THE MOSCOW INCIDENT
BY FENIX CON
PAGE 1
Winter, the cruelest time of year for creature, man or beast. Cold winds scream as it rips past your ears and the deep snow congeals on the sole of your boots. Pavlo had never found that nature liked him too much, especially since he dealt in the sordid business of the underground. In a world of criminals, God smiles upon none. Pavlo was an expert smuggler, he could supply anything…for a price. Illicit materials, drugs, artifacts and, heck, even livestock throughout the U.S.S.R. The monotonous howl of the winds forces Pavlo to activate the radio.
"(in Russian) and now, the latest news. It is believed that a number of tactical warheads have been abducted by sources as yet unknown. Current speculations indicate that the surge in criminal activity might be held responsible for this act. On another note Stalin has finally released the final thousand Jews from our Communist work camps up north. Though the Jews are not in the best of health…"
Pavlo couldn't bear another word of this hypocritical dribble. What do they care of his beloved nation? Pavlo brooded. Cowards such as they, would sell his country and comrades to the highest bidder and enslave their Communist nation into bondage. The problems of his nation, became his problem. Soon, he thought with melancholy smile, all the problems will vanish in a cleansing baptism. What a marvel this world is, he laughed, change with a push of a button
3 Days Prior to the Moscow Incident
Moscow is a truly wonderful city with the capacity to fulfill virtually any need to both the sinner and the virtuous. The charismatic of history, a hearty group people, entertainment in both shady and renown arts, yet Pavlo had no need for such indulgences. His hunger was dormant after a simple meal, he wore a smile that women adored, and 'friends' so numerous that problems seemed to simply disappear, but not at his current time. In Moscow either you were looking for something, or someone was looking for you.
Pavlo, though, was in search for his mentor and father-like figure, Joseph Mishka. Moscow was a sprawling capital, and people who went looking for Mishka had an odd tendency to find themselves six feet under. Unlike the other lowlifes and scum that inhabited Moscow, Pavlo and Mishka had history. Pavlo arrived at the front of his old home, one which had also housed his proud Mishka.
The building was slim, red bricked building that stood three stories tall and had its windows suffocating under hard wooden boards. At the mouth of the house people laid, whose identities Pavlo cared not, cluttered about in the gutter. Skin stretched taut over the wheezing individuals and their sunken eyes gave the perception that they were more dead than alive. He entered his old home, and a rush of memories came flooding back, or perhaps it was just the stench of blood that had never really left the apartment. Pavlo sat and waited next to the old phone which he knew would ring. The ring's hollow tone always struck a cord in him, for it had once signaled the departure of Mishka on his many 'business' ventures, leaving Pavlo alone in their home, worried. With some degree of irony, he thought, today the phone will bring me closer to him.
Pavlo awaited the call in somber silence. Some of the blood stains still remained. They were crimson red against the burgundy floor boards. The moans and cries sounding out from beyond the walls did little to warm his soul. The phone rang, as he knew it would, yet still his hand approached with apprehension. Ring, he waits as the outstretched hand musters the strength, ring the fingers clench around the frigid phone. Calmly he brings his ear to the receiver, "Meet me by the Red Square," a voice said, "Near the Statue of Stalin 9 A.M." Click the phone went dead in his hands. Slowly he hangs up and prepares himself for the day ahead.