AN: Sequel to the Ho Chi Minh Paper Trail. I am continuing the series after the rewrites to Glass Rocks and Paper Trail. I had originally planned something different as the next story, but I want to do one more story in the 90s. Also want to do one completely in first-person present tense. Enjoy.
"See the child. He is pale and thin, he wears a thin and ragged linen shirt." I read off this book I borrowed from Benny, 'Blood Meridian' by Cormac McCarthy, waiting at the airport docks, while Rock tries to flag down a guy for the 'vaporetto' or whatever the fuck it's called. He's walking around in black slacks, a striped blue and white dress shirt tucked in his pants, he even walking around in gray loafers. It's like 100 fucking degrees and I'm boiling here. Shit, Venice can get worse than Roanapur apparently.
Course he made me dress to the nines, got me this in this monkey costume, black designer flats of some company I never even heard of and who's name I already forgot, gray slacks, and a purple short sleeve shirt with these fringes around the sleeve ends, with gold patterns of some European crest or something along the body. I made him shut up about covering the tattoos, I mean, fucking Christ, I just saw three white guys with full arm sleeve tats looking like they're part of Marty's or Chang's crew.
A seagull lands on a pyramid wooden post by the lagoon, just staring at me, like it thinks my book is a bagel…holy shit the gulls here are huge. I've seen grown ass hawks smaller. I look left and finally, Rock finally flags down some guy, I'm assuming not some random tourist. Bald Italian guy with arm sleeve tats, Rock starts speaking to him "Buongiorno, uh…un Ingles? Speak English?" The man frowns slightly, shows the universal sign for 'a little', and says "Un poco. Need a water taxi?" Finally, been waiting for half an hour. Rock almost jumps out of his feet, smiling and saying "Yes, yes! We need a water taxi!" "Okay, 80 euro. Where to? San Marco, Cannaregio?" Rock pulls our hotel booking confirmation out of his right pant pocket, unfurls it, and points at the name. The water taxi guy reads off it "Hotel il Fondaco dei Norreno." Rock adds "It's supposed to be across the canal from the casino." "I know this place. Okay, wait twenty minutes, I find you a boat." Another twenty minutes?! I adjust the strap of my black duffel bag and take another look at Rock's black luggage case.
Other side of the old world and I'm still getting ferried by boat. At least there's a cool breeze going. 16-hour flight from Bangkok, with two-hour layover in Dubai. I fucking hate flying. Can't even carry my guns on me. Like I'm naked and boiling in a suit at the same time. Oh well, fuck it, Rock promised a few weeks of shore leave, I'm taking it.
Another rainy day in Hereford, or there abouts. Waiting for my cuppa to cool down, the lovely Ms. Chauhan concocted enough masala chai for the both us. And there she is, seated, in a grayish-green vertically striped dress, and a gold necklace with a light blue topaz at the end. She even had her hair done lately, like a young Marathi Honor Blackman. Easily the loveliest specimen to escape Birmingham. Before her, a large mahogany table, freshly moved from Bradbury. I blow on my cup and speak "The move concluding next year, yes?" Ms. Chauhan studies the maps of the southeast Asian theater, compass and fountain pen in hand. Without raising her eyes, she replies in that Brum English of her "Quite, expected completion prior to summer, God willing. Any more of this ruckus and I'll consider earmuffs." Don't mind Credenhill much, though odd to be so far from civilization. Imagine that be the point.
The tea finally cooled enough to not scald my tongue, I take a sip, my oh my, Ms. Chauhan you will take my last name if mountains must be moved. I offer a smile and speak "A blend of Ceylon white and Assam black, with cardamom, fresh cinnamon, a bit of clove, and a touch of…anise, sweetened very gently with wild honey." Ms. Chauhan looks up with a bemused smile, speaking "Oh my, I never imagined you for a connoisseur…you bugged the breakroom, didn't you Bronson?" And she is a sharp one too. A brief, hearty laugh, and I confess "Had to move the camera a bit to see what exact spices you selected. Had the recipe uncovered…around the third day. A lovely tea, I must say." I take another sip, and then reach for one of my Lotus Biscoffs to soak in the chai.
Ms. Chauhan returns to her diligent analytical duties of uncovering every pig's bollocks in Indochina. I take a gander at a manila folder, titled 'Golden Triangle Trafficking Hubs: Roanapur'. Opening it, now what do we have ourselves here. Hotel Moscow, catchy name. I speak "Now, Roanapur, our assets have been active, yes?" Ms. Chauhan, still engrossed in her work, replies "As active as the circumstances permit. MI6 has been relaying any and all available intel. That is actually what I am parsing through now, or trying at the very least."
Removing my biscuit from the chai and having myself a bite, I swallow and ask "So, about this Hotel Moscow…curious name. Russian organized crime in the Gulf of Thailand." She replies "Yes, a syndicate headed by who is colloquially known as 'Ms. Balalaika'. Most of the original guard is comprised of former Soviet VDV, Afghan war veterans." VDV? Hm. Not what I expected. I turn the page on the file…Sofiya Pavlovna Irinovskaya. Curious specimen. Born in Mogilev, Belarussian SSR to a Vitaly Irinovksy, former commercial pilot for Aeroflot, and a Kseniya Irinovskaya, health inspector. Marksman prodigy, was considered the favorite to be sent for the women's 50-meter rifle competition in 84 prior to the Soviet boycott. Father defected to the west in 75, landing an empty aircraft in Istanbul, currently a self-employed livery cab driver in Cleveland, Ohio. Her mother took young Sofiya to live with her uncle Arkadiy Goltsov, a 'Colonel General' of the Red Army stationed in then Leningrad. Young Sofiya later was given an expedited Lieutenant commission in the VDV, deployed to Afghanistan, captured by the Mujahedeen and tortured with acid, leaving her with noticeable scarring. Later left to Roanapur following the end of the Soviet Union, along with most of her VDV friends.
Closing the file, I speak "This woman, this syndicate, must be the most obvious Lubyanka operation I ever came across." Ms. Chauhan cracks a wry smirk and replies "Naturally. While they are connected and pay 'tribute' to the Golyanovskaya Bratva, headed by a Pyotr Slavnov, our friends at Langley have revealed that the true benefactor for Ms. Balalaika's army of fortune is Russian oligarch Gennady Faynberg." Truly? I ask "The Aluminum Man?" "The very same. Recently read on The Telegraph that he is considering a bid for Everton." Finishing my biscuit, I laugh "Those poor sods? He can have them."
Excellent segway, I add "You know, Ms. Chauhan, there is a fascinating exhibit at the art museum in Cardiff. 'Art of the Romanov Empire'. Several fine Repin pieces on loan from the Hermitage. Perhaps…" She takes a gander again, this time with her fountain pen between her teeth, an amused smirk formed by her lips. She removes the pen from her mouth, her smirk still affixed, as she replies "My, I never thought of you SAS boys to be the sensitive, cultured sort." Almost got her. I add "Now, my Bentley should be done with the shop tonight…" "A Bentley, on a government salary. Truly." "I have my means. Side projects. Naturally we would not take the Welsh rail." "Oh, is it we, now?" I take an emphatic sip from my tea and finish the deal "I see no reason why not. I even found a quaint restaurant by the bay. Fancy Italian?" Her smirk still perched on her lips, she replies "Oh my, Italian. Bronson has taken a fancy to me…fine, you have captured my curiosity. My schedule is clear staring Sunday. I shall await you…and your hypothetical Bentley." I raise my cup at her and nod.
Satisfied with what I set out to accomplish today, I return to the Roanapur file, and sift through it. Hm…now what do we have here? Approaching Ms. Chauhan from her right flank, I drop the folder by her and inquire "Marion Savage-DeVries, colorful story for a colorful character." She turns her attention to his dossier and replies "Yes indeed, American, former Black Panther, USMC volunteer who attempted to defect to the NVA early in his deployment, held captive by the Khmer Rouge sometime after aligning himself with Pol Pot's regime. Escaped during the Vietnamese-Cambodian war, currently heading a mercenary courier outfit out of Roanapur."
I direct her attention to his activities just following his escape. 'La Mouche'. The Fly of Burkina Faso. She continues "Ah yes, the Gaullists. Service d'Action Civique, the Gaullist militia specializing in Franco-African interests. Five operatives were deployed to Roanapur to hunt down one of the organizers of the failed 1989 coup against the Compaoré administration. Jean-Baptiste Lingani and Henri Zongo were executed and the rest went to ground. Those five operatives were sent to eliminate one of the remaining agitators, La Mouche, when an incident amongst the team resulted in the deaths of four of the Gaullists and several Hotel Moscow operatives that intercepted them. The surviving Gaullist was pressed into allegiance to Hotel Moscow, and has since became an attaché to Mr. Savage-DeVries's operation. MI6 wiretapping has uncovered much more since then."
After retrieving another file from a metal drawer, Ms. Chauhan opens the dossier titled 'The La Mouche Investigation' and presents me with MI6's findings. She continues "La Mouche trained in Antsirabe, Madagascar to rehearse the coup, alongside KGB logistical and advisory support. Lubyanka was evidently annoyed by Compaoré's realignment with our western interests. Now, curiously, La Mouche was supposedly a Lieutenant Colonel in the Burkinabe armed forces…however, intelligence has reported that this was not an official Burkinabe designation, but an 'equivalent rank for a foreign operative'."
"So…La Mouche was a foreign advisor and instigator of the coup attempt." "Correct, and from all reports, one imposed by their benefactors and bankroll. Now, recent MI6 taps in Roanapur has led to the discovery of several curious financial transactions by Mr. Savage-DeVries to several shell companies, those shell companies leading to further shell companies. We were able to trace two trails to a holding company for petrochemical industries in Kazakhstan. Furthermore, we acquired the Gaullist files from our assets within the DGSE. Mr. Savage-DeVries, colloquially known as 'Dutch', is a match for physical descriptions of 'La Touche'."
Hm? I speak "An American serving as a Burkinabe co-instigator of the coup? Impossible." Ms. Chauhan smiles and signals me to pause, as she continues "And that is what I have been piecing together. Even more curious, Mr. Savage-DeVries was a known commodity within the sector since 1982. Quickly found himself situated well despite fleeing with nothing but a torpedo boat previously captured by the Rouge. A mysterious arms dealer known only as 'Mukha', Russian for 'Fly', appeared to funnel Vietnam War surplus weapons to the FRELIMO faction of the Mozambican civil war. That very same arms dealer was spotted supplying weapons for the Second Malayan Communist insurgency. And then suddenly, abruptly in the end of 1991, that same arms dealer disappeared off the map, until the time that Ms. Irinovskaya's band of bandits perched themselves in Roanapur in 93 and engaged themselves in a dispute with the ruling Chinese Triad faction. It's established lore on the island that Ms. Irinovskaya was left dying in the Gulf, until Mr. Savage-DeVries' torpedo boat collected her wounded body."
A pause, and she continues "And most damning of coincidences…two years prior, in Roanapur, two Romanian teenage contract killers were employed by the now defunct Thai-branch of La Cosa Nostra. Hotel Moscow syndicate members, including core VDV inner guard, were killed. One of the assassins was executed by Ms. Irinovskaya, the other solicited the company headed by Mr. Savage-DeVries, Black Lagoon Company, as a means to escape to safety. The assassin was taken to Pangkalpinang, Indonesia after some theatrics, only to be shot dead by the getaway driver Savage-DeVries hired for the assassin. A CIA wiretap in Panama revealed a very curious wire transfer to the getaway driver, an Elroy Rademeyer of South Africa. The wire transfer originated from the same Kazakh holding company."
"Convenient," I remark. "Quite." After a pause, she continues "Following her survival, Hotel Moscow and the Triads maintained a fragile peace on the island, seldom broken. Mr. Savage-DeVries became a commonly hired contractor for Ms. Irinovskaya's matters. In fact, there is word that a shipment of surplus Russian weaponry is being organized for transport to Sri Lanka, as we speak. For the Sinhalese Army. It is being coordinated with some of our assets, and those Yanks. We have mutual interests in reversing the momentum of the Tamil Tigers."
I take the page containing the stapled picture of this…Dutch character, out of the folder, and hold it closer to my eyes. American born, family roots traced from Detroit, Michigan to Macon, Georgia. Most certainly the fly in the Burkinabe ointment. An unofficial 'Lieutenant Colonel' in the Burkinabe armed forces. Potentially a mysterious arms dealer for Marxist forces in Mozambique and Malaysia. Ms. Chauhan interrupts my chain of thought "This man is clearly…" I finish my tea and her statement "an active Lubyanka asset."
"Holy shit…this place is like a palace, like did royalty live here or something?!" Revy shouts, mouth agape, walking around the freshly vacuumed carpet with her shoes still on. Marveling the marble walls and view of the canal through the blinds. I speak "Uh, Revy, shoes…" taking my own loafers off. She turns around and gives an annoyed grin, as if I spoiled the moment, and then kicks her shoes and flings them at the door, replying "Happy?" "Yes, thank you. And this used to be the headquarters, warehouse, and trading hub of the Scandinavian and North German merchant associations in Venice, mostly the Hanseatic League, was converted into a luxury hotel ten years ago. At least according to the brochure. By the way, Venice is having a special boat parade and race next week. They call it 'La Regata Storica'. The restaurant upstairs should have a great view of the show." Revy continues to wander around the hotel room, like a child lost in wonder. Good to know she actually desires material things that do not necessarily fire lead at high velocity.
"So what's the itinerary, we just staying in this lagoon for three weeks?" she asks, entering the bathroom "what the fuck, they have a toilet and a urinal in the same bathroom? Holy shit, even the shower floor is made of marble!" Ignoring her second statement, I reply "Today, I think we can make it to San Marco square and see the famous cathedral and Doge's palace. Maybe walk along the shoreline of the Adriatic. The vaporetto can get us to Murano, they have glass figurine workshops there, maybe I can bring something back to Roanapur. I looked into the train system, the Santa Lucia train station is about a 15-minute walk away, and we can get to Padova, Verona, and Ferrara without too long a train ride. I have a call to make, for that appointment in Verona I mentioned. Maybe a day trip to Florence next week?" Exiting the bathroom, Revy says "I don't know anything about this place, you're the tour guide here. I just want to get this mythical 'real Italian food' that Marie kept mentioning." "Alright, let's go see the famous square then." "One second Rock, I gotta change out of this…I don't care, it's way too freaking hot to walk around like I'm applying for a job interview."
Waiting in line to enter the Basilica di San Marco, Revy and I watch as a giant seagull steals a slice of pizza out of the hands of an angry British tourist, the tourist now chasing after the seagull while her designer handbag sways in the air. Revy laughs, saying "They're bigger and ballsier than those in New York, oh shit." Turning back to the long-winded line, Revy groans and says "Really Rock? Did that bitch Eda convert you or something? First thing you wanna do coming out the hotel is see some church?" I marvel at the architecture, the sprawling intricate spires, the small reliefs dotting along the upper arches over the stained glass. Pointing out at small holes in the walls, I speak "Revy, you see those holes, some making the shapes of crosses? They used to have gemstones embedded into them. Rubies, emeralds, diamonds." Revy's interest piqued at the knowledge of shiny rare stones, she adds "I'm guessing there is a reason why all that's left are holes." Pointing at the four bronze horses above, I add "See those? They were looted during the Fourth Crusade, when the Venetians sacked Constantinople, the city that hired them, over an unpaid debt." Revy laughs and says "Shit, it's like I never left New York."
Leaving her to survey the exterior façade, I notice a sign in Italian and English. Gravitating to the English section, I read 'Please Be Aware That This Is An Active Place Of Worship. All Knees and Shoulders Must Be Covered For Entry'. Oh, cazzo! Grimacing at the potential 'shitstorm' that might happen once the man in the gray collared shirt and black slacks, the presumed security guard visually measuring everyone's pant lengths, reaches myself and Revy's exposed thighs and snakehead tattoo, I hope for the best that a seagull distracts him long enough for us to sneak through.
"Excuse me, ma'am," he speaks. Shit. Revy 'Hms?' at him, as the man speaks "I am sorry, you must have your legs covered to your knees and your shoulders covered. There are several shops outside selling shawls and scarves." Revy just stares at the man, her right eyebrow twitching. I smile and lead her out of the line before any damage can be done, saying "Hey Revy, how about I get you two new souvenirs." Her face snarling, she speaks "You shitting me. Really? What, the asshole worried that the priests inside un-faggot themselves?" "You know, it's fine, you can hang around here, I will tour the church myself." "Rock, I have no idea where the fuck I am. Fuck I'm supposed to do while you gawk at the paintings of Jesus?"
I turn my attention to a pair of Italian women selling the aforementioned linen scarfs and shawls, and I walk toward them, before turning back to Revy and asking "What colors would you like?" "I really don't give a fuck, right now I'm fuming." Okay, fair enough. After a quick view, I exchange six euros for a blue linen scarf patterned after the grand canal, and a red linen scarf with the Venetian sword-wielding lion on it. Returning to Revy, I present her with the scarves, to which she replies "No, go fuck yourself." "C'mon, please. It's not that big of a deal." "I don't see that asshole over there having to put on a burka!" she yells, her eyes pointing at a man with exposed knees being allowed entry.
I groan and say "Revy, please, it's one of those rare wonders of the world. We will not stay long." Grimacing at the scarves and biting her own lip in what I'm assuming is anger, she adds "Why don't you get some giant beach towel? I'll put it over my head and make a 'ticking' sound while I'm in there, give them something to look at." Letting out a light laugh, I add "I'd really appreciate it." "Fine, but you fucking owe me for this. Italian assholes…there other churches you wanna gawk at?" "Well, there is Scrovegni Chapel in Padova and…" "Oh you fucking kidding me?!"
Getting through the Basilica di San Marco with minimal incident, and now finally inside the Palazzo Ducale, the Doge's Palace. Revy walks up to the middle of the courtyard to soak in the sights and the sunlight, her scarves draped over her shoulders, as I come over with my Leica camera, ready to snag a picture of her. She walks past the…wells I think, approaching a façade with several marble statues, a large staircase too her right. Two giant statues, one on the left wearing a Roman helmet, otherwise naked, the other on the right practically naked and with a massive beard, flank each side of the top of the giant staircase. Approaching, I hear her say "Why do these guys look familiar?" I stare at the statues slightly and then answer "If I remember what I read correctly, that is supposed to be Mars on the left and Neptune on the right. The Roman deities of the sea and of war." Nodding to herself, she turns around, walks backwards a few steps up the staircase, and poses for the camera. I ready my Leica and focus on her, getting a horizontal shot with the statues of her patron saints in the background.
Back at the hotel, seated in the hotel restaurant and bar, a view of the canal to my left, I browse the drink menu. Illustrations on the menu by each drink, Norse-themed, the drinks at least. The rest of the menu is standard Italian fare, I assume. 'Loki's Appetite'. A giant goblet of a cocktail, containing aquavit mixed with Aperol, cranberry juice, a touch of Fernet-Branca, and two rosemary sprigs. To be ignited. 18 euros. The description accompanies what I am assuming to be the Norse deity Loki attempting to swallow a giant fire.
"What you think Rock? What you getting?" Revy, asks, scrolling the menu as well. Turning the page…I freeze at the image of 'Hel', the supposed queen of the Norse underworld, the left side of her face, her left, a rotting skeleton. 'Hel's Kiss'. Frozen cocktail, with Bacardi overproof rum, pineapple juice, lime juice, chartreuse, and triple sec. 15 euros. "Earth to Rock, you spacing out there?" I look up at her and smile and lie "Just the jetlag, I'm fine…thinking of getting the 'Loki's Appetite' to drink, and a plate of the cuttlefish linguine in its own ink." "Ink huh? I'll trade you some of my stuff for it. Kinda weird shit for Italian food. I mean they don't even got pizza in this. Guess I'll get the…you know what the hell risotto is?" she replies, flipping through the menu pages. "It's rice-shaped pasta." "Alright, then the risotto di ghiozzo and the Hel's Kiss. Never had goby before, some kind of fish?" "We have them in Roanapur, they're called Soon Hocks. Remember those fish with the teeth that bit Dutch on his toes when he went swimming two months ago?" Revy suddenly laughs a bit and says "Oh those weird shits? Sure, why not?"
Suddenly, I hear Japanese in earshot…I turn right, and we awkwardly lock eyes. He is dressed in a mint green Ralph Lauren polo tucked into brown slacks held by a Salvatore Ferragamo belt, and who I am assuming is his wife, standing to his right, dressed in an elaborate sequin blue dress and black Prada flats, her brown hair recently cut and shaped to look like Nobuko Miyamoto in 'Supermarket Woman'. I smile awkwardly as I stand up, surprised with myself that I do not have a reflex to bow in respect to the man who once tried to have me killed. I instead extend my hand, and speak "Kageyama-sama." Kageyama, appearing like a golfer that stumbled blindly into the restaurant, stares at my hand, and then back at me. I can tell that he knows who I am, perhaps my name itself escapes him. He musters out "Okamoto-san," and shakes my hand, begrudgingly it appears. He turns to his presumed wife, and speaks in Japanese "Mikako, this is Riki Okamoto, a manager in one of our…subsidiaries in Singapore." So he does know my name. And manager? Appears I indeed was posthumously promoted.
Mikako smiles and bows slightly at me, speaking "Ah, it's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Okamoto. And this is your lovely wife?" The three of us turn to Revy, who is staring at us three as if we are naked. I switch to English "This is my…girlfriend…" I remember back to our fake passports "Jessica Lin." Mikako quickly waves and smiles and bows at Revy, speaking in heavily-accented English "Oh hello! It great to meet you. American?" Revy puffs her cheeks, clearly feeling out of her element here, and says "Yeah, American. From Philly." She also remembers her fake passport. "Phil-ly?" Mikako asks in confusion. I step in "Philadelphia." "Oh! Philadelphia! Very nice! Liberty bell, Rocky movies, yes?" Revy's awkward smile nearly causes the corners of her mouth to crack as she says "Yeah, Philly has those things."
I try to think of a way to end this conversation as mercifully and as quickly as possible, when Mikako suddenly asks in English "How about we all share table?" Revy barely hides the 'Fuck' under her breath as Kageyama awkwardly speaks "Er…" He…I think he expects…he actually expects me to be the one to offer him this exit? Absolutely not. I am not giving him the rope! Kageyama just continues to stare at me, not willing to lose face by asking if it is imposing himself on me. I enjoy the brief moment of watching him squirm, and then reply in English "Absolutely, we have room. We were just going over the menu."
Revy and Kageyama both glare at me in a mix of anger and annoyance, as Mikako seats herself to Revy's left. I return to my seat, leaving Kageyama to seat himself last, to my right. Flagging down a waiter, I snap my fingers and speak "Scusi! Two menus, por favore." The glasses-wearing waiter nods and walks toward the front, reaching under a shelf for the menus. Mikako's eyes light up as she speaks "Oh! You speak Italian?" I smile and reply to her "I learned a few words before coming here. I can speak Russian and Spanish fluently." "Sugoi! Wow!" Mikako replies, impressed, as Kageyama and Revy continue to glare at me in annoyance.
Having ordered and received our meals, Mikako herself finding amazement in the presentation of the drinks and cocktails, I use my fork to twist ink-coated pasta and cuttlefish meat around, taking a large bite. Wow…this is delicious! Revy reaches over with her fork to twist and scoop some for herself. Taking a bite, her eyes light up somewhat as she nods and says "Yeah, it's good. Nothing like what I used to have in…the States." Mikako smiles as her fork slowly reaches over to Revy's risotto, to my quickly growing horror. Kageyama reaches over and taps his wife's shoulder as Revy snarls and nearly growls at Mikako, before darting a disgusted look as she adds "The fuck you doing?" Kageyama quickly speaks for his vacant wife "I apologize, that was quite inconsiderate." "Whatever," Revy replies, as Mikako gestures her apologies.
We return to eating our food in uncomfortable silence. I nudge my fork at Revy's plate, and she nods and pushes it slightly toward me. Taking a forkful, quite nice as well. I haven't enjoyed good Italian food since the Roanapur Sicilians were forcibly expelled from the face of the planet. Mikako, looking sheepishly at myself, and then nervously at the woman to her right that has probably, across her lifetime, killed the equivalent of a small village, suddenly blurts out "Oh, we going to the casino in a few days, are you two going?" Casino? Hm, could be fun. I reply "Maybe." I turn to Revy, who frowns and shrugs her shoulders "Sure, why not? If they sell booze there." Kageyama stares at Revy, and then at his wife, as I add "We have plans tomorrow. In Verona. Already booked the train tickets in advance." Mikako's eyes light up as she exclaims "Oh wow, Verona? I heard they have a large Roman coliseum there!" I nod and reply "Yes, I also heard. I have an appointment in the city tomorrow. I need to see a specialist. Rather not speak more on it."
"Vasya you idiot! I don't care, these are forty years old! Let's get them to Sri Lanka first before they go off!" I yell at Vasily Kalinin in Russian, fellow rookie Hotel Moscow shit-shoveler and clear crane novice. Crate of F-1 grenades dropped a meter higher than I'd feel comfortable with, from the tanker ship 'Volodya'. To be moved onto another ship in a month anyway, annoyingly enough. Boris Melamud wants us to warehouse it for now so the 'Volodya' can go for another run back to the homeland in Ukraina. Vasya yells back "Quiet Vitya, they handled the Atlantic Ocean! I know what I'm doing!" Sure, and if you fuck up, I get blown away. Anyway, turning to the cargo already dropped off. Grenades, Kalashnikovs, ammunition, Saiga shotguns, munitions, some from the Pridnestrovia stockpile, Tiraspol's choicest surplus, some raided from the stockpiles in Mykolaiv. A little grease here and there for the right Colonel's new BMW. Hey, they aren't biodegradable, might as well get your mistress that Chanel bag.
Hotel Moscow planning a big fire sale for the Sinhalese Army. Situation deteriorated enough that we have Americans and our people working together, blyat, we even have Iranian and Israeli representatives on ground, working together in Colombo trying to unfuck India's mess. Course, we been siphoning off weapons to the Tigers for years, now time to cash in the other side's checks. I like Balalaika's strategy here. Glad I skipped the Soviet era and went straight to the part where we make money. Got my eyes on this nice Rolex watch, hoping the pay day covers that and some old gambling debts in Bangkok. Balalaika hates it when her people have lingering gambling debt. Heh, Hotel Moscow she calls us. Never seen so many Belarusians and Jews and Belarusian Jews together since college in Odesa. Like the VDV formed a division devoted solely to securing some magical potato field in the Hindu Kush. Lukashenka's Brigade I've been calling the old guard, to myself of course. There were some good times there in Odesa though, wonder if Oksana is still living on Prymorskyi. She owes me a little something, something, I haven't forgotten.
I reach for a pack of Dunhills in the back pocket of my Levi jeans. To think I once had to rely on my cousin getting fucking pants off the black market in Kishinev, and now I don't even remember the last time I touched a Belomor. I hear Vasya yell "So it's okay for you to smoke next to explosives but I am the idiot for lightly dropping the crate! Okay, that's fine!" I ignore Vasya since he apparently knows what he is doing, walk several steps away, and light my premium cigarette in view of the Roanapur skyline. See a few other of our people walking about, cracking open crates to do a spot check. I suck on the cigarette, draw, exhale, okay, that helps. Could go for some khachapuri right now. And khinkali. Been years. Why they had to send the Georgians to Tokyo?
Another drag, knocking ash off the dock and into the water. Balalaika planning a big cash payout, heard she also wants the Sinhalese to throw in some premium tea and cinnamon along with the money. Good business there. Can even use the tea to smuggle weapons into 'Civilization.' Just pack tightly, get the weight down correctly, not going to have some customs official in Lazaro Cardenas look more than once. That's the thing with the guns, you gotta get to the market before everyone else. Ammo is easy, but guns…you have only so much killing to do, and Mikhail Timofeyevich built them to last. There's always a market, always, but sometimes the well gets too dry. And these toys aren't biodegradable. Only the dead are biodegradable.
I figured out now that the Italians are big on tats but I don't get why Rock had to make a special appointment here in Verona. Not complaining, just don't get it. View from the top of the arena was something, though. They even have concerts there, not that we're going, not into opera or whatever the fuck they're playing. Shame they couldn't drop a cage or something and put on some fist fights. Yeah, I get that we can't have people play gladiator or have assholes get eaten by lions anymore in 'civilization', but, a girl can dream, right?
Shit, we even stopped by one of those cafes and I had myself my fourth spritz of the day, which I gotta say, I like them. Aperol spritz…might try to get a few bottles back to Roanapur. Maybe Marty and Freddy are resuming the importing that the Sicilians used to do. Gotta remember to ask. Hope so, Ronnie's people made a chicken parm that you just can't find in Thailand anymore. But the free food here in Italy…every time I get a spritz it comes with chips or olives or slices of mortadell…I thought I was getting buttered up for a fat bill but nope, all on the house. Had horse meat for the first time too today. Raw horsemeat with scallion and mayo. Weirdest shit I ever ate outside prison but damn I feel like I'm prepped to bench press. Gotta hand it to Rock, despite him trying to 'dress me up' and shit, I'm having fun. The people here even take midday off to fuck around. If they weren't such faggots about me covering up my knees and shoulders, shit, I could at least kinda pretend to day dream living here.
We supposed to be meeting up with his stick-up-the-ass former boss and braindead wife tomorrow. His old boss gave him an invite for a round of golf by Lido beach, meaning I get to ditch his wife at the beach for some bar hopping. And then the four of us hitting the casino in a few days. Rock wants us to go 'shopping' at the luxury district here in Verona, after this is over. Check out this 'Salvatore Ferragamo' store to get me some nice shoes. He thinks I'm Balalaika or something? He ain't saying it but I know he wants me to put on a skirt or something 'presentable'. Shit, if he wants to burn his payday from the Vietnam goatfuck on that, more power to him, don't care either way. Won't hurt to try it.
Sitting on a red sofa with Rock to my right, rocking a short sleeve red shirt and short jeans I picked up from this 'MANGO' shop today. Rock, wearing a new short sleeve black Hugo Boss shirt and dark gray jeans, blew through two thousand euros on some designer Japanese watch, Grand Seiko or something, he's wearing it now on his wrist, all stainless steel and shiny. Told him it makes him look like an easy mark. He's leafing through some racing magazine in Italian, not like he can even read it, 'Formula 1, Hakkinen Inarrestabile!' I forgot my tunes back in the hotel and we had no time to run back and still make the train. Some soap opera on the TV, can't understand what they're saying. Wall above the TV has examples of the guy's work. Maybe if he has a slot after Rock…how much did Rock say the guy costs? $500 euros? Really high-end stuff, looks like he's big on Roman and Catholic stuff. Wonder if he can do a good design down the leg, maybe a croc, or a hammerhead shark. Something fun.
The tattoo guy finally opens the door, short black hair and thick black-framed glasses, short sleeve white shirt and black slacks held by a brown belt. Arm sleeve tats of crosses and armored knights on horseback and some other stuff I can't quite figure out, neck tat of a rose surrounded by thorned vines. He says in accented English "Mr. Lin? Richard Lin? Riccardo?" Rock folds the magazine and puts it back on the coffee table, replying "That's me. You can call me Rock." The tattoo guy frowns and nods to himself "Rock. Rocco. Bene. When you ready." He walks back into the shop and waves us over.
Stepping inside, the guy has a nice setup, high tech stuff. Black recliner chair covered in plastic wrap, almost fully reclined. The tattoo guy asks "So, we still doing back, yes?" Rock nods and starts unbuttoning the three buttons on the top of his shirt. I ask "When you done with him, you think you can squeeze me in? We got money." "Maybe, depends on how long this goes. Have another client at 5. There, go through the book, let me know what you'd like, or if you have something in mind already. I'm flexible." I take a seat by a black leather sofa seat and reach for the binder with what I'm guessing is a library of the guy's work, yep, yeah he's good. I look up to Rock taking his shirt off, the bandages off, for good now. Tattoo guy turns around to look at Rock and speaks "Okay, now what are we thinking…che cazzo?!" Yep, Luca's little rock carving does bring that reaction out.
Rock lays belly down on the recliner, sighs, and makes up some bullshit "Was part of a strange society, odd rituals. My…English not the best. In Thailand, I am trying to put that life behind me." "Okay, okay friend, I get it, don't need to know. It's gonna be 500 euro, and it's gonna hurt, though not as much as…whatever that is. Have anything specific in mind? A theme, idea, I said I am very flexible." Rock reaches over for the binder of designs by a black table near the recliner, pulls it over, and starts leafing through the pages. He says "I did some research…Saint Roch, saw his tomb yesterday in Venice. You got any designs?" Wait, he's fucking serious? Shit, if that bitch Eda was here she'd be laughing her ass off, right before I wedge my foot up it. The tattoo guy nods his head a couple times, like he's thinking to himself, scratches his right ear and says "San Rocco. Patron saint of the sick, dogs, pilgrims, some other stuff I forgot long ago. Yes, I have some designs." "I'm not Catholic, is that gonna be a problem?" The tattoo guy snorts air and says "Only if you don't pay me."
She finally managed to reckon with her sodium input a few weeks ago, so I can now enjoy Tuyet's cooking without worrying about my heart rate. She's dressed in black sweat pants and a gray sleeveless shirt stained with speckles of chili oil and fish sauce, her hair tied into a bun so she doesn't add extra protein to the special spin on Sichuanese grub she's working on. Smells really damn good, and I'm standing to her left, in a black and red shirt that says 'MUAY THAI' in English on the front, and knockoff Adidas blue and white sweatpants. Fixing up a bowl of Chongqing noodles. Took far longer than I thought to find fresh Sichuan pepper at the Roanapur markets…was almost ready to ask the Triads for help.
I say "I gotta admit, that smells amazing." Tuyet laughs a bit and says "Told you Benny, just give it time, you'll warm up to it…" I stop her from dumping a bit more MSG than needed into the mapo tofu. She needs to shorten her measures. Tuyet sprinkles the unused MSG back into the clear plastic spice container and asks "I keep forgetting, you can eat this right, or no? There's pork in it. You're Jewish, right?" "Yeah, Jewish, and don't worry about it. Haven't been to temple since I was eight, not like that's a readily available option. Although I still sometimes expect to find a Chabadnik with tefillin randomly on the street corner here." "A what?" Tuyet confusedly asks in response to my very niche attempt at humor. "It's a joke, don't worry about it. Pork is fine. Though easy with the backfat, that stuff makes me sick."
Tuyet just continues on, not sure if she even understood the last sentence either, eh, all good. Whatever comes out is what we'll work with. Worst case scenario, Revy will eat almost anything as long as she's drunk enough.
Hear a knock on the door, look left and find Marie, Le Majeur, swaggering in from upstairs with a smile on her face. White dress shirt and black slacks, still dresses halfway formal at home. To each their own. Earlier said she was gonna speak with Dutch on a little something something, was very coy about it. Looks like Dutch gave her the answer she was hoping for.
She gets up to the counter dividing the kitchen from the breakroom, leans her arms on it, and asks "What you making? Smells good." Tuyet answers "Oh just experimenting with some Sichuanese cuisine. Ever tried? The spice can make your mouth go numb." Marie replies "Benyamin, I take it you watching Big Sis' measure of anything that comes in powder form?" I smirk a bit and say "With eagle eyes. No one is getting a salt overdose on my watch." Tuyet herself pauses her…experimenting, to ask "So I am Big Sis now?" That's right! I think quickly and say "See, Marie just retroactively made you a member of the tribe, welcome to the family. Make sure to show Dutch the unmentionables when the time of the month is over." Marie kinda got the joke about our bald, black rabbi and starts laughing while Tuyet just stares in more confusion, and then says "I was taught English in a vocational school in Vietnam by a Chinese expat. I know practically nothing of any of your idioms or anything. Right now you are speaking Swedish to me." "It's Greek. 'You are speaking Greek to me'. That's the idiom." "That's what I am saying."
I wave Tuyet off and turn my attention to Marie, who looks ready to switch the topic. "You have an empty schedule tomorrow? I have an opportunity for you two, already blessed by the African pope upstairs." First a rabbi, now the Pontifex Maximus. He'll be an imam by sunset, a Hare Krishna by sunrise. Hmm, opportunity huh? I ask "Is it the kind where Dutch collects his 5%?" "That's exactly the kind. I need another gun and a driver." Tuyet speaks out "I am listening. What are we doing?" I nod at Marie and say "Have my eyes on some new toys, alright I am game."
Marie pauses, as if to collect her thoughts to make sure everything is in order, and then spits it out "Kaeo, you know Kaeo?" "Yeah I know Kaeo." Tuyet suddenly speaks out "I don't know Kaeo. I barely know anyone here. Is he the strip club owner." I answer "She, Kaeo's a she. And no, that's Rowan. Kaeo is the local Don King." "The who? Benny, again, I don't know these American figures." Marie speaks out "She runs a fight club and gambling den. Local Thai mafia boss. Revy used to fight at her shows." "Okay, thank you. I understand that, can we just talk like that? This is not some TV show, some movie."
Marie ignores Tuyet and continues "Okay, Kaeo contracted out to Leroy the information broker, who reach out to me. He tried to reach out to Revy first but someone didn't set their away message that they're on holiday. Anyway, Kaeo needs two more triggermen and a driver for a job back on the mainland. Safe house, and whatever we find, we get to keep." Tuyet asks the big questions before I could "Who are we hitting? And how do we know there's anything to take?" Marie holds her right hand out to stop us and says "I was getting to that. They been under surveillance, and Kaeo just got the green light from…above. It's a smuggling operation run by a Nigerian gang." Huh, what?
I speak out "Nigerians? Emmanuel Fajuyi's people?" Marie shakes her head and says "Independent, not with the main clan in Bangkok. They are no longer tolerated and a contract is out to remove them from the game board, I don't know the specifics. As for what they have, no one knows, but should be worth something." I cough from the fumes and ask "So we risk getting shot for a maybe?" "Not a maybe, definitely something. Drugs, antiques, ivory, I don't know, but someone in the black market would want it. Leroy says we are facing no more than five people. Three of us and three of Kaeo's men. I like those odds." I turn to Tuyet, who stares at her cooking for a bit, and then says "Okay." "Okay Marie, you heard Big Sis. Let Kaeo know she has her huckleberries."
Must admit, golfing with my former company CEO was not on the list of local excursions when I suggested a Venetian vacation to Revy. I'm wearing a short sleeve dark green Hugo Boss polo and the slacks I wore during the flight here, along with black Adidas sneakers that I got during our shopping spree in Verona yesterday. Even got Revy a pair of red Salvatore Ferragamo flats, like Balalaika sometimes wears. I think she liked them, I mean, it feels nice to have an opportunity to spend several hundred euros to get a significant other something nice, I mean, to have the money to do so. Still have a lot of money left from the ecstasy deal and Zappala's paycheck…oh and the hit on the Indians in Roanapur. This is a good year…a very good year.
I left Revy with Kageyama's ditzy wife at Lido beach up north. She finds this game…and I quote 'for old faggots waiting to die'. Well, to each their own. I played a few rounds back in Japan, though it's been years. Have a plastic bucket full of assorted golf balls at the spot to practice tee offs, my rental clubs and caddie on the grass behind me. Kageyama said he's going to rent a golf cart for us…it's still surreal to even say that sentence.
Alright, setting the Titleist number 8 on the wooden tee, driver moved from my left hand to my right…muscle memory Rock. It's like riding a bicycle they say. Bending the knees just right, eyes on the ball, pull the club back, SWING! And that skids around ten meters a bit to the left, like a rock skipping on the pond. Okay, that was awful, but at least I didn't try my hand at garden landscaping. Into the bucket I go, TaylorMade number 3. Back on the tee, see a western European man take a practice swing of his own several meters to my right. Good drive, good carry, at least fifty meters. It's a good day, good weather. Cooler today, with a nice breeze. Not sweating as much, reminds me of Roanapur in April and early May, when it's not in typhoon season.
Let's try again…bend knees, eye on the ball…ready…ah shit! I took my eye off the ball and hacked a chunk of grass and dirt out. Missed the tee by an inch, the ball fell off and rolled a couple inches…I reset it back on the tee. No one saw that…okay, Kageyama still negotiating that golf cart it seems. Okay…once again, bend, eyes stay on the ball, ready, swing…a repeat of the first attempt except this time it's going dead center. Okay, so something wrong with my swing itself…I adjust my grip, shorten the length slightly…this should do it.
And look at that ball fly! Fifty meters to the right and into the golf cart parking lot! Shit I've gotten terrible. And there's Kageyama driving the cart up to the first tee-off, and I am absolutely unprepared. Maybe I should challenge him to drinking contest after this?
Approaching Kageyama and the cart, caddie and clubs on my back, I wave at him, who nods in acknowledgement. Within whispering distance, he says "I saw your last attempt." "Yeah…" "You need to do better than that to kill me." I force a smirk and reply "Oh I wouldn't say that to a man carrying a nine iron. They can really dig through bone." Kageyama darts a side glance and asks "Personal experience?" "Is this something you are interested to know?" "Perhaps not. It's a beautiful, unspoiled day after all," he says, barely reacting to my remark.
I can humor Rock playing the whole Russian oligarch on vacation schtick for the free shit and attention, but if either he or that wrinkled pinstripe suit cocksucker thinks I am going to babysit that airhead they both need to check themselves into the nearest ear, nose, and throat department to see if they got something between the eardrums. Whatever, European beach, tourist central, she'll figure it out when she swims back from the Adriatic. I'm going to find a place to drink before I drown myself from having nothing to do. Shit…fifty euros should be way more than enough…I think.
Shorts and tank top is a hell of a lot better than the monkey outfits he wants me to wear, at least I can breathe now. And look at that, another shitty Murano glass figurine shop run by Pakistanis importing the crap from China. It's like I'm back on Canal Street. And another shop, and another. Shit…now I'm missing the hot dogs from Gray's Papaya. And finally, a bar that doesn't look like I'd burn my 50 note on the hypothetical coat check. 'Gaetano' it says in big brown letters on top. Not even Gaetano's. Just Gaetano. The money for the S went into the vig.
Stepping inside, typical dark dive bar, except everything's in Italian and the back bar has these weird colored bottles that I don't recognize. Fuck is Fernet Branca? Whatever, they got familiar shit, works for me. I sit myself on the bar seat in the right corner, with a couple of…yeah English or Irish tourists on the other bar end, watching some soccer match on a tiny grainy TV. One of them wearing this red jersey that says 'Owen' and 10 in white on the back. Barkeep is this 50s looking guy with those flat caps I seen taxi drivers wear back in NYC, short black beard and a bandage on his nose. He asks in this thick accent "Italiano? Espanol? English?" "Yeah, English works with me." "Thank Jesus, I had a couple of Polacks show up an hour ago and all they could say was 'HAMBURGER, HAMBURGER!'" Heh, that's kinda funny.
"So what your poison, donna?" Donna huh? I like that. I chew on it for a bit, scan the bottles for something that speaks to me. Could go for the good ole Bacardi again, or the 1800…you know what…fuck it…I'm feeling adventurous today. Crap denim or whatever it is that Benny calls it. I point out "That red bottle, Campari, what's that like?" The guy turns to the bottle and speaks before even looking at it, saying "Oh, you American right? You probably not gonna like it. It's like cough medicine to you people." "Fuck it, I'll give it a shot, I've had worse." "I'll pour you a little to sample, could make a cocktail out of it." He pours half a centimeter of the stuff into a short glass and I reach over to taste…yeah I see what…you know it ain't half bad.
I pull out my 50 Euro note and say "I'll take it on the rocks." "You sure, I can make you a spri…" "You want my money or not?" The guy frowns a bit, shrugs his shoulders, and says "Okay donna, Campari on the rocks. Perché no?" And so that shit is settled and I get my red drink with the ice. Take a sip, and another one…and suddenly this guy pulls out a small plate of potato chips and mortadell and drops it by my drink.
I ask "How long was that sitting?" "Don't worry about it, it's good, mortadella and chips, on the house. Free." I like free, I'll take free.
All these years serving Kapitan, still the point man on these gun runs. Sofiya wants her chai, Ceylon white and Ceylon black, and American green. The caveat that we are now selling to the Sinhalese is a bit of a…how the Americans call it? Fly in ointment? "Nu, naverna (Well, probably)," I blurt out, sitting in the front passenger seat of Vadim's black BMW. "Nu naverna shto, Borya (Well probably what, Boris)?" he asks, and I just wave him off. I need to stop speaking out loud when I talk to myself.
White dress shirt with red pinstripes, gray slacks, glad for modern air conditioning in our stolen imported cars. Car stereo playing from Jodorovsky's CD album collection. 'Yesaul' by Oleg Gazmanov. Clipboard in hand, car parked in our docks, far enough from the cranes in case another idiot drops a cigarette into a crate of explosives. I don't know where Sofiya collects the meat, seeing new blood from Petr, Kazan, Odessa, Yerevan, Tashkent. As if they were lured out of their brezhnevkas with a pack of Belamors. Undisciplined morons…they'd be eaten alive in a real gunfight with professional killers. Aside from the few that actually saw combat, sitting in some barracks for three years in Mozdok with their thumbs up their asses is not sufficient experience. And us old guard, those of us that fought in Afghanistan, we are only getting older. Grayer. Need to make some difficult decisions soon, in picking the roster.
"Tvoi poslednii kohn, diavol I ogon (Your last steed, devil and hellfire). Za toboi vsegda gotov byl v boi (Always ready to fight for you)."
Speaking in Russian, I turn to Vadim Isaakovich Jodorovsky and nudge the clipboard toward him "An operation like this, we'd have needed ten good men on a good day, plus the ship crew. With the wrinkle that we will be selling in Colombo, directly to the Sinhalese Army? With 'advisors' from Washington and rainy London out around, within reach of poking us in the asses? I…we have a dilemma here. Most of the new blood is green, degenerate, and liable to cause an accident…or incident. They are undisciplined and lack the taste for the martial aspect of the way Hotel Moscow carries itself. Just last month, that Tatar from Rostov, what was his name…?"
"Kak iz ruk tvoi, hleb I sol on yel (How from your hand he ate bread and salt). Byl v boiu tak beznadezhno smel (He was hopelessly brave in battle)."
Vadim sighs and says "Yea, I remember, Matvei. Matvei Akhatov, heroin overdose outside Bangkok." "We specifically told them, do not touch that poison, or any of the poison, but do the youth ever listen?! It feels like we are babysitting here in Roanapur. We have no room for that in Sri Lanka, not if something happens." "I understand Borya, and I agree in spirit, but we both know we cannot devote what's left of our generation to this, in its entirety. Leaving Sofiya unguarded. And we should be doing less, not more. You with the back surgery. Me with the tinnitus." I interject "Look at Yevgeniy Kaganovich, he's in Tel Aviv for operation."
"I morskoi priboj, zarevo ognya (And the sea waves, the glow of fire). Otrazhal ot blazhnii glaz konya (Reflected in the weeping horse's eye)."
Vadim stares at me dumbfounded and asks "Operation, what operation?" "Didn't he tell you? He left two weeks ago." "No he didn't tell me, what freaking operation?!" "Cancer. Stomach." Vadim recoils and asks "Cancer? What?! How?!" "What do you mean 'how'?! He was in Gomel when Chernobyl happened! You should be having check-ups yourself. Didn't you live in Babruysk at the time?" "Fuck…I didn't know, he didn't tell me shit…what stage?" "The first one, they caught it early." "Thank God, at least that."
"Vremeni hlusty podgonyayut nas (The lashes of time, driving us onward). Dali nam s konem poslednii shans (Granted us and the horse one final chance).
After settling down a little, Vadim speaks out "Okay, okay, nothing can be done. As for Sri Lanka, thirty should do it. A mix of some of us gray hairs, there are few of the younger ones competent enough for this. Vets from the Battle of Grozny. Those Uzbeks that fought in Tajikistan." "I'm deferring this to your judgment, Vadim. You have a better gauge of the rank and file. I've been too far removed from the everyday for too long." Vadim nods solemnly and says "Yes Sergeant Goldfarb, the Alibabayeviches won't even see us coming. Like old times." "Like old times he jokes…we won't have thirty, by my count." "Not immediately. A few of the mercenary groups might be interested. The ones we can trust. Shenhua's trio maybe? Lagoon Company?"
"Esaul, esaul, shto zh ti brosil konya (Yesaul, Yesaul, why did you abandon your horse)? Pristrelit ne podnyalas ruka (You didn't raise your hand to shoot it)."
"Esaul, esaul, ty ostavil stranu (Yesaul, Yesaul, you abandoned your nation). I tvoi kohn pod sedlom chuzhaka (And your horse is under the saddle of a stranger)."