in there. If you kill both, there is another sixty thousand that will be forwarded to you. If you kill only one, that is your pay. If you kill neither… I’ll expect a full refund. There are other security specialists in the world.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Mike looked in the mirror and grimaced.
“I’m not sure about this,” he said, shooting his lace cuffs nervously.
Mike still wasn’t sure about the whole “Kardane” thing. For one thing, he had a very hard time wrapping his head around Oleg being comfortable with it. But since he’d agreed, he decided that it needed to be right.
Part of that was setting the mood. He could, of course, simply pick up Lydia in the Expedition, drive up to the caravanserai, have a good old time and then dump her back at her house. That, however, had far too “casual” a feel for what was an intensely important event. One point that Adams, of all people, had brought up was that the Rite of Kardane was a form of bonding between the Kildar and the Keldara; the Keldara, effectively, provided a maiden sacrifice and the Kildar, presumably, responded by being more closely bonded to the Keldara.
The Right also provided genetic input. Anastasia had done some digging and found old records of the Kildars dating back to the Middle Ages. All of them had been “foreign” soldiers-of-fortune of one race or another, Kurd, Greek, German, French and even British. All of them had attained the position by being superior fighters and commanders. So if Nature had anything to do with culture, the “genetic input” of the Kildars, through the Rite of Kardane, had added to the warrior component of the Keldara, bit by bit over the years.
But he still wasn’t sure about his outfit.
“I am,” Anastasia replied, smiling. “If you’re going to do something, do it right…”
“…Or don’t do it at all,” Mike said, sighing.
According to the Keldara elders, the Rite of Kardane hadn’t been practiced since the time of the Tzars. And the last “true” Kildar had been a German mercenary who had started off as an advisor to the Tzarist Army and eventually worked his way into the nobility and been deeded with the Keldara.
Anastasia, traditionalist to the core, had pointed out that it would only be fitting to dress in a traditional, and formal, manner for the occasion. And she, again, had done the research.
Which was why Mike was dressed in a dark-green, short-waisted velvet coat and a white silk ruffled shirt with matching, very tight, dark-green trousers. The knee-high riding boots completed the ensemble.
“I feel like I ought to have a cap and ball pistol tucked in at my waist,” Mike said, fiddling with the the lace at his collar. “You set?”
“Very much so,” Anastasia replied, straightening out the lace. “By the time you get back, I’ll have gotten dressed and be gone. Speaking of which, it’s just about sunset.”
“Right,” Mike replied, pulling his jacket down to smooth out the wrinkles.
“Time to go.”
Petro held open the front door of the caravanserai as Mike strode through. Mike, despite trying to remain serious about what was, after all, a very serious event, could not help but play the bars from “Pomp and Circumstance” in his head as he strode down the stairs.
Uncle Latif was holding the gelding by the mounting stand. Genadi had done a good job there. The gelding was an Orlov-Rostopchin “Russian Riding Horse,” a breed dating back to 1845 and the premier riding horse of the Tzarist court. Flat black and about seventeen hands high, the beautifully proportioned gelding was trained for both dressage and “pleasure riding.” According to Genadi, who it turned out had practiced in dressage at the university, he was both an easy ride and quite biddable with “a very smooth gait.” The black leather saddle, with silver accoutrements, was almost invisible on the glossy horse’s back.
Mike, however, looked at the horse in trepidation. He hadn’t ridden in years. He’d intended to get some refreshers in riding before he did this, but the current mission had taken up virtually all of his time.
There was a smaller mare behind the gelding, a lead line running from her halter to the saddle of the gelding. The mare was a less common Braz Curly, a Russian warmblood that was a descendent of cavalry horses. “Gray” in horse terms, the mare was a beautiful, almost perfect, white, and her curly mane had been plaited with red ribbons. Despite being a warhorse descendent, the fourteen-hand mare was so placid as to appear drugged.
The toughest part of the whole operation had turned out to be finding the sidesaddle. Two had eventually been ordered from a company in Germany, a severely plain “training” saddle for Lydia and a much more ornate one for the night of the ceremony.