T
hey step out of the car and immediately the guards yell:
“Hands. See your hands.”
As Kyle watches the three guards approach he wonders, Why do these private-security guys always seem to come in threes? Is it so if you shoot one, the other two still have someone to talk to?
“Against the car,” says one guard in an English accent. He’s middle aged. Bullet-bald. Day or two of beard. Kyle figures he’s probably former SAS fresh from pacification work near a pipeline. He knows the type; these are the guys who guard Chandler.
English steps to the side, keeping his H & K trained on them, and sends his two associates over to search Lara and Kyle. They strip her of her Walther, run a wand and then a bug sweeper. One of the guards—fucker’s got a neck thick as someone’s thigh—decides to spend a little extra time searching Lara’s legs and torso.
Until English puts an end to it with a hand slice and a disapproving head shake.
“Move,” English says to Lara and Kyle, and he leads them to one of the Maybachs.
“What about my car?” Lara says.
“We’ll take care of it.” English says.
“Need my keys?”
“Not necessary.”
Lara brings a cigarette to her lips.
“No smoking in the Maybach,” English says.
Lara and Kyle step into the car’s opulent cocoon. The windows aren’t blacked out; they’re silk curtained. There’s a flat-screen television in the corner. News is splayed across the screen—stock graphs like a sick man’s EKG, insolvency fears, Chinese bitching about T-bonds.
The steel divide separating front and back opens. A guard turns around and tosses two black woolen masks sans eyeholes to Kyle and Lara. “Put them on,” he says, and watches them do it.
As Kyle slides on the mask, he thinks,
Christ, I really hope this works out better than the last time I had to wear something over my head.
H
ands pull Kyle and Lara out of the backseat.
“You can take them off,” someone says.
They comply, wait for their eyes to adjust to the light.
They’re encircled by eight guards—somewhere, these guys managed to pick up a few more. English steps to the front, dangles Lara’s Walther by the trigger ring as if it were a pair of scissors. “We’ll leave this in your glove compartment.”
She nods.
“Now walk,” English says, and points ahead to a private airstrip, smack in the middle of rural farmland.
Resting there is a personalized Airbus A380 superjumbo—one of only three such jets under private ownership—with the word
Comanche
written on the side in swirling pink letters, like the opening credits of a 1980s teen movie.
Kyle stops in his tracks. A few hundred feet away, the scourge of post-Communist Russia is waiting to see Robinson. And it’s not like Kyle wants this to happen, but his legs freeze.
“We can’t stop here,” she says.
“I know. I’m just…I’m…” He whispers, “I’m
fucking freaking.
”
“Hold it together,” Lara says, and takes his hand for an instant. “I’m right here.”
English shouts through cupped hands, “Shake it, boys and girls. No stopping.”
Kyle stares at the body of the jet. The fucking thing is equipped with missile jammers.
Don’t bleed. Don’t bleed.
Yes. This is worse, far worse, than you imagined, but you signed on for this. The minute you ran from home, you signed on for this. The minute you decided it was easier to take Robinson’s passport than it was to face down your problems at home, you signed on for this. Protosevitch may very well be your road to Calvary. Your only hope of freedom runs right through this jet. If you have any interest in getting your life back from Robinson, you better pull this off.
Protosevitch stands at the top of the stairs, waiting for his guests.
He spots Lara and Kyle and starts to wave with his whole arm. A welcoming gesture—except he’s got a .500 Magnum crammed down the front of his tailored slacks. He extracts the gun and fires twice into the air, which is so choked by humidity, that the shots sound like holding a shell to your ear. “That’s how happy I am to see you. Hurry up inside,” he yells, and opens his arms wide.
Lara starts up the red-carpeted steps, then turns back to Kyle. “See. He’s happy to see us.”
P
rotosevitch greets them at the top of the steps. “Come in. Come in,” he says, putting the Magnum back in his pants and ushering them into the gutted cabin of the jet, built to seat close to a thousand and converted into his own airborne condominium. “I can’t wait to show you around,” he says like an eager realtor.
He opens a gold door, something out of Bluebeard’s legend, and leads them into the belly of the plane.
Inside, two of Protosevitch’s adolescent sons are playing video games on a 3-D television. They’re both dressed like proper Etonian schoolboys, in black shorts and blazers featuring the school crest, and they have similarly turned-out friends cheering them on while they play a first-person racing game.
Protosevitch ruffles everyone’s hair to schoolyard shrieks, then kisses his sons’ heads. “Don’t stand so close to the screen, babies,” he says to them. They all answer in unison, “Okay.” The mélange of accents is striking: Russian, English, and French.
“I don’t want to brag, but my kids are so popular in school. It’s amazing they’re mine. I didn’t speak till I was five. My mother thought I was retarded.” Protosevitch lights a cigarette. “I just didn’t want to talk to her.”
He flings open another gold door, this one leading to his gym. Housed inside is the newest Nautilus equipment; sleek cardio machines riveted to the floor and topped off with TVs; racks of glimmering free weights. His two teenage daughters are working with a personal trainer who’s encouraging them to go lower to the floor with their squats. Dance music pours from a speaker, and the trainer claps along to it, reminding the girls it’s bikini season and the tabloids are going to be all over the beaches.
In the corner rests a gleaming marble Jacuzzi. Protosevitch’s wife lounges in it, totally nude, fake breasts floating atop the bubbles. She sips a margarita and licks the salt from her cartoon lips. Protosevitch’s oldest daughter, noticeably pregnant and also noticeably
older
than his wife, is getting her shoulders rubbed by her baby daddy, a young man who clenches a cigarette between his teeth.
Protosevitch walks up and slaps him across the face. “Don’t you fucking smoke near her.” He drags on his own cigarette. “That’s my grandchild in there. Breathing in all your shit. You fucking peasant.”
Baby Daddy answers in a Cockney accent, “Sorry, Dad.”
Protosevitch walks back to Kyle and Lara. “You like the place so far?”
“It’s amazing,” Lara says.
“Amazing,” Kyle chimes in. Amazing, he thinks, how much it reminds him of the berserk splendor of Chandler’s office, with its omnipresent marble, smoked glass, modern art, and wall after wall of framed awards and achievements. Amazing how the only difference between the absurdity of American and Russian splendor boils down to this: Americans use their wealth to celebrate themselves, while Russians use their wealth to celebrate
wealth.
This makes sense, given that one country is rooted in individualism and the other abolished private property for seventy years.
They walk down a long hallway, the space on planes where the air hostesses would hang out and bitch about customers. Protosevitch begins, “The terrorists can’t get you…well, it’s harder for them to get you if you have your own plane. There’s five private airports to every public one. Terrorism is a middle- to upper-middle-class problem. It’s why politicians run on it. ’Cause those are the people who vote, the people who fly commercial and could get blown up. If you’re poor, you never take a plane, you never go anywhere, so you’re safe…well, unless we’re talking poor in Africa, then you’re just fucked. I mean, I got so many people trying to kill me, I don’t need to add Muslims to the mix.”
Another gold door and into the kitchen. Protosevitch’s personal chef, complete with chef’s toque, rushes over, and the two men kiss. The chef leads Protosevitch to a bubbling pot, pulls off the lid, and dips in a spoon. “Taste,” he says.
The kitchen is brand-new, practically untouched. Copper pots hang over a center island, and the metal shines under gentle chandelier light.
Protosevitch hugs the chef. “Your food is the only thing that gives me my home back.” Then he pulls the Magnum from his pants, puts it in the microwave. “So the children don’t get it.”
A four-year-old wearing a tiara sprints through the kitchen and says, “Hi, Daddy! Bye, Daddy!” while the babysitter chases after her.
One more gold door and they enter Protosevitch’s private office. Armed guards sit on the bloodred-leather couches, smoking cigarettes and playing cards. There’s an aquarium built into the opposite wall in which iridescent fish float. Protosevitch turns off the television, and the gray face of the screen reflects the tank; glowing fish flicker across like shadow puppets.
“We’re going to need some alone time,” Protosevitch says to his guards.
“We’ll be right outside watching everything on camera.”
Protosevitch waves them off; he’s had enough. “I love them, I need them, but I don’t
want
them. Know what I mean, Julian?” He crushes his cigarette in a standing swan-shaped ashtray. “I started off poor and I was in danger all the time. I’m not poor anymore”—he motions around the room—“but I’m still in danger all the time. Tell me how that’s fair.”
There’s a gap in the conversation. Lara realizes she needs to fill it. Kyle’s trying to acclimate, not quite ready to assume his role.
“You look amazing, Andrei,” she says. “So tan.”
“We moved to the French Riviera. I love it there. It’d be the most perfect place in the world
if it weren’t for the fucking French.
I tell you, Lara, I tell you, the French don’t deserve France. Most beautiful country in the world, and its citizens treat it like shit. These ungrateful bastards act like Hitler won, like there’s not a damn thing to be proud of in being French. Go to a café and listen…unbelievable. Where is their pride?”
“So you left England, then?”
“I still have my flat in Chelsea and the Fyning Hill estate. My wife is obsessed with England. She grew up under Yeltsin reading Victorian novels and Tolstoy. Russia hasn’t had a proper aristocracy since the revolution, and since that crew is gone, it’s okay for girls to want to be princesses again. To dream of horses and gowns and balls. The English countryside is the only place left that offers that sense of royal
tradition
. Fucking Bolsheviks destroyed it. Russians who grew up under Yeltsin, see, they have no tradition anymore. You know this. It’s why my wife needs to live in a Jane Austen book.” He scowls. “It’s why Russia is dying, why Europe is dying. There’s no tradition anymore. Who wants to bring children into a world where nothing means anything, where two and two make three? No tradition,
no fucking.
It’s why in Russia they have to offer people cars and microwaves to fuck. I love Russia. I’m still proud. It’s why I can’t stop
fucking.
I just fuck and fuck, even more since I got
invited
”—he spits the word out—“to leave my home. All my kids speak English and want to work in public relations and television. Fuck it all.” He looks to Kyle. “Hey, handsome. Where’s my hug?” He opens his arms. “Where is it?”
Kyle walks over with trepidation—the same death march you’d take to meet a girlfriend’s father who is twice your size—and holds Protosevitch. His torso is a pack of muscles; motherfucker is a bear, wingspan like his jet’s, the perfect melding of machine and owner. He puts his hands on Kyle’s shoulders. “You look good. Lost weight like I told you to.”
Kyle pats his belly. “You thought I was fat?” He’s almost offended on behalf of Robinson.
“No. What did I say to you? Remember?”
Kyle mimics thinking, gives up.
“What I said was, you’re too young to gain weight like that.”
Protosevitch motions for them to sit. He walks over to his desk, pulls a paper bag out of the top drawer, and points to Kyle. “Little surprise for you.” He sits down on the couch opposite them, legs spread wide apart. The way the man walks and sits—pure, unfettered cock. He holds the paper bag up. “Remember last time we saw each other?”
Kyle winces. He’s been waiting for a question he can’t answer; he just didn’t expect it so soon. “God…I can’t.” He leans his head back.
Don’t bleed. Don’t bleed.
“It must have been…God…”
“I don’t either. It’s been that fucking long. Must be at least ten years.” Protosevitch tosses the bag over to him. “A gift from Marseilles,” he says. “Last time we met, you couldn’t get enough of it. I remember it was your favorite in the world. And you would know.”
Kyle opens the bag, looks inside; everything’s bubble-wrapped. “Should I open it?”
“Yes, you should.”
He tears through the packaging. A dozen fat vials of uncut cocaine.
Protosevitch smiles. “You’re shocked, right?”
Kyle nods, says, “Mmmm…” Having trouble finding a complete word to sum it all up.
“Didn’t think I remembered?” Protosevitch nods. “I always pay attention to what my friends love.”
Kyle smiles, tries to keep his reaction under wraps, and passes the bag to Lara. “Thank you, Andrei. You’re too good to me.”
“You’re among people who love you,” Protosevitch says.
Lara opens the bag and her eyes go huge, a puppy whacked with a paper.
Protosevitch cracks up, leans over, and slaps Kyle’s knee. “And since you’re here in the
flesh,
we can do it up together. Like old times. You first. You’re the guest of honor.”
“No, really…you go first.”
“Nonsense.” Protosevitch laughs.
Lara puts her hand on Kyle’s leg. “Andrei wants you to go first.”
“But I want him to go first…and then you.”
“But
he
doesn’t want that,” Lara says.
Protosevitch laughs, looks to Kyle. “You take a sharing class? Last time I was with you, you’d break the arm of anyone who touched your stuff. You were all nose on that trip.”
“Was he?” Lara laughs.
“All nose. Nothing the fuck but it.”
Lara laughs, grabs Kyle’s knee, too hard for it to be meant as affection. “I’ll bet he was. Show me.”
Kyle sucks on his lower lip.
You fucking bitch.
“So…I’m up.” He opens a vial slowly, ’cause he’s never done coke before. He’s never done anything harder than pot, commonly considered a gateway drug, but not if your sole pot experience consisted of smoking up, watching
The Fifth Element,
nearly shitting your pants from paranoia, and hiding under your best friend Neil’s bed.
So Kyle’s abstained from drugs for seventeen years, and he’s getting reintroduced with uncut French cocaine, kind of like a thirty-five-year-old virgin who decides to get it all over with in a gangbang.
Kyle sprinkles a trail of coke on the table and pulls out a credit card from Robinson’s wallet.
“The fuck are you doing?” Protosevitch asks.
“I was going to cut it,” he says, thinking back to every time he’s seen a movie character do coke.
“Its uncut, baby. You just need a straw and away you go.” Protosevitch looks down at the table. “Give yourself a real line.” Kyle keeps sprinkling more and more. Protosevitch smiles. “Now,
that’s
a real Robinson line. Whenever I’m among friends, I pour out a nice line like
that
and I call it my Robinson line. And everyone who knows you laughs.”
Lara hands him a dollar bill rolled into a straw. Kyle grabs it, pissed off, and says like a petulant teenager, “Thanks.” He plunges his head down and snorts the line.
It hits him in the heart, one hard shot, then branches out in clusters of pounding nodes. Pure electricity pulses through his veins. The center of his body radiates heat, throws off sparks.
And that’s the first thirty seconds.
Instinctively, he grabs the table for support, afraid he’s going to die.
Then he stabilizes, throws his head back, rubs his eyes, and feels the coke drip down the back of his throat like granulated snot, like sleeping on your back with a cold. He coughs. “Holy shit,” he says.
“One hundred percent pure,” Protosevitch says. “You’re not gonna neglect the other nostril, are you? It’s gonna get jealous.”
Kyle lays out another line, looks at Lara and Protosevitch, and inhales it.
And before Kyle’s even aware, he’s out of his seat like it’s on fire, walking around, shaking out his hands, doing a kind of coke-fueled chicken dance. “Andrei…Andrei, that is the real shit, friend.” He raises his voice. “That is just the
real shit,
right
fucking
there.”
Protosevitch and Lara crack up, although Lara’s laugh has an undertone of nerves. “Getting loud.”
Protosevitch swats that away. “No worries. The room is soundproof.”
That snaps Kyle back to his senses. A soundproof room. That sounds like a reason to worry.
Lara sprinkles a line for herself, ponders it.
Protosevitch walks to a small fridge in the corner of his office, takes out a jug, sets down three glasses, and pours a shot in each one. “Robinson, I made this myself.”
Kyle notes the glass jug. “What is it…is it moonshine?” He’s talking fast and he can’t feel his teeth, but he’s in an incredible mood. “Is it moonshine? That’s moonshine, isn’t it?”
“No, baby.” Protosevitch hands a glass to Kyle and then to Lara. “Red-pepper-infused vodka.”
“Oh God,” Kyle says.
Lara’s rubbing her face. “Holy shit,” she says. “I can’t feel it…
my face is gone.
”
Protosevitch drops a line for himself, an enormous trail, like directions on a treasure map. “A Robinson line,” he says, and his head plunges. He finishes up, resurfaces, and pours another line, even bigger. “That one’s not a Robinson line. Know what it is? Take a guess.”
Kyle shakes his head and can’t stop, like a fish flopping on land.
Lara says, “No idea.”
“It’s an
Andrei
line,” he says, then cracks up and snorts the line. He picks up the glass of vodka and raises it. “To us. Back in business.” He tosses the shot down fast, like it’s water.
Kyle raises it to his lips. Lara leans over and says under her breath, “Do it fast. All at once.”
He does, and as it blazes a trail down his throat, he springs to his feet again, screams, and then, to stop screaming, he switches to yelling,
“Andrei.”
He pumps his fist in the air.
“You know how to party, my motherfucker.”
And he keeps on yelling.
“Oh my God…”