Vorovskoy Zakon
Tricky Dick, Richard Nixon, served in the South Pacific, rising to the rank of Lieutenant Commander and mastering the game of poker to the tune of nearly $10,000 in winnings along the way. Entertainment & Food: ADAMS: Bryan Adams's single reached the top on June 3, 1995 and stayed there a month. Geography & Nature: QC. Eszett desired mining rights in Arkhangelsk on the off chance of discovering a fresh thread of diamonds, much like the beluga bonus, but the organization's actual intent had more to do with the location than the hard currency waiting to be clawed out from the razed mines. Schuldig had a better view of the corner table from where he sat. All PixWords answers. Easy and simple search by letters or word length.
'Out of the crooked timber ofhumanity no straight thing was ever made.' – Immanuel Kant
The vor-v-zakonye's tattooswere twisting icons creeping past the starched, southern boundary ofhis cuff. The tattoos fascinated Schuldig more than the old man'smind. The vor, a symbolic mouthpiece for his outfit,emphasized his speech with huge, sweeping swathes of his hand. Hisname was Goltsblat. On his pinky, a rare alexandrite ring changedcolors as it passed near the bright candle in the center of thetable: green to red, light to shadow.
'You're waiting for yourassociate?' Goltsbalt asked, coming, at last, to the reason whySchuldig inexplicably kept talking in the middle of the night, inFebruary, in Moscow.
'Russia is very large,' Schuldigsaid and smiled. He pictured the country as a vast maze of apartmentsand rooms and blood splattered tables, alleys banked with grey snow.
Two weeks in Russia and he'dmisplaced Crawford. Suddenly, like entering a room and forgetting,from hallway to doorway, what he went there to retrieve. Schuldiglost him. He'd never been to Russia before and the experience wasjust so fascinating – one moment he was scrounging a bookseller'smemories on the street near the Yauza River and the next he wasfollowing a street kid with an accordion and a McDonald's apple piethat the kid had just stolen from the purse of an American tourist. Schuldig came to his wits, having made a full circle, while staringat a black streak of oil sluicing through the ice down the river.
He turned to ask, 'How are thenatural gas investments in Texas?' He admired a country that knewhow to exploit their natural resources as much as he admiredCrawford's economic foresight.
And no one was there.
'Crawford?'
He looked both left and right. Bundled in heavy coats and foreign thoughts, people on the busystreet slouched home from work. Schuldig retraced his steps, peeredinto shop fronts and walked very deliberately, with an attentivebearing, as if he could mimic Crawford into reappearing. No suchluck. Schuldig thought of making another circuit when it occurredhim with an insightful thrill, that Crawford would find him if hejust stayed put. He tightened his thick scarf around his neck andwaited on the nearest bench until the sun sank fully behind the heavybuildings.
Schuldig missed the familiarbackground noise of Crawford's mind, not that he could decipher anyof it, but like the hum of a fluorescent light, the sound didn'tcarry far and the absence was louder than the presence.
He waited another hour, his toesfrozen past numbness into a biting pain that made him frown athalf-heard memories of blackened appendages. He rummaged the mindsof everyone in the vicinity, looking for the shape of Crawford'sshoulders beneath his black overcoat, the toe of Crawford's JohnLobb shoe against the scarred ice, the certain arc of Crawford'seyebrow as he maneuvered the wide sidewalks. Schuldig discoverednothing of use. Frightened of frostbite, he cautiously hailed ataxi.
Crawford would meet him at thehotel. Schuldig startled the taxi driver with his sudden laugh. How foolish he'd been to sit in the cold, expecting Crawford toshow up. The driver thought about his daughter in Turkey, luredacross the Black Sea by the offer of a retail job. Schuldig, in hisfrustration, gave him an image of what kind of things he'd seen forsale on the edges of Taksim Square in the late hours of the night inIstanbul. The driver's despair filled the car for the rest of thejourney to the hotel.
Emily s restaurant quinault casino menu. Even so, Schuldig was reluctant toleave the warm, rumbling car when he arrived at the hotel, Le RoyalMeridian National , the illuminated domes of the Kremlin glowingacross Mokhovaya Street. He searched the doorman for any memory ofCrawford arriving and found nothing more than the image of both heand Crawford leaving after lunch. Schuldig knew that much already,remembered how pleased he'd been to get away from the financialsummit for the afternoon, the conference rooms and the smell ofcoffee.
They'd traveled that afternoon toa small restaurant near the Yauza River to meet a contact namedGoltsblat who came by his vor status honestly, in prison,before moving to America to earn a degree in economics from BrownUniversity. Now the head of an extensive underground network of carthieves and cigarette smugglers, though Schuldig thought the termunderground was used rather loosely in Russia, Goltsblat cultivated apassing interest in mining and the collection of sixteenth centuryicons of the Novgorod school.
Goltsblat was not accustomed tocontacts arriving in pairs, he expected a force quite larger than onequiet American and the brightly dyed crow that stood at his shoulder– and that's how Goltsblat thought of Schuldig, a crow, beforehe'd even opened his mouth. At first the image troubled Schuldig,made him want to reach in and pull the Russian's memories of prisonforward, like re-arranging the structure of a story so the disturbingimagery came first and overshadowed any future redemption, untilSchuldig realized that Goltsblat liked crows.
Golstblat's thugs arrangedthemselves casually in the empty restaurant, twelve men to be exact,most filling twice the space as Schuldig. He appreciated their smugcomplacency, their quick appraisal and easy assurance that there wasnothing to fear from the two visitors.
Except for a small one sittingalone at a corner table in the rear, half hidden by a hanging fern –that one's relative spatial insignificance was offset by hisvigilance, bright as his one yellow eye.
They took a seat at Goltsblat'stable and Crawford got right to the point, 'Thank you for yourtime, we're here to secure the mining rights in the Arkhangelskregion.'
'I received your email with thedetails, would you like tea?' Golstblat spoke the broken English ofcommerce.
'No thank you. Is it too late toadd one hundred kilos of beluga from Atyrau?'
'Not at all. We'll attach thatas a bonus,' Goltsblat smiled and slid a worn leather folio acrossthe table. 'My representative worked out the details.'
Schuldig took the folio and flippedthrough the contracts. The joy of doing business with men likeGolstblat was that nothing was, technically, illegal, if sortedthrough the proper channels. Eszett desired mining rights inArkhangelsk on the off chance of discovering a fresh thread ofdiamonds, much like the beluga bonus, but the organization's actualintent had more to do with the location than the hard currencywaiting to be clawed out from the razed mines.
Schuldig had a better view of thecorner table from where he sat. The small one was bleached looking,like the albino fish living in constant night that he'd once seenon a documentary. The working eye watched the transaction with amisplaced air of amusement while the other was covered by a patch;Schuldig searched for the story behind that one. All of Golstblat'sthugs seemed to be missing something: fingers, hand, memories,mannerisms.
One Eye wasn't Russian. One Eyethought in English. The incident in question occurred as a result ofan unfortunate stumble while running from a rivaling gang in Belfast. He seemed to throw the story at Schuldig, as if he knew Schuldiglooked for it. One eye smiled. Schuldig returned to the contracts.
The contracts were in triplicate:English, Russian, German. Schuldig flipped to the latter, remindinghimself to translate the documents that evening in order to securetheir accuracy before the signatures were acquired. A serverappeared from the back and placed cups of tea in front of him andCrawford.
'It's cold outside, drink,'Goltsblat said, and his approach was filled with a mirthful concernthat somehow endeared him to Schuldig. The man seemed at odds withhis tattoos and memories.
'I have a personal request,'Crawford said.
Schuldig hadn't expected that, sohe busied himself with the tea in an effort to make to not make itapparent.
'What is it?' Goltsblat,unconcerned, motioned for the server.
'Real estate purchased in fullanonymity, guaranteed protection. I envision the ideal situation tobe holdings connected to no aliases, preferably in the names of somerecently deceased with no significant blight on their records.' Crawford seemed to occupy more space when he spoke with the assuranceof a vision. Schuldig watched Crawford's hands spread out on thetable.
It was an ideal proposition. Schuldig wondered why he hadn't thought of it himself. Bound bythe unique code of the Russian un-law, Goltsblat's compliancealmost guaranteed anonymity, unless, of course, someone thought toransack his mind. Schuldig wondered if Crawford considered that. Heglanced toward the carefully constructed and familiar angles ofCrawford's profile. Of course Crawford considered that, he justhadn't said of word of it to Schuldig, as usual.
'Have you given any thought to thearea where you would like this real estate to be located?'Golstblat asked and turned to the server to say in Russian, 'Bringfood for our guests.'
Crawford pulled a small map of thecity from his pocket, unfolded it, and smoothed it out on the tablebetween them, 'Here,' he pointed to an area marked by a preciselyexecuted X, as if he'd formed the marks with a straight edge, 'Andhere.'
'Apartments, offices?' Goltsblattook the map.
Crawford leaned back in his chair,'Whatever is available.'
'It can be arranged.'
'By tommorrow?'
The timeframe surprised Schuldig, hesnapped the folio shut. The tea made a small clatter against thesaucer as he picked it up. Something was going to happen and thatsomething involved Schuldig, directly or indirectly, and once again,he had no idea what that something was. The past year of workingdaily with Crawford made Schuldig feel like a detonations expertsuffering from amnesia. The bombs were set and waiting but he had noidea where the explosions would occur until the building shook.
Crawford collected real estate indead zones, away from the prying mechanics of Eszett, the way thatmost people, the ones that had time for things like hobbies, took upboating or rock climbing. Everyone in the organization had quirks,Gerhardt in Istanbul collected pens, for example, particularly theones with hidden chambers. Schuldig collected people's moments ofpivotal trauma, the second where everything changed, because thoughtswere portable and he moved around too much to cultivate a hobby thatrequired actual storage.
He glanced at One Eye and found himsmiling again, while damaging the table with a knife.
'Are you enjoying Moscow?'Goltsblat placed the map in his pocket and addressed Schuldig.
Schuldig searched Goltsblat's mindfor the correct answer, and was confused to find genuine interest,'I'm afraid I haven't left the hotel much.'
'Then you and Mr. Crawford willjoin me tonight in the small hall at the Moscow Conservatory. I'vereserved seats for the Bach cello suites.'
'What's our schedule, Crawford?'Schuldig asked with a loudly thrown aside, in case Crawford happenedto be listening, since the itinerary is entirely in your hands.
Schuldig couldn't tell if Crawfordexpected the offer or if he were thinking. For all appearances heseemed to be mentally perusing the agenda.
'I have an appointment, butSchuldig will join you. Schuldig loves Bach,' Crawford grinned andplaced his hands in his lap, a sure sign that he was about to rise.
Schuldig hated Bach; it wasn't asif nationality dictated taste, and chamber music reminded him of aparticular brand of punishment uniquely arranged for telepaths atschool.
'I need to translate thecontracts,' Schuldig said.
'That will only take you an hourat most,' Crawford stood, though the server arrived with platesstacked up his arms.
'What about the meeting with –you know,' three continents of names in his head and Schuldigcouldn't think of one of them to throw out.
'Postpone it,' Crawford gesturedto the door with his head.
Schuldig sighed and looked toGolstblat, 'I'll be seeing you tonight, I suppose.'
'Your ticket will be at the boxoffice; the concert starts at eight. Would you like me to send adriver?'
'I'll take the . . .'
'Yes, he would,' Crawfordinterrupted and looked at Schuldig with a pointed, though pleasant,signal for him to shut up. 'It's too cold to be waiting aroundfor a taxi.'
'I'll have someone come for youat seven fifteen, at the Royal Meridian, correct?' Goltsblat didn'tlook up from his dressed herring.
Schuldig hated Bach; it wasn't asif nationality dictated taste, and chamber music reminded him of aparticular brand of punishment uniquely arranged for telepaths atschool.
'I need to translate thecontracts,' Schuldig said.
'That will only take you an hourat most,' Crawford stood, though the server arrived with platesstacked up his arms.
'What about the meeting with –you know,' three continents of names in his head and Schuldigcouldn't think of one of them to throw out.
'Postpone it,' Crawford gesturedto the door with his head.
Schuldig sighed and looked toGolstblat, 'I'll be seeing you tonight, I suppose.'
'Your ticket will be at the boxoffice; the concert starts at eight. Would you like me to send adriver?'
'I'll take the . . .'
'Yes, he would,' Crawfordinterrupted and looked at Schuldig with a pointed, though pleasant,signal for him to shut up. 'It's too cold to be waiting aroundfor a taxi.'
'I'll have someone come for youat seven fifteen, at the Royal Meridian, correct?' Goltsblat didn'tlook up from his dressed herring.
'Thank you,' Schuldig said andOne Eye laughed.
Crawford handed him his coat.
They said their farewells andSchuldig waited until they were near the river before he spoke, 'Andwhat was that about? The Russian crime boss just offered to send adriver to pick me up at our fucking hotel.'
'Our location is no secret.'
They stopped walking and stared ateach other.
'And Bach? In case you'veforgotten, diplomacy is your job,' Schuldig emphasized this pointwith his finger jabbed hard at Crawford's chest, 'I'm no goodat it, and I never have been. If you've seen something, you needto tell me so I can go along with the plan. '
'I can't.'
'You can't?'
'The plan changes, you know that.' Crawford started walking and Schuldig took a moment to admire themost gorgeous fur coat he'd ever seen walk by on the droopedshoulders of a woman well past the age to be wearing that muchlipstick, before hurrying to catch up. The woman thought of warmingher feet against a bright red enameled stove in her kitchen. Thestove matched her lips.
'You promised me that you wouldkeep me informed,' Schuldig said when he caught up.
'And I do, as much as I'm able. You forget most of the things I tell you.'
'You always make me look like anidiot. The one eyed freak in the corner knew more about that planthan I did.' Schuldig shoved his hands in his pockets, 'Thatone's not Russian, by the way.'
'I know.'
'I know,' Schuldig adopted hismost Crawford accent and watched his breath drift out before him inthe cold. The cold felt past cold, tangible and breakable. Hepressed closer to Crawford's shoulder for warmth.
Crawford didn't hail a taxistraight away which was enough to distract Schuldig from his rant, aswere the people they passed on the street.
'We'll leave by the end of theweek,' Crawford said.
'Thank you for that much atleast.'
'I like Russia. It's so easydoing business here; Eszett should move their operations.'
Schuldig glanced at him, 'Youdon't want that at all.'
'Maybe not,' Crawford's smilewas a rare one, a secret one. Schuldig thought he would be able toappreciate that surreptitious gesture more if he weren't soaccustomed to knowing other people's secrets. Everyone other thanCrawford. Though he liked to believe he knew more about Crawford'ssecrets than anyone.
'Because I would sell my mother tostay here, despite the fact I cannot feel my fingers right now,anything to not feel their eyes on my back. This is the only placewe've been able to talk freely. Is the entire city a dead zone?'
'So far it seems to be. The lastregime didn't appreciate their meddling and we're the firstrepresentatives to be sent in. And you've already sold yourmother, so you're going to have to come up with a better trade.'
'She sold me,' Schuldig pressedcloser to Crawford's side.
'If that's the way you see it.'
'I'm worth a great deal in afree market.'
'The key word there is free.'
'I hate Bach.'
'No you don't.'
They walked in silence for a while,which was pleasant and rare – possibly a first. Unfortunately thesilence provided an ideal opportunity for Schuldig to engage in hisown form of sightseeing. He drifted in and out of passing fears,anxieties, jealousies, hopes, desires, and admonitions, to name afew. A woman in a short coat that bared her knees above tall blackboots, stopped to listen to the sound of a violin drifting up from asubway tunnel. She closed her eyes and thought of a birch tree forestsharply lit by moonlight – and there, Schuldig had another piecefor his collection of moments that changed everything.
At some point Schuldig moved awayfrom Crawford's shoulder; he noted the missing warmth as he read abook seller's story of finding an original Pushkin at a poker game,but did not notice if Crawford stood behind him or waited at thecorner. And then the street kid, no taller than a meter with a tinyaccordion in his hand, flew past him with a stolen apple pie andSchuldig followed before he knew where he was going, half way downthe block and then back to the river with the sluice of oil streakingthrough the broken ice.
And the oil made him think ofeconomies, which made him think of the summit, which made him thinkabout investments, which made him think about Crawford, so he turnedto ask, 'How are the natural gas investments in Texas?'
And Crawford was not there.
'Crawford?'
Back at the hotel, Schuldig lingeredin the lobby and watched the elevator doors open and close. Hepressed the ridges of the suite key into his index finger, and leanedabsolutely still against a massive column of faux classical statuary. His eyes moved, scanning the faces and thoughts of people as theystepped from the elevator. He pushed himself as far out into thecity as possible, straining for the merest hint of Crawford'sbackground noise, the sound that masked his thoughts. If Crawfordwere in trouble, certainly he'd call out, send a mental warningflare, something. No one had ever given him the protocol forretrieving a misplaced associate, especially if the associate did notwant to be found. The not wanting to be found part troubled Schuldigthe most.
If Crawford wasn't in the suite,Schuldig didn't know what to do next, so he checked his cell phonefor the fifteenth time to be certain he hadn't missed a call,Crawford was not answering his, and noted the time. Seventwenty-five. Reception in the city was sketchy at best. Seventwenty-five, there was something Schuldig was supposed to do at sevenfifteen.
He leaned his head back against thewall and sighed. The concert, he was supposed to go to the stupidconcert. And Crawford, even if he were dead, would expect Schuldigto continue as planned. He noted that the carved molding on theceiling was very well done, and with a sense of hopelessness, madehis way to the elevator.
The suite was empty, he felt it fromthe hallway and a quick walk through the four rooms confirmed it. Schuldig sat on the edge of the bed in Crawford's room and bracedhis chin on his hands.
'Fuck,' he whispered.
He sat there longer than necessary,staring at Crawford's shoes against the wall. Schuldig hadn'tbothered to take off his coat or scarf, nor did he feel likechanging. He left the suite at seven forty-eight wearing the samejacket and tie from the afternoon, though he did trade his winterboots for Crawford's New & Lingwood's, which served himright, the bastard, even if the shoes cramped Schuldig's toes.
A driver really should have twoeyes.
The black SUV looked like any otherB6 armored vehicle in Moscow, but Schuldig recognized the driverright away.
'You're late,' the fishyalbino said.
'It takes me a while to do myhair,' he said, closed the passenger door, and went straight intothe other guy's head. What Schuldig found was a particularfascination with small details, a crisp and photographic memory oddlycoupled with a hazy sense of what things truly had occurred and whathad been imagined. The thoughts were surprisingly uncomplicated.
'Are you quite finished?'
'Not yet, give me a minute,'Schuldig loosened his scarf.
'Take your time then.'
Schuldig rummaged a little longerwhile the one-eyed Irishman drove. He looked for a name and found itbehind a recollection of lunch the day before.
Before he could brandish his prize,Farfarello spoke.
'I spoke to your partner and Iaccept your offer.'
'You spoke to him today?' he'dlooked for any memory of Crawford while poking around and hadn'tseen anything other than the meeting that afternoon.
'No, I spoke to him yesterday. Why do you ask?'
'Just curious.'
'He didn't tell you about theoffer, did he?'
Schuldig removed his gloves andpressed his hands to the heater vent, 'Our specialties require usto operate independently.'
'It still pisses you off.'
'You piss me off.'
Farfarello shrugged. 'Do you atleast know where we're traveling to from here?'
Schuldig made a wildly assumptiveguess, but he made it with certainty, 'Japan.'
'Less ice,' Farfarello said,pleased.
'Yes, less ice.'
They kept their thoughts tothemselves the rest of the drive to the Conservatory.
Schuldig paused as he stepped downfrom the SUV, the cold of the passenger door seeping through hisgloves. He studied Farfarello's face for a moment, decidedswimming against fate was a waste of energy better spent finding theone who made it happen, and grinned, 'Thank you for the ride.'
'You're most welcome.'
Schuldig shut the door onFarfarello's laugh and made his way past the statue of Tchaikovskytoward the Hall. The lobby was empty; the concert already started,which suited Schuldig just fine.
A middle aged man at the coat checkglanced at Schuldig as he took his coat. Schuldig recognized thelook and peered past the man's bright blue eyes and sunken face tofind the assurance of 325 dollars US taken in small increments frompockets throughout the night.
The woman in the box office, astreak of blue in her blonde hair, had a metallic taste for the Hallto empty so she could go see her lover. She slid the ticket acrossthe counter to Schuldig without asking his name.
He found Goltsblat's prisonmemories easily in the last row near the exit of the shadowy theater. The thoughts appeared brown hued, as if they'd been damaged withtea: his cell, card games, a rusted, old fashioned razor. Schuldigtook the empty seat beside him. Goltsblat inclined his head ingreeting and turned back to the cellist.
Schuldig was barely seated before hefelt like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. The audience was tooquiet, too focused on the single musician positioned on the stage infront of a bleak, substantial organ. Bach made Schuldig think ofnear misses. The punishment at Rosenkruez, more of an exercise infocus, was used for minor infractions. The exercise involved noactual bloodshed or victims and was an influential training tool ifused correctly.
Professor Unger had an unholyfascination with Bach; he claimed to be distantly related, buttelepaths had a way of making any story sound convincing - they hadan inexhaustible source of material from which to draw. Thepunishment took place in Professor Unger's office on Sundayafternoons and was an important, ongoing case study used to separatethe graduates from the underachievers. Unger's office was warm andcomfortable, filled with light from massive leaded glass windows. Heoften served coffee laced with scopolamine.
After a brief discussion thatincluded topics as varied as the weather or Kant's privileging ofinner experience, an advanced precognitive was brought into theoffice so the fun could begin in earnest. The precognitives had themost to gain from the exercise, namely the chance to sharpen theirforesight into a pinprick of possibilities. Precognition, an everchanging art, was a mistress of circumstance, the variables shiftingfrom moment to moment. Visions usually centered around the personalexperience of the user, though any advanced precognitive could learn,with much patience, to tap into the experience of strangers.
Telepathy, on the other hand, didnot nurture inner reflection. The world offered too manydistractions. After witnessing a series of alarming telepathic meltdowns, Unger developed his exercise, a primitive form of exposuretherapy, as a way to strengthen a telepath's reaction to his or herworse fears. To make them see themselves, in a manner of speaking.
Unger started with death, auniversal phobia, and worked his way down the list. In thebackground, his stereo played an endless catalog of Bach. Theprecognitive used a point of contact: the touch of a hand, kneepressed to a leg, or a grip to the wrist, to gain unfettered access. All the telepath had to do was slip into the precognitive's head,listen and wait.
Few telepaths got much farther thantheir death scenes, but Schuldig was hard to read. The first fewtimes he was sent to Unger's office he saw nothing more than a fewshadowy images of city streets and some easily digested near misses. What he gained from the boredom was unlimited access to an otherwiseclosed mind – great fuel for future blackmail.
Each time Schuldig visited Unger'soffice he left with a lingering sense of despair. He saw nothingthat truly bothered him, nor did he see anything that really made himhappy. For the first time he thought of himself and the future astwo acquaintances that would someday meet, but the possibilities hesaw were as miserable as an arranged marriage, forced, and whollywithout passion.
One session with a sadist left himquietly shaken for weeks but Schuldig assumed the images were aproduct of an overly active imagination rather than true foresight. Most of the scenes involved the precognitive hacking Schuldig apartwith a rusty, serrated bread knife (i).
And then Unger invited Crawford. They knew each other in passing. Crawford was older yet Schuldig hadsaved his ass on more than one occasion and Crawford reciprocatedwhen he saw the opportunity -once to be exact.
Schuldig sat on the floor readingUnger's copy of Beneke's Die neue Psychologie(ii),in a warm square of sunlight near the window. He looked up asCrawford closed the door behind him. Unger offered coffee; Crawforddeclined and crossed the room to sit down in front of Schuldig on thefloor.
Schuldig put the book aside, 'I'mdifficult to surprise,' he said.
'We'll see,' as if Crawfordsaw the opportunity and had been waiting to use it.
Crawford stared at him, searchingfor a suitable place to begin. Schuldig narrowed his eyes andsilently dared Crawford to find anything that could terrify him.
Crawford reached out and laced hisfingers in Schuldig's, crushed their hands together. Schuldigfrowned and tried to pull away, but Crawford's grip made itimpossible. They sat like that for a few moments, and Schuldigtested the walls in Crawford's mind to see if he could get in –not yet. The silence in the room seemed brittle without an unlockedmind for Schuldig to seep into. Unger's pen scratched against apaper; Bach quietly rose and fell in swells of sound. Schuldig'sfingers felt numb.
And then Crawford moved, liftedtheir locked hands up so he could press the knuckle of Schuldig'sthumb to his mouth. Crawford closed his eyes and Schuldig fellabruptly in, as if he'd eavesdropped against a heavy door and itwas suddenly opened. He gasped.
Schuldig saw so many things at oncethat it took him a while to form the scenes into any kind ofcoherence. He saw his own death in varieties both mundane andinexplicable: shot, beaten, stabbed, tortured, impaled. Worse, healso saw the things he might do to give the organization cause towipe him clean. His teeth clenched and his hand, against Crawford'smouth, began to shake. These were no imaginings of a sadistic mind,these possibilities were fact, as real as Crawford's grip on hishand.
Before the blood covered the room,Schuldig grasped at logic, 'That's impossible. No one can die inso many different ways.'
Crawford's eyes were still closed. His voice, his thoughts, swept through the images like ice in afreezing river – cold, yet something to grasp onto, 'One actionchanges everything. These are things that could occur if youmake the wrong choices.'
Schuldig's laugh was a sharp burstof air, frightened and small.
'I removed a variable from thepossibilities,' Crawford continued.
'What sort of variable?'
Crawford opened his eyes a fractionand his grip on Schuldig's hand loosened. He drew back just enoughfor his breath to touch the base of Schuldig's thumb.
'Me.'
Bach played in Unger's office andBach played in a concert hall in Moscow. The variable was missing.
Schuldig crawled into Goltsblat'smind. A childhood memory this time; a small boat that might sink anymoment, and a grey haired man with a cap by the engine. YoungGoltsblat and his father secured the boat to an overgrown embankmentand walked into a forest, trees heavy from rain. Goltsblat trailedhis fingers across bark, wandered deeper into the woods, and thoughtof one day living in a city. He heard something behind him andturned to find an ancient woman, head wrapped in a scarf and a shawlhanging in tatters. Her eyes were amber like light reflected througha glass. She held her hand out for Goltsblat to take it.
And there, another moment forSchuldig's collection, a decision that changed everything;Goltsblat ran, as fast as his feet could carry him, back to the boat.
Schuldig looked at Goltsblat fromthe corner of his eye. He studied the day-old, grey, beard and eyes,lost in the music. A face that had seen the future offered by agnarled hand and fled to decide his own fate. If Schuldig were freeto choose a master, he wished for one with memories of mushroompicking in a haunted forest. He wished for one with memories.
Goltsblat noticed Schuldig peeringat him, and he smiled crookedly, knowingly.
Schuldig hated concerts because theykept him from speaking. He decided to get Goltsblat well and trulydrunk afterward so the man might stop thinking esoterically and offerup a useful clue as to where Crawford had ran off to.
Schuldig stared at his watch andshifted in his seat. Schuldig hated concerts because he never knewwhen they would be finished and there were too many minds drifting ina seasick haze around him. The air was too thick, too hot. He'ddo anything to be roaming the frigid streets.
After an intermidable period ofstaring at the organ, Schuldig noticed something that started as alow, familiar buzz beneath the cello's moan, so quiet that Schuldigwould have missed it if he weren't imprisoned in Bach hell. That,and he happened to be thinking, again, of Crawford's breath on hishand.
So, the oracle lived. Schuldigclosed his eyes to figure out where. He pressed as close as he couldagainst Crawford's thoughts, like curling against warm skin: letme in, let me in.
The one time in Unger's office wasthe last time Schuldig had access to Crawford's head. He'd spentthe past two years trying to pry the deadbolt. Bank vaults hadnothing on Crawford; Schuldig had actually battled one of those andwon.
Schuldig curled his fingers aroundthe edge of the arm rests. There had to be a different way. He'dalways relied on force. Pressure didn't work with Crawford –like a Chinese finger trap, force only worsened the restriction.
Schuldig cleared his mind and triedagain.
He approached the background noiseof Crawford's thoughts as he would trail a target, slowly, quietly,with easy deliberation. When Schuldig was close enough that he couldfeel Crawford, real as breath, though he couldn't see him, Schuldigdid something he had honestly never done in his life. He askedpermission. If it's not an inconvenience , I would like, if youwant . . .there.
The acquiescence was not absolute,but a limited consent that allowed Schuldig to see through Crawford'sdistorted vision.
And he saw – a tongue nailed to atable. Having a passing interest in the subject, he quicklydiscerned that it was not Crawford's. The realization filled himwith equal parts regret and relief. The tongue was attached to ahead that was attached to a body, or what was left of it, slumpedagainst the table.
Schuldig's second impression,once the initial delight of being in Crawford's head subsided, wasthat it didn't take a genius to know that a telepath was a handytool to have around once a victim's speech was incapacitated. Schuldig hoped his displeasure and disbelief were evident.
A flash of white. The one eyedfreak was in the room with Crawford. And Schuldig was at a fuckingconcert.
Crawford did the mental equivalentof grasping Schuldig's elbow, pulling him to the side.
And before Schuldig could say, I'msorry, or What the hell are you doing without me, or Itrust you, Crawford slammed him with desire. And this time, withBach in the background, it was not merely the desire to live.
If it was meant to be a distraction,Crawford's method worked. Schuldig tried to open his eyes, toground himself in the crowded blankness of the concert hall, withlittle success. The desire had weight, heavy and dangerous likeliquid metal.
He watched through Crawford'seyes, felt through Crawford's hands, and he wanted, as Crawfordreached for the gun at the small of his back, to taste the graphiteon Crawford's fingers.
Schuldig felt the recoil and thevault slammed shut.
The bow drew the last note out asSchuldig opened his eyes. His ears rang from the hollow, cellosilence in the concert hall – and from gunfire.
Goltsblat did not turn to him, buthe spoke beneath the applause, 'I would like your opinion. Wouldyou dine with me?'
Schuldig had a habit of agreeing toanything when his attention was elsewhere, like a prisoner who wouldfix his signature to any falsehood in order to be moved to a quietercell. The trait was uncannily dangerous in his profession, butserendipity often worked in Schuldig's favor.
'Of course,' Schuldig said,though he couldn't stop reeling over the accomplishment of gettinginto Crawford's mind. But he was still no closer to solving themystery of Crawford's location. The probability of finding theroom with the table, one of thousands in the city, would break Baye'stheorem.
'My driver is busy but therestaurant is just around the corner. Do you mind walking?'
'That's fine. . .' Schuldigsaid, absently. And Crawford never worked alone. They had noorders, none that Schuldig had seen, to gather information. Schuldigwas the primary point of contact between the organizations and theirunit. Always. Did Crawford arrange a bogus scenario in order totest the new – what was Schuldig supposed to call him – employee?Subcontractor? Did Farfarello know that his contract would be signedin indelible ink?
Schuldig followed Golstblat'scrooked, yet elegant, shoulders across the lobby.
'Where's my tip?' the coatcheck guy said as he handed Schuldig's over.
'You have your tip through myfavor, thief.' He forgot to add that the hundred the guy took fromSchuldig's pocket was counterfeit. Every street vendor had acounterfeit detector, most wouldn't take a folded dollar.
It was still cold outside.
'You're German?' Goltsblatasked.
'Mostly.'
Goltsblat's least important factswere kept in the forefront of his thoughts, like a properly unusablesitting room filled with objects and antiques.
Schuldig quickly became grounded inthe cold air. He checked his cell phone. No call.
'I grew up in Sosensky. My fatherfished the river and my mother, mostly, painted. What of yours?'
'My father traded commodities andmy mother, mostly, drank.' The admittance wasn't wholly false.
Goltsblat appeared to walk withoutan escort but Schuldig sensed half a dozen eyes trained in theirdirection and a car followed them at a casual distance, as ifsearching for a place to park.
'Here we are,' Goltsblat said.
The interior was too hot, too close. Schuldig was sick to death of extremes. He found himself wishingfor a position in a geographical grey area, somewhere that saw snowrarely enough to value it.
The restaurant was endlessly longand narrow; the floor carpeted in arterial red. Candles burned inthe center of the numerous, empty tables, throwing dragon-tails ofshadows against the luminous polish of the dark wood-paneled walls.
Schuldig followed Goltsblat to atable in the very rear of the never-ending room. His hand absentlybrushed the wall as he sat and he was puzzled to feel heat radiatingfrom it, as if he touched the side of a stove. He sat and used thecover provided by the edge of the table cloth to check his cellphone.
Curiosity satisfied, somewhat, atleast he knew that Crawford still breathed, the situation onlyreinforced Schuldig's belief that Crawford was one of thoseirritating people who kept laughing when everyone else had stopped. The most satisfying food grew stale with overuse, and it was possibleto analyze something so deeply that it lost its beauty.
Goltsblat greeted the restaurantstaff as he would welcome long absent children. The thick, hot wallsmuted the sounds of the city, so much so that Schuldig suddenly hadthe novel impression that his life up to that moment was made ofsomeone else's memories and choices. He tried the false presenttense on for size and found that with a few adjustments the fit wascomfortable and well-made.
Goltsblat thought about the foodthat he would order; he also thought about wine and looked forward tothe first taste because he felt that wine's flavor carried theghosts of the soil where the grapes were grown. The vor movedthrough his life with his desires and tastes enclosing him, as ifthose things were the fiber filling the walls of a soundproof room. Schuldig would like to steal that trait, if he could.
'I've arranged the real estate,'Goltsblat said.
'Within hours, I'm impressed,'Schuldig held the cell phone, set to vibrate, in his hand beneath thetable.
'Anything is possible when thestructure is well managed.'
'So I've been told,' at somepoint, Schuldig figured, he should stop fucking around and do hisjob. Whatever Crawford's plan, there was slim hope that itentailed Schuldig making small talk like a girl for hire. 'As youknow our employers are willing to pay whatever is required to seethat their newly acquired Russian assets are secured.'
'The mines.'
'The mines. It would beunfortunate if the corporations with nearby mining interests made ahabit of snooping around to satisfy their curiosity. We have noplans to revitalize the local diamond industry, or to search for newdeposits, just yet. If you could spread the word that the mines arenow closed . . .'
'Somehow I don't see the minesbeing closed to save the land from further damage.'
'You never know; we value historicpreservation.'
They silently watched the wine beingpoured.
'So you plan to sit back and waitfor the highest bidder?' Goltsblat asked.
'The mine is no longer on themarket – you will let that be known. As I said, it would beunfortunate if a newly graduated MBA were sent out to satisfy hiscompany's curiosity.'
'I see what you mean.'
'Or anyone, for that matter.'
'What does your organization planto do with the mine?'
'I have no reason to know.'
'What is your position within theorganization?'
Schuldig could meet the questionwith affront, or satisfy Goltsblat's curiosity. From what he wasgiving off, Goltsblat had no interest at all in the structure ofEszett. 'I gather information.'
'This and that?'
'Yes. And other things.' Actually, Schuldig just did what he was told to do, which one timefound him waiting for a package, in a hotel lobby, for six hours. But he was deeply fond of hotel lobbies, so the job wasn't too bad.
They drank and Schuldig watchedGoltsblat eat a large amount for a very long time. They spoke aroundthe organization. Goltsblat revealed several lucrative opportunitiesof the import/export type. Schuldig took messy mental notes andwaited for his cell phone to vibrate, he'd finally just rested iton his leg beneath the table.
Another bottle of wine was opened. Schuldig learned more than he ever wanted to know about the historyof icon making. The wine allowed him to feign interest.
No distant hum in his head, no callon the cell phone. Another bottle of wine was opened.
Goltsblat's tattoos were twistingicons creeping past the starched, southern boundary of his cuff. Thetattoos fascinated Schuldig more than the old man's mind. On thevor's pinky, a rare alexandrite ring changed colors as itpassed near the bright candle in the center of the table. The waxpooled red on the white tablecloth, red like the floor.
'You're waiting for yourassociate?'
'Russia is very large,' Schuldigsaid, and smiled. He pictured the country as a vast maze ofapartments and rooms and blood splattered tables; alleys banked withgrey snow.
'You keep checking your phone,'Goltsblat added in explanation, lest anyone mistake him for a mindreader.
'I've misplaced him. He'llshow up again, probably somewhere I've already looked.' Schuldigliked Goltsblat, genuinely, the way he admired hotel lobbies. Thingspassed purposely through Goltsblat, no need to linger.
'I think your organization couldbenefit from the current political and economic situation in mycountry. Would you consider staying on, as a liason? I'll doublewhatever you're currently receiving.'
Schuldig had never been offereda job before. He saw no harm in playing with the details, 'Whatelse?'
'Car, apartment, summer house, andI wouldn't lose you, unless you needed to be lost.'
Schuldig laughed, 'Unfortunately,I'm not the one who is misplaced.'
'Are you certain?'
Presumptiveness pissed Schuldig off. Knowledge based presumption was another thing entirely, and Schuldigexcelled at it. 'When you were young, you went mushroom pickingwith your father and you encountered an old woman in the woods. Whowas she?'
Goltsblat's bloodshot eyeswidened, 'I imagined that woman. She was nobody.'
'Even if you imaged her, she wassomeone. Who was she?'
'A ghost.'
'What did the ghost offer you?'
'How did you . . .'
'That's what I do,' Schuldigshrugged. 'Answer me, I need to know.'
'She frightened me. She offeredher hand to me. I'll never know what her intention was.'
'But you admit that she knewsomething that you didn't. And that something frightened you.'
Goltsblat stared at the candle. When he finally spoke, the words were carefully chosen, 'I ranbecause it felt safer to choose my own fate than to have it handed tome.'
'Would you make the same choicetoday?'
Goltsblat nodded and twisted thering around his finger, 'I would.'
The cell phone hadn't buzzed, butSchuldig moved to gather his coat. Goltsblat watched, but his mindwas in the woods.
'You'll have my answertomorrow,' Schuldig said and looked at his watch. 'Later today, Ishould say.'
He was halfway to the door at theend of the endless room when Goltsblat pushed away from the table andcalled out for him to stop. Schuldig turned and waited.
'Take this,' he pressed thealexandrite into Schuldig's palm. 'It's worth more than themines.'
'Why?' Moments like these werethe reason why some knowledge of the future, whatever scraps Crawfordcould spare, would make Schuldig seem less foolish.
'I never gamble without being ableto cover my losses.'
Schuldig stared at the ring, slippedit loosely onto his index finger, and left.
The street was still cold, even moreso after the furnace walls and wine. Schuldig decided to walk.
He'd wandered in blissful silencefor a while until he felt someone creeping up behind him. Schuldigslowed so the stranger could catch up.
The mind was desperate and starving,and the voice, when it spoke in Russian, was cracked.
'Give me your shoes.'
Schuldig spun around, 'What didyou say?'
'I said, give me your shoes,'the thief held an ancient, small gun; the slide permanently jammed.
Schuldig stared at the man's dirtynails, and a brand new type of anger spread through him. 'Wait aminute. The Cartier watch, the Trussardi coat, the Armanisunglasses,' he took these off his head and threw them at the guy. 'Not to mention the ring that could buy a small country. And youwant Crawford's fucking shoes?'
The man froze and trembled asSchuldig pulled a better functioning firearm from his coat. 'If itweren't cold as shit, I'd give you the shoes.' He pressed thewarm metal to the man's head and swam in his thoughts for a whilebefore pulling the trigger. Blood on snow never ceased to fascinatehim.
Another moment for Schuldig'scollection. He crushed the sunglasses into the warm sludge.
Later, Schuldig stood in the streetbeside the Royal Meridian and stared up at the dark windows of thesuite.
In the lobby, he stopped by thefront desk.
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'I forgot my key,' he'd leftit on the side table when he bent down to take off his boots earlier.
The night porter handed him areplacement.
He quietly opened the door to thesuite and marked his progress inward with a trail of whatever wasmost convenient, like bread crumbs to lead him out of the forest. Heleft the shoes at the door, his coat beside the mantel, his beltbeside the significant mirror, his shirt on the knob of the doorleading to Crawford's room, his holster on the floor beside thebed.
He placed his watch and cell phoneon the night stand and slipped under the heavy covers. The sun roselate in the city, still some hours of night remaining. He pressedhis knees to the back of Crawford's knees; he pressed his mouth tothe back of Crawford's neck. Crawford smelled clean, like soap.
'You've been drinking.'
'I have,' his voice was muffledagainst Crawford's skin.
'You're freezing.'
'I walked.'
'To clear your mind?'
'To ruin your shoes.'
Neither said anything for a while;Schuldig focused considerable energy toward getting warm. Crawfordtrapped their fingers together and pressed his mouth to Schuldig'spalm.
'Good, you found the ring.'
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Schuldig opened his eyes, 'Ididn't know it was lost.'
He tried to take his hand back butCrawford turned to face him. They stared at each other in themisguided belief that one might give in. Crawford cheated.
Crawford tasted like toothpaste. Schuldig tasted like wine. They were destined to never mix well. Except for (Schuldig became pliant) the moment he (hooked his legover Crawford's hip) felt Crawford (and pulled him closer) comeapart in his hands. Telepathy had nothing to do with it.
Nor was Schuldig immune. He spokeinto Crawford's mouth, 'I forget, occasionally, what this islike.'
Sometime later he lay staring at thegrey sky outside the window, his head hanging off the bed. 'Whydid you leave me?'
'I needed to do some thingswithout you,' Crawford twisted the ring around Schuldig's finger.
'Why? Did you see me leaving?'
'You won't leave me.'
'I might,' Schuldig sat up onhis elbows to better see Crawford slouched against the headboard. 'You said yourself, one action changes everything.'
'It's good to know you remembersomething, of course it's always the thing that is most useful toyou in the moment.'
'Goltsblat offered me a job.'
'He values your. . .' Crawfordtrailed off.
'Mind. He values my mind.'
'Of course,' Crawford bit hislip to keep from laughing.
Schuldig crawled over to him andtapped a finger rhythmically against Crawford's forehead, 'I'man opportunist. Let me in.'
The early morning shadows weredeceiving, but Crawford might have looked at him fondly.
Schuldig laughed, 'Please?'
'What do you want to see?' Hepressed his thumb to Schuldig's mouth. Schuldig bit it absently,thinking.
'Something useful. Somethingother than the various ways I can die. Something that I need toknow,' he pressed his cheek into Crawford's hand and waited. Hewas no longer cold.
Crawford looked at him and throughhim. After what seemed like forever, he pulled Schuldig closer andagreed with a kiss.
Schuldig's approach depended onthe situation. He could, if he wished, trespass without a sound; hecould rummage quickly and leave the drawers overturned, or he couldbreak down the door and start shooting. The latter two were notcomfortable experiences for the victim.
Crawford's kisses were often assharp as his words, sarcastic and mocking – but not then. Schuldigstraddled him and caught Crawford's face between his hands as if hecould physically keep him from changing his mind.
Befuddled by permission, Schuldigcouldn't decide the best way to approach. If it were pleasantenough, he might be invited back. So he entered the way their mouthsmet, slow and pliant and absolutely present. Crawford's breathcaught.
What Schuldig found in the orderlymaze of Crawford's thoughts were all the things he'd misplacedsince they met. Schuldig saw himself recently arrived and lost in ahallway at Rosenkreuz. He saw himself arguing with Unger. He saw aknife slice bleeding down his cheek. He saw himself walking down astreet. He saw his hands. The thoughts were carefully collectedmemories, not visions. And they were fresh, like familiarphotographs.
He saw himself, looking left andright for Crawford, beside the Yauza River. He saw himself sitting,freezing, on the bench. He saw himself standing, staring at theelevator, in the hotel lobby. He saw himself walking into theConservatory.
Schuldig drew back far enough tostare evenly at Crawford, 'How long did you watch me?'
'Farfarello picked me up where hedropped you off.'
Schuldig tried to move away butCrawford grasped the back of his neck and drew their mouths backtogether. He pulled back far enough to say, 'I've always likedwatching you,' before showing Schuldig the preferred recollectionsthat he'd saved for last.
Much later, Schuldig half-sleptagainst Crawford's thigh.
'I need you to do somethingtomorrow,' Crawford said.
'It is tomorrow.'
'Later today then. You need tokill Goltsblat.'
Schuldig sat up and stared at him.
Crawford didn't wait for aquestion, 'If you don't do it, you'll die.'
'There's only so many times youcan use that line, Crawford.'
'If you don't do it, I'll killyou myself.'
Schuldig frowned, opened his mouthto tell Crawford that he'd decided to make his own fate rather thanhave it handed to him. But then he realized that the request toldhim more about Crawford's intentions than the catalog of memorieshe'd been handed. Schuldig could be satisfied with missing pieces.
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Instead he said, 'I want to befree to do as I please.'
'Good,' Crawford said as hepulled Schuldig down beside him, 'because I have a plan.'
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i. 'TheSerrated Knife:Idealfor foods hard on the outside, chewy on the inside.'(.com)
ii.'Thesoul is essentially a system of primary powers of originalcapacities, whose very existence is an unconscious, unfulfilleddesire . . . But the soul does not merely receive impressions, itstores them up in the form of traces in a manner familiar tocontemporary physiological theories of memory.' (Reginald BancroftCooke, The Practical Philosophy of Friedrich Eduard Beneke, 2)
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In addition to theappropriation of the stimuli and the storing of them in the form oftraces, the soul is subject to the operation of a third law, inaccordance with which certain moveable elements transfer themselvesfrom one group of traces or conscious ideas to another, especiallywhere the two are of the same kind as regards the objective source ofthe stimuli which they contain, and thru the overweighting of thetraces drag them, as it were, into consciousness.(Cooke, 5)
