Luka and I walked past a curtain, a sheet of ball bearings, which rattled noisily. A narrow entrance opened into a labyrinth of stout doors. He led until we entered an office dominated by a work desk. To one side of it, a man wearing a muscle t-shirt sat on a gym stool lifting dumbbells. At the table, a man, inches shy of being a midget, ate pasta. He paused and stared at us when we entered, then a single strand of noodle slithered into his mouth. I noticed the wall on my right was filled with banks of televisions playing on mute.
The T-shirt ended his bicep curls. “Pyotr Abramovich,” he announced. Who was he talking about? “He’s here, Boris.”
“Tchut, tchut, he goes by Luka now, Milo.” Boris dabbed his mouth with the corner of a red-stained napkin.
Milo sniggered. “A man with two names is a man with two faces is a man—”
“Enough.” Boris pinched between his eyes, then addressed Luka. “I apologize. Apparently, Milo thinks he’s Pushkin. You’re late, Luka,” Boris said, then turned his head to one side, towards a half-played chessboard, and belched over it. “You don’t change, do you? You used to make me wait when I came to you for favors. I called you here today because I was hoping you’d have good news for me.”
“I told you it could take between a fortnight to month, Boris. We agreed. There’s still time.”
“Time, time, time…” Boris seemed to enjoy the sound of his reedy piper’s voice. “Boy,” he said, without looking at me, “do you know what’s the tallest building in the world?” I didn’t reply. I looked at Luka instead. Pyotr Abramovich, Boris had called him. Was that his real name?
Milo piped up. “It’s the building in Lubyanka Square. The F.S.B. building is so tall you can see Siberia from its basement.” He chortled. No one else did.
“That’s why I worry, Milo. Our friend, Luka, is dealing with dangerous people and I’m his intermediary. Who knows whether the F.S.B. will still want to deal if he keeps delaying? He has no sense of urgency. Tchut tchut. You were the one who came to me for help, Luka, this time, to strike a deal with your former employers. There’s not much the F.S.B. wants, you know, but I worked hard, Luka, just for you. I knocked on doors, hat in hand, and asked our friends what they’d want in exchange for your wife. And because I asked nicely, because I always deliver, they told me, Boris, if Luka can bring us that cutting edge, military virus those Americans are working on—that’s something. So I struck a deal. Then, what happens? No results.” Boris threw his hands in the air, like a circus juggler. “At this rate, I’ll get in trouble. This undue delay—did you change your mind, is that it? One thing always puzzled me. Why would someone like you, so high up the chain, marry a human rights lawyer?” His words rushed, tumbled, and rolled over each other. “Ingratiating yourself with the liberals, perhaps? Bad move.” Boris plowed half the chess pieces with a greasy fork to one side, until they piled up. “Her lining up those lawsuits against our esteemed leaders? Tchut, tchut, tchut.” His fork swept right this time, as he smiled brightly. “Come to think of it, we should call this deal off. All these years in a dark cell, that woman’s damaged goods. You can do better—”
“Boris, you said—”
“I’d appreciate it if you don’t interrupt me,” Boris’ voice became steely, then flexed. “I said? What did I say? Where was I? Ah.” He ran his hand lightly over the toppled over chess pieces, petting the kings and knights and pawns. “If I were you, Luka, I’d find someone new. Upgrade. See, I know computer terms too.”
“I’ll get what you want. In the agreed upon timeframe. I already told you that.”
“So you said. The world revolves around what you say. Or so you think.” As he spoke, Boris’ gaze swiveled to me. I glanced away, to avoid catching his eye. I focused on the wall of screens instead, and it was a mistake because there, I saw Death. In one screen, a man was flailing, his hands jerking, as a tank rolled over his legs. In another screen, a low-resolution black-and-white film ran, showing a cowering man being bayoneted, then another, then another, they were kneeling in a line. Each screen held a vignette of Death. I saw a mob drag a soldier out of a helicopter, then bludgeon him with pipes. I saw a man raise his hand beseeching the sky before sawing at a hooded man’s neck with a box knife. I saw a blank screen and I caught sight of myself in it. I felt my stomach churning, as if I were the one experiencing all those deaths.
“And who is this?” Boris continued. “We don’t know him, do we, Milo, so why is he here? Ah. Because Luka sees it fit to invite him along. Luka says whatever he wants, Luka does whatever he feels like. Next time, he will probably walk his dog here and let it crap on my carpet.” Boris pinned the air with his fork, its tines turned toward Luka. “No respect—that’s always been your problem. A professional failing, some would call it. You don’t respect me. I bet you don’t respect those who work for you as well.” The fork re-stabbed the air and pointed at me. “Does he know who you are? Who you were? Former Deputy Head of F.S.B.’s Division Six, Signal Intelligence. A man who turned his back on his country, tchut, tchut. Did you know that about him, boy?”
I stared at Luka. His lips were pursed, not protesting, not denying. What Boris said—it explained a lot. But if he thought it made a difference to me, that he could turn me against Luka, he was wrong. Names in our community mean nothing, Luka taught me that long ago. I trust numbers more: they’re cleaner, purer, more honest—they can be counted on. The length of time I’d known Luka could be measured. Each day, each hour, each minute, each job, each smile, each touch, each bit of advice. Luka was more than a name to me.
“I’ll get what you want, Boris,” Luka answered steadily, and it reassured me. “Andrei, we’ll go now.”
“Go? No.” Boris uttered the word slowly, savoring it. “We’re not done.” He leaned back and cradled his head, bouncing in his chair. “You don’t come late and leave early. You don’t order me around here, not like before.” He stood and circled the table, walking towards us. He was even shorter than I thought.
Milo followed him. Something in his hand clicked and cocked—a gun. He cocked it again like a threatening rhyme.
As Boris passed the screens, he waved at them. “There’s a connoisseur’s club for these. One man’s death, another man’s hobby. You’ll be surprised how much people will pay to watch these things. They say that man is the only animal that will sacrifice himself for others; I doubt that’s true, not for everyone. However, I’m certain we’re the only ones who’d pay to see another person die.” He cocked his head as if listening to a voice. “Tchut tchut, I’ve an entertaining idea.” He twirled his fork and pointed it at me.
“No.” Luka moved to cover me with a hand. “It was my mistake bringing him here. Don’t touch him. I need him.”
He needs me. What he said lodged inside me. Luka needs me.
“Milo, if he doesn’t drop his hand, shoot the boy.” A pleased look on his face.
Milo raised his gun and Luka’s hand sagged, helpless. I’d never seen him like this before. Quick washes of emotions ran over his face. Fear? Anger? Anguish? Rage? Resignation? I couldn’t tell. I looked at him, but he avoided my gaze, and it made me afraid.
I felt a numbness tingle up my toes. I’d felt the sensation before, long ago. I was drifting.
“Boy, put your thumb to your neck.” When I didn’t, he took my hand in a surprisingly strong grip and forced my thumb under my jaw. “There, there.”
“Boris—” Luka said, before Milo’s gun pecked his cheek like a kiss.
Boris bounced his fork against his hip. “Boy, if you disobey, I’ll kill Luka. Now, I want you do something simple. I want you to rub.” His smile spread like an oil slick. “I’ll tell you when to stop. Now, rub.”