Chapter 06
Lost in a Crowd

"Running through memories like thieves in the night.
Clutching emotions, holding too tight.
Hold turns to dust, shattered by light."

"Passing Strangers" - Ultravox

23 August 1999
Grodno, Belarus

The man on the bench press was enormous. He was not fat, not in the slightest. He was just immensely tall and just as muscular. Standing at two hundred ten centimeters (6'10"), Omeir Faaris was a giant among most men. He also tipped the scales at one hundred thirty-five kilograms (297 pounds). He was currently known as Liavon Kazan and was a common sight in the gymnasium, practically living there some said. Faaris was a professional bodybuilder so such an environment made sense for him. What amazed the other visitors to the gym was the man's flexibility and speed, as well. That, certainly, was not typical for someone like him.

Paviel Maystrenko stood at the head of the bench, looking with concern at the bar on its braces. The bar currently held four hundred fifty-five kilograms (1,001 pounds) of weight. He was not concerned about the bar breaking. Even the cheap bars could support far more weight than this. He was worried about whether he could lift the bar off of Faaris if the man needed assistance. Admittedly, all he had to do was keep the thing off the man's neck and help him put it back on the braces or, in the worst case, help him push it aside.

"Are you sure about this, Liavon?" he asked as the massive man beneath the bar placed his hands on it. Kazan nodded, taking a deep breath. Powerlifting such as this was quite different from his normal routine and was, in fact, a completely different type of workout regimen than his. He had just decided that today he wanted to try something different. Like a supremely heavy bench press. Still, Maystrenko was worried. Even the American, Tim Isaac, who currently held the world record for the bench press, had only pushed up three hundred sixty-three kilos (eight hundred two pounds). And that was only a few months ago.

"Just one rep, right, Liavon? One up and done."

"Right," agreed Faaris. Maybe two, he thought, if I can, sense there is an audience gathering for this.

"Are you sure you don't want a belt or a bench shirt for this? Even some wrist or elbow braces?"

Faaris rolled his eyes. "No, Paviel. I always do these things in my t-shirt and that is all. The same goes for this."

"Alright, just don't blame me when you blow out a shoulder."

"Hey, are you going to mother hen me further or am I going to push this thing?"

Maystrenko took a step back, waving his hand. "Go ahead. Do it." He then took his place at the bar again, waiting.

Faaris positioned his hands carefully on the bar. He took two deep breaths and closed his eyes for a third breath. When they opened, his face was blank. He was ready. Breathing deeply through his nose, Faaris pushed up on the bar, unracking the tremendous weight. His face reddened instantly with the effort. On the other side of the bar, his feet jumped slightly off the floor. Lowering the bar down to his chest slowly, he took another breath.

A powerful grunt exploded from his lips as he pushed the huge burden upward. It climbed with infinite slowness, or it seemed to him. He could feel his lungs nearing emptiness. He preferred to finish a repetition within a single breath. His body worked best if he could maintain the exhalation along with the maximum effort. He always faltered if he had to take another breath. Willing the horrid heap of metal to rise, he kept pushing, his long grunt of exertion growing louder. After an eternity of effort, his arms locked at maximum height. He had done it. He eased the bar back and set it back on the rack. He could breathe again. He smiled. The dozen people gathered around him applauded.

Faaris sat up and waved a weary hand at the group, thanking them. He then ran the hand along his brow. He had already broken a sweat from that one rep. He wasn't surprised. Paviel Maystrenko came around in front of him and squatted. He extended a hand. Faaris took it.

"Liavon, do you realize how many records you broke today?" the man asked him.

Faaris waved a dismissive hand. "I'm not interested in any of that, Paviel. You're aware of that."

"But just think of how far you could go if you publicized this. The places you could go."

"No, Paviel," said Faaris, standing slowly to tower over the man. "That's final. There's enough publicity already in what I do. I don't want anymore. Now, I did cut my workout short for this little venture. I was originally going to continue it afterward. Now, however, I realize how much it has taken out of me. I am going home for the day. I'll see you tomorrow."

Faaris then left an astonished Maystrenko standing there as he walked away.

xxxxxxxxxx

Omeir Faaris had the appearance of youth. He had been a young man of only twenty-four when he had met his first death in the desert in a small battle near his home city of Uruk. That event was forty-four centuries past. Now, millennia later, he found himself among a unique group of people: the oldest of the living Immortals. For all he knew, he might be the oldest. He had heard rumors of some older than he, but nothing more than that.

He did not seek others of his kind as actively as he once did, though by his own count he did hold an impressive record for Immortal kills. One thing that came with immortality was a long memory in addition to the lifespan. He could remember every head he had taken. But age had tempered him somewhat. There were enough sword-wielding members of his fraternity that sought him out merely for the fact of his age and power that he no longer needed to hunt them himself. In modern times, though, this had dropped significantly, only a few per decade. He did not know if this was due to a decrease in the number of Immortals still living or some other cause. He did know that he despised those who broke their arrangements with him.

That very thing had happened a mere three days ago. A young Immortal, they were virtually all young in his eyes, named Andrey Pachenko wished to battle for his head and had agreed to meet Faaris a few blocks away from his apartment. The man had never appeared. There had been a news report of a murdered man found in an alley later that day, but no name had been given. Faaris simply assumed the upstart had run into another Immortal before meeting him and had lost. If that was not the case, Faaris would teach him the error of his lack of manners if they ever met again.

Faaris reached his apartment building. The elevator had been out of order that morning and he was already most of the way to the stairs before seeing it was operating again. He shrugged his massive shoulders and took that stairs to the fifth floor anyway. Let that be some small recompense for skipping out on the rest of his workout earlier. He knew the slight exertion would not be enough to keep him from the rest he so urgently desired right now.

Faaris emerged from the staircase at the end of the hall, fishing his keys out of his pocket at the same time. He could already feel the waters of the shower he intended to take before lying down for a nap. The massaging jets, assuming there was any hot water, would be just what he needed prior to going to sleep. He paused, his eyes directed down the hall. A man was standing at his apartment door.

Faaris stood still for a moment, wondering if the man was from the local police. There had been a political march in Minsk involving about five thousand people the month before. The people were protesting President Alexander Lukashenko's decision to extend his expired term in office until 2002. Faaris had been in Minsk that day and had witnessed the crackdown, but had not taken part in the demonstration. Perhaps this man's presence had something to do with that.

"May I help you?" Faaris called to the man down the hall, raising a hand in greeting.

The blond man, his attention clearly focused elsewhere, turned in surprise. Only then did Faaris notice that his apartment door was ajar. The man called, "Jon tut," (He's out here,) before reaching into his jacket. He did not withdraw police credentials as Faaris was expecting. Instead, an MP-443 Grach 9mm pistol filled his hand.

Faaris did not wait for further words or deeds from the man. He turned immediately and crashed through the still open doorway back into the stairwell. The man behind him fired from a distance of about thirty meters. The bullet smacked into the door near Faaris' head. The giant Immortal kept moving, his huge feet already taking the steps downward two at a time. Above him, he could hear the shouts of multiple men.

Faaris reached the fourth floor landing and took the emergency door out to the fire escape. He slowed his exit only slightly to close the door with care despite his instinct to slam it and run. Once it clicked in his hand, he took to the metal stairs hugging the side of the building. In the back of his mind, he hoped his pursuers would believe he was going for the front lobby and head for the elevator instead. If they did, he might escape. If not, surely he would find them waiting below and run into a hail of gunfire. Despite all the American movies may portray, muscle did nothing to deflect bullets.

His hopes were answered moments later when he was halfway down the last flight of stairs. There were no men waiting to shoot him down, at least not yet. He vaulted over the safety rail of the last flight, dropping down to the ground. He was running as soon as his feet touched pavement. Flight was against his better nature, it was true, but he knew nothing of his enemies. Worse, he was unarmed, still clad only in his gym clothing. While he could easily take down one or two men with his bare hands, he was of a notion there were more than that inside his apartment when he fled. Right now, it was better to keep moving and deal with the consequences of their visit at a later time.

Faaris ran for three blocks before slowing to a walk. Running would only draw attention to himself. He would have enough of a problem with that already simply due to his stature. There was no point in adding to the problem. He realized his keys were still in his hand and put them back in his pocket. Looking about as he walked, he searched for a convenient place to hide. That cafe there would do just fine. There were plenty of people there and probably a phone he could use. He had to contact some of his Immortal brethren, the few he called friends, and ask them what was happening.

xxxxxxxxxx

23 August 1999
Kalispell, Montana
Blue Bird Motel

Vincent Locke dropped his screwdriver back into his toolbox and tested the doorknob. It turned just fine and was no longer "as loose as a Phi Mu sorority girl" as one of the room's previous tenants, a nineteen-year old college student along with the two giggling girls of similar age who had accompanied him, had reported it.

Locke glanced into the room. The three students were sprawled, nude and unconscious, across the queen-sized bed. The bedclothes were scattered across the floor. Judging from the number of empty beer cans and open liquor bottles, Locke could easily ascertain why none of the three had answered when he had knocked a few minutes earlier. Shaking his head, he picked up his toolbox and shut the door, letting the three continue to slumber. He walked back to the main office.

He waved at a red-haired woman in her early forties as he entered. It was Jocelyn Myers. She and her husband, Dwight, owned the Blue Bird Motel and two others in the city. She was on the phone. She waved back and, with a raised finger, indicated he should wait. She listened for several seconds more.

That time allowed Locke to reflect about his current situation. Here he was, pushing four hundred seventy-two years of age, and he was working as a handyman at a motel so cheap that college students used it as a love shack. He didn't mind the work. Each task was a little puzzle for him to solve. He liked that. It was simply the fact of his age and position in life that sometimes got to him. Of all the members of his far-flung little circle of Immortal friends, he held the lowest station among them. That was the only part that bothered him. He knew he could do more with his life, sure. It was more a question of motivation and satisfaction for him. He was happy here. Why disrupt it with a high-stress - albeit higher paying - job?

"Hold on," Jocelyn said into the handset. "He just walked in." She held the phone out to Locke.

"The doorknob for number eight is fixed," Locke reported in an undertone.

"Thank you," she replied. "This guy just called for you. His English is poor, but I think he said he wants to talk to you."

Locke set down his toolbox and furrowed his brow. "Oriental guy?" he asked. Jocelyn nodded. Locke grinned. There was only one person he knew who could speak eleven languages perfectly, but still managed to foul up English. He took the phone.

"Hello, Taiki," he said, a slight grin on his face. "Why are you bothering my boss? I told you she's short-tempered." Locked smiled at Jocelyn as he spoke. Jocelyn returned it and waved a hand, walking away.

"Vincent, I need your help over here. Have you thought about job offer I make?" Taiki Tokawa spoke slower and more confidently with Vincent, knowing he would not be ridiculed for his occasional linguistic slip-up.

"What? Being your male secretary?"

"Yes. I need help. Someone smart, not dumb girl with big boobies."

"Well, hire one that is smaller," Locke replied in gest.

"Vincent, I mean it. You can do good job and you know I will pay well." Tokawa, currently known as the Chinese immigrant Lao Wei, was the CEO of Wei, Incorporated, a computer technology company in New York.

"Yeah, Taiki, I know you'll pay well, but I don't know the first damn thing about computers. I can barely switch one on."

"You learn. You get better. You learn fast, I know. If you speak Welsh, you can learn computer."

Locke laughed into the handset. "Taiki, being able to speak a language has nothing to do with being able to learn how to use computers."

"What I mean is Welsh hard, computers not. You learn."

Locke leaned on the office's intake counter and tapped his fingers. "I don't know, Taiki. You're asking a lot. For starters, I'd have to move to New York. I've never liked it there."

"New York is good place," countered Tokawa. "Taxes too high, but is good place. We have fun together. Always do."

Locke chuckled again. "That's true, at least."

"Come visit. See company. Have fun for three, four week. Tell boss. I pay for it. I even pay for handy-type man to cover you."

Locke perked up at that suggestion. He had not seen his friend in several years. An all-expense paid trip to visit, even if it meant Tokawa would be pumping him to take a new job, didn't sound bad at all.

"Alright, Taiki, I'll do that. Let me tell Jocelyn. I'll put in some vacation time and come out there next week. Wire some travel money to me, would you?"

"Sure thing. Send me information. Call back with it."

"Let me get your number." Locke reached over the counter for a notepad and pen. "Go ahead." When he was finished copying it down, he said, "Okay, Taiki, I'll call you back later today - collect - and give you the information."

"Good. Be nice to see you again. Bye, Vincent." Tokawa hung up.

Placing the handset back down, Locke set off in search of Jocelyn. He had a lot of planning to do once he told her about this phone call. He wondered how she would react when he told her that the Oriental man in New York was going to pay for a temporary handyman to take his place while he was gone.

xxxxxxxxxx

23 August 1999
Baltimore, Maryland
Goh's Kung Fu Martial Arts School

Lawson Kaw leaned out of the little office and called out to the sweat-drenched practitioner in the corner. He didn't like to interrupt the man. He - and his numerous high placings in professional martial artist tournaments - was one of the reasons the school was so successful in the area.

"Hey, MacBane, you have a phone call in here."

David MacBane had been going through his exercises for the past hour. Despite the look of mild annoyance on the man's face, Kaw was positive the man actually welcomed this chance at a short break.

Who wouldn't after such a workout? he thought to himself as he handed the phone to the tall man. As a courtesy, he left the office while MacBane spoke.

"This is Macbane," said the man, wiping sweat from his brow and onto his pant leg.

"David, this is Omeir." The voice was either on a bad line or there was a lot of background noise.

"Where are you?" MacBane asked.

"I'm in a little cafe in Grodno," Faaris replied. "I've been waiting for several hours and practically eating all of their stores of food while waiting for a decent time to call. This is the only number I have for you, by the way. You really should provide me with a better one."

"Well, Omeir, I spend most of my time here so this is the best place to call. Anyway, what's up? What's the reason for calling? And from a cafe, for God's sake?"

"I was attacked at my apartment this morning."

"Well, I'm sure you dispatched the guy quite quickly since we're still talking."

"It was by mortals, David, not another Immortal. And I suspect, somehow, they knew about my immortality." Faaris' voice was low despite the noise from the chatter of the cafe's clientele around him. "They opened fire on me with guns rather than even try to talk to me. They took no chances. I barely got away."

"Mortals? How the hell would they even know that fact about you?"

"I don't know, but some events around here recently make me think that mortals are killing Immortals. That's purely conjecture on my part. I don't fully understand it myself, but that's my theory. From one ancient to another, I need some help here, David."

MacBane smirked at that comment. Faaris was seventeen hundred years his senior but, as was his habit, he referred to any Immortal over two thousand years of age as an ancient.

"What can I do for you, Omeir?"

"I'd like information on who attacked me, but I think it's too early right now to worry about that. I believe I can get back to my apartment and get a few things, but I'll need a place to go after that. I have the money, so that's not a concern, assuming my credit cards are still good. I simply think it's best to be around other Immortals right now. Do you have any suggestions?"

MacBane sat behind the office's desk and ran a hand through his sweaty, black hair. "I have a place in the Paris area you can use. I was thinking about going there for a few weeks anyway to check out a tournament in that area anyway. I can meet you there in a few days and we can discuss this."

"That would be a good start, David. Thank you."

"I'll wire you some money just in case, okay? If you don't need it then just give it back to me when we meet up in Paris."

"That's fine." Faaris gave him an address where he could send the money.

"Alright, I'll have the funds to you in an hour, okay? After that, get your stuff and then your ass out of there and get to Paris as fast as you can." MacBane rattled off an address for him and told him where to find a spare key. Faaris repeated the address to be sure he had copied it correctly.

"That's right," said MacBane. "I'll cancel my engagements here and meet you there in a few days. Just hold tight."

"Thank you, David. I'll see you soon."

"Goodbye, Omeir." MacBane hung up and slowly stood. His mind was reeling with all the things he had to do prior to his departure. "Well, sweet Paris," he whispered to himself. "It looks like you and I will be seeing each other sooner than I originally planned."

xxxxxxxxxx

23 August 1999
Stotternheim, Germany

"Ich bin zu Hause, Mama," (I'm home, Mama,) announced little Anton Lebrecht as he ran through the door, almost forgetting to shut it behind him. The nine-year old dropped his backpack and made his way straight to the kitchen for his afternoon snack. The lack of response from his mother did not concern him. Sometimes she was in the back of the house and did not hear him. At the moment, all that was on his mind was a thick pretzel, some juice, maybe changing clothes afterward, if he thought about it, and bounding right back outside to play with his friends.

The pretzel resting on a napkin, the boy poured a glass of apple juice and sat at the small kitchen table. He pulled a bottle of brown mustard toward him and dispensed a healthy portion onto the napkin. Dipping the pretzel into the mushy mixture, he munched happily, humming a little tune to himself. A dollop of mustard fell onto his shorts, interrupting his song.

"Zum Teufel!" (Dammit!), the child whispered, repeating a term he heard his father often use. He took another napkin and wiped the goop from his clothing. It left a smear that would not rub out. So much for playing in his school clothes. He would have to change now. He dropped the used napkin on the table and took a sip of juice. A second later, he was humming again.

It took the boy a moment to notice the man standing in the doorway between the sitting room and the kitchen, so engrossed was he in his personal music. His green eyes swept over to focus on the man while he was enjoying a second mouthful of juice. He regarded the man for a second, blinking. He set his glass on the table and stood. He had been taught it was polite to stand when new people entered the home.

"Hallo, mein Herr," (Hello, sir,) Anton said softly, his eyes still taking in the odd black apparel the man wore. Except for his head and face, the man was wearing all black, including gloves.

The man smiled at him. "Hallo, Anton. Du musst mit mir kommen." (Hello, Anton. You need to come with me.) The man's voice was not threatening. In fact, it was almost kind. Anton still regarded him quizzically.

"Wo ist Mama? Weiß Sie, dass ich mit Sie gehe?" (Where is Mama? Does she know I'm going with you?)

The man's expression did not change. He replied, "Mach dir darüber jetzt keine Sorgen. Sei einfach ein guter Junge und komm leise mit mir." (Don't worry about that right now. Just be a good boy and come with me quietly.)

Anton frowned. This was not like his parents had told him. He was not supposed to go with strangers unless they knew about it and told him it was okay. He stamped his little foot in disagreement.

"Nein, ich muss zuerst mit Mama reden. Wenn Sie sagt, ich kann, dann werde ich mit Sie gehen." (No, I need to talk to Mama first. If she says I can then I will go with you.) He took a step toward the man to exit the kitchen and make his way upstairs.

The man moved to the side to block him. "Alles ist gut, Anton," (Everything is fine, Anton,) he said. "Du bist Mutter, wirst nicht widersprechen, wenn du mit mir kommst." (You're mother will not disagree with you coming with me.)

Anton stopped in mid-step, his eyes locked on the man's face. He put his foot down again, shaking his head. "Nein, wo ist Mama?" (No, where is Mama?)

The man clearly did not want to talk anymore. Before Anton could react to the move, the black-garbed man had moved forward and wrapped an arm around the child's slender waist. Rising in the air, Anton kicked feverishly.

"Halt! Lass mich runter und bring mich zu meiner Mama," (Stop! Put me down and take me to my mama,) he demanded.

Taking a damp handkerchief from his pocket, the man slapped it over the struggling boy's mouth and nose. Anton began to get lightheaded. Before the chloroform could knock him out completely, the man whispered in his ear, "Deine Mama ist tot. Jetzt kommst du mit mir. Geh jetzt schlafen." (Your mama is dead. Now you are coming with me. Go to sleep now.)

xxxxxxxxxx

23 August 1999
Toronto, Canada
Holy Trinity Russian Orthodox Church

As was his habit each day, Marton Razumov ended his shift at whichever construction site he happened to be working that week with a stop at the Holy Trinity Church to pray. The one hundred fifty years of his immortal life had been hard and he needed God's guidance to find the right path. He hoped the path that had been shown to him earlier was the correct one.

This would be Razumov's last day in Canada. He would be flying out tomorrow morning. A week before, he had received the idea of moving back to Europe and continuing his life there. He did not mind this thought. Construction laborers were needed everywhere and he could certainly find work quickly. It was the notion of going to Holland that concerned him. He did not speak Dutch and that was unnerving for him. He spoke German and that was similar in many ways, but it was not an exact match. He prayed that he would be able to overcome this limitation quickly.

During his prayers, Razumov remembered an Irish friend he had. She currently lived somewhere in Scotland. Was it the Isle of Skye? Perhaps he could contact her and she would know of some place in Utrecht, his destination, where he could stay while he made further progress on his Dutch lessons. He had already begun, of course, with some resources he had purchased at a local bookstore, but he needed time to absorb it all.

Ending his prayer, Razumov decided he would call her tomorrow before his flight. Worst case, perhaps she would allow him to stay with her for a few days. He could learn quickly and he was sure he only needed a week or two to at least have a rudimentary proficiency in the language. He would have stayed in Canada while he did this, but the revelations he had received spoke otherwise. He was not even going home tonight. He had already packed his meager belongings and would be staying in a hotel this evening.

Razumov opened his eyes when he heard muffled talking behind him. He turned his head. One of the priests, Father Florenti Akulov, was talking softly to two men back in the narthex, just barely visible from where Razumov knelt. The Immortal frowned slightly. He did not recognize the men and did not care for the expression of concern on the face of Father Akulov. From his position in the nave, he could hear snatches of their conversation.

"... us where he is," demanded one of the strangers to the priest.

"He … the nave praying. He … not be bothered… this personal time with God."

A ringing in Razumov's mind told him to move to the side of the nave, further out of sight. He was the only worshipper in the church. It seemed those men were after him. Just as he stood to move, the stranger who had spoken reached into his suit jacket. Razumov did not see what happened next. He was already stepping to his left. He did hear a metallic sliding sound and a gasp from the priest. That was enough for alarm bells to signal in Razumov's brain.

He did not run. He remained calm as he formulated his retreat. He was near the front of the nave and a few steps would bring him to it. Being designed like a cross, the front of the nave expanded significantly and was filled with additional pews for worshippers. Razumov moved his feet quietly and slipped to the left, concealing himself with the wall of the nave.

He walked to the front of the worship chamber, standing in the far left corner. Up and to the left was the sacristy. Behind that was the door the priest used to enter the room during the service. He would have to expose himself again when he stepped out to approach the sacristy. The two strangers would have had time by now to enter the nave and would surely see him.

Taking a breath, Razumov stepped out of his concealed position and ran toward the front of the room. A glance to the right told him what he suspected. The two men were there, a third of the way up the nave. The farthest of them was looking down a row of pews, probably thinking he had ducked down between them. Both of the men held pistols in their hands with silencers attached. One of them carried a machete, as well. Razumov turned his gaze back to his target, the sacristy.

The shout behind him was expected, as was the gunfire that followed it. Considering the distance from which they were firing, the men had no real hope of hitting Razumov unless they were skilled marksmen. One round punched into one of the stairs by Razumov's foot as he leapt to the platform on which the altar sat. Another tugged at his shirt sleeve. Turning left, Razumov slammed into the priests' entry door and was gone. He could hear the men's footsteps behind him as they pursued.

Razumov spent several minutes running through the church looking for an exit. When he finally came barrelling through a door into the street, he looked about to orient himself. He was on the east side of the church. Diagonally to his right was the Toronto Holy Word Church. On the other side of it, he knew, was McCaul Street. There would be plenty of places to hide in either of those places. He ran to the right.

Razumov had just ducked behind a car near the church and looked back through its windows when he saw the two men exit the door he had just used. Razumov ducked down again. He could see the men, barely, underneath the car and observed them from the ground. The car was next to some trees and obscured by evening shadow. The men, believing Razumov must have continued running when he exited the door, ran due east toward an alley which accessed McCaul Street.

When the men were out of sight, Razumov rose and sprinted west. He was going back to Henry Street and his parked car. He would be staying at a different hotel than he had planned tonight. That would be one bit of additional safety measure he could take. As he ran, he thanked God above for telling him to pack his bags and leave Canada. The time for it certainly seemed to have come.

Now, if he just knew who those men were and why they were after him.