The Ferris wheel turned around and around on its axis, electric light pulsing outwards from its center like a star: white, then blue, and then flashes of gold. A line of people crowded the wheel's base, each waiting for their turn to ride up to the heavens and then back to earth in a great circle, over and over, like souls in some Eastern religion where each life was a rerun of the last.
Or something like that.
Zelenko wasn't much for religion. The old Soviet state was atheist by decree, and maybe that's why his father had professed no belief in God and had never brought the younger Zelenko to the small Orthodox church tucked away in the corner of Norilsk, where, decades prior—after Stalin had relaxed the Soviet ban on religion—it had sprung up from the ground overnight like a dormant mushroom. Zelenko had only ever visited the church twice, the first being when his father had realized his own short mortality, dying from poison from the mines, and had taken a sudden interest in the journey of the soul. The second visit, and last, was at the funeral service.
What stood out in his memory of his father's funeral was all the gold filigree, from the chandeliers hanging from the tall ceiling to the priest's robes and the crucifix on the wall. It was as if all the gold from the mines in Norilsk had been pulled up from the ground and put inside the church, with nothing but a small funeral as a thank-you-very-much to the men who died from all the digging.
But the younger Zelenko hadn't hated the church then. In fact, he thanked it for showing him the way. He'd seen the light, as it was, reflected off the three-bar, gold crucifix hanging over his father's waxen face. Life wasn't about service to the state nor some heavenly Father—no—life was about the collection of wealth, or more correctly, the spending of it. What good was a gold cross hanging on the wall if your pantry was bare and your bed was cold? Looking back, he'd spent his money trying to outrun the shadow of poverty from his father's casket. It was only recently, in his middle years, that he learned patience and planning.
Two qualities which were to the benefit of Cal MacIntyre and the mysterious blonde woman he'd partnered with as Zelenko watched them wheel 'round and 'round from his position within the crowd in Place Masséna.
He'd spotted the American by happenstance, just another face in the crowd enjoying the Night Parade. What was more interesting was the blonde woman at his side, the same woman they had on surveillance from the Port. Were they lovers? Work partners? Marat would love to know where the American and his woman were staying, but then Zelenko considered the hours it might take to carefully stalk the couple through the night—especially if they were trained intelligence agents. But by the look on his face as he dangled upside down over the city, Zelenko didn't believe Cal MacIntyre would be any more trouble for their operation.
And, besides that, Zelenko had shit to do.
He had customers arriving tomorrow and there were things to prepare, least of which were his two lackeys scheduled to meet at his apartment later in the evening. They were imbeciles, the two Frenchmen, but they weren't entirely useless, and most of all he had zero fear of them stabbing him in the back. That was always a problem working with other Russians, but his two guys showed no ambition beyond getting paid and getting laid, which—in the case of the fucker with the glasses—actually required getting paid. God, he was ugly. Zelenko checked the time on his new Bell & Ross watch, admiring how the bronze reflected light from the carnival around him. He only had a few hours before his boys were scheduled to arrive for a firearms check. He didn't trust them to carry on a day-to-day basis, but for tomorrow's deal with the Libyans they'd need to be armed. Just in case.
He turned away from Cal MacIntyre and his blonde woman and plunged through the celebrating crowd gathered in Place Masséna with their glow sticks and light-up necklaces. The Night Parade inched its way through Nice and Zelenko followed its route down towards the beach. He did have a little time before he needed to be back in his apartment, where it was hidden deep within Vieux Nice, the Old City. And it was an old city: nestled against the western base of Castle Hill where the Ancient Greeks first planted their flag along the river that flowed around the hill before spilling into the sea.
And he let the Night Parade carry him like that ancient river down to Le Promenade des Anglais, by the beach, where a troupe of white rabbits whirled and bounced in the street. Thousands of spectators lined the Promenade, their combined voices drowning out the waves crashing against the pebble beach just steps behind them. Zelenko stared up at a giant, papier-mâché Albert Einstein as it rolled passed on a crowded float, its occupants dressed in technicolor academic robes. Fitting this year's carnival theme, a quote was scrawled along the length of the float: "Time is an Illusion".
Zelenko nodded and mentally added: so, enjoy it while you can.
A man went spinning as Zelenko shouldered past him through the crowded pedestrian walk. The man yelled out but immediately silenced himself. Good. Zelenko's physique was enough to make men question their own bravery. Or maybe it was the tattoo wrapping around his thick neck that gave the man pause. The blue ink was not a snake or a rope, but a trail of what looked like pale butterflies. Acherontia styx, actually—the death-head moth—and they symbolized transformation from life into death and beyond. Zelenko had always been the transformer, sending other men into the unknown, but someday he would be transformed, himself, and that was fine by him as long as he ended his time on earth much like his father had in that church: surrounded by gold and wealth—preferably his own.
The idea about the moths came from an old movie about serial killers. Zelenko liked movies, and that particular one was one of his favorites. It was that or Die Hard, depending on his mood, only—where he imagined most people rooted for the American cop—Zelenko put himself in the shoes of Hans Gruber, the Euro-scum thief. He'd have gotten away with it, too—Zelenko—not poor Hans who was doomed to fall from that skyscraper in slow motion again and again. Zelenko imagined the roles were reversed, that he'd stand triumphantly with the woman at his side and a million dollars blowing around him, looking down at the American cowboy-cop falling and falling.
He looked down at his new watch and shook away the fantasies. The carnival atmosphere must have been getting to him. It was time to move on with his night and prepare for tomorrow. He brushed away the last of his daydreaming like he was brushing away a flutter of moths, suddenly sick of the celebration around him, and cut across the parade route and turned north away from the beach towards Vieux Nice, the Old City.
The streets narrowed immediately. Tall, narrow buildings crowded together, jockeying for position along the decreasing curb space. The carnival lights were gone, replaced with shadows and the occasional electric lamp buzzing from the side of a building, being no space for even a post. These ancient streets were built for people and donkeys burdened with carts and harnesses. Modern vehicles were impossible to fit, save for Italian scooters like the one that passed by Zelenko with a whine and grumble of exhaust. The Night Parade had pulled away the usual crowd of bar-hoppers and Zelenko was mostly alone, his heavy footfalls echoing between buildings that were older than most countries in Europe. Hell, all of Nice used to belong to the Italians before Italy was even Italy. But times and borders change even if the buildings hadn't.
He was mostly alone, but not completely. A sound behind him caught his attention, something like a soft shoe scuffing a curb. Zelenko smiled but didn't turn around. Vieux Nice was a place to get lost, but it was also an easy place to discover if you'd been found, with its narrow streets and sharp corners. Zelenko turned a corner and immediately doubled back.
Nothing.
No one.
The rooftops crowded the sky above him and he imagined black-clad ninjas leaping from building to building, like in those old VHS movies. He grunted a laugh and turned back to his route. The carnival had infected his imagination. It was time for a drink and the streetside bars were still open and hungry for customers on that empty night. There was business in the morning and potential buyers to meet. Libyan rebels of all people. Zelenko barked another laugh. Maybe he was living in a movie after all.
Ten-minutes and two shots of Jäger later, all thoughts of Hollywood ninjas and footsteps in the dark were forgotten. It was a sort of middle-finger to drink German liquor in a French bar, but the familiar barman behind the counter didn't comment. Best not to piss off your best customer, Zelenko thought as he ordered a 1664 to wash the licorice flavor from his mouth. He paid his tab in cash before taking the stairwell that led up to the apartments above the same bar. Zelenko's was two stories up, the lone door at the top of the stairs.
Zelenko closed the door behind him, but a voice surprised him before he could turn the bolt to lock it.
"Welcome home, Boris."
The voice spoke in Russian, but it was a stranger's voice and not a native speaker. It came from the shadows of his dingy kitchen. The apartment was narrow like the building, with a salon in the front, a kitchen/dining combination in the middle, and the bathroom and single bedroom in the back. It was sparse on purpose.
Zelenko didn't answer. He dropped his keys into a ceramic bowl by the door with a loud clatter and flipped two light switches that connected ancient wiring together. Yellow light bloomed and revealed a lone figure sitting at the vintage Formica table in the small kitchen. It appeared to be a trim man with a woman's pantyhose stretched over his head, smoothing and distorting his features like God hadn't bothered to finish his clay sculpture of Man. On the table was an open bottle of cognac. The stranger held a glass of the amber liquor in one hand, and in the other he held a sleek, silver pistol aimed at Zelenko.
It was a SIG nine-millimeter with a stainless-steel finish. He knew his firearms and also knew that one round at this close distance would be enough to put even a big man like himself flat on his back or keeled over clutching his guts.
Zelenko took a calming breath.
Aside from the man—and the gun—what immediately caught his interest was the long black case that was also on the table, like something used to carry a long band instrument like a trombone or bass saxophone. Its lid was flipped open, revealing what an untrained eye might think was a science-fiction rifle from a movie set: more plastic than metal, cylindrical and clunky. It was set perfectly into a black foam cutout to protect what Zelenko knew were sensitive electronics.
This was tomorrow's business come early.
Another of the black cases was secured at the Mercury Deliveries office, ready to be express delivered to the Libyans at the Port, but this was Zelenko's practice model. He kept it in his apartment so he could remain familiar with the device and its many settings and menus. Using this rifle wasn't as simple as pulling a trigger—except it was exactly that simple, once he set it up for the client.
Also, it never hurt to have insurance should Marat Solonik ever toss him aside. Zelenko could disappear with the case and off-load it himself, walking away with a cool million, and this fucker with the pantyhose on his head had just taken it captive.
"I can tell you're not Russian," he said as he hovered at the threshold of the kitchen and crossed his arms. "Your accent is insulting. Shall we try French?"
"How about English?" said the man in a British accent.
That was surprising.
Zelenko answered in English as heavily accented as the stranger's Russian. "What can I do for you this evening?"
"It's a bit funny, innit?" said the man. "A Russian's apartment but not a drop of vodka to be found."
"I got sick of it."
The masked man laughed.
"Besides," Zelenko gestured to the open cognac, "what do they say? When in France?"
"It's Rome, but I appreciate the sentiment. You can sit—carefully now—and grab a glass while you're at it."
Zelenko slowly turned his back on the man and retrieved a crystal glass from a cupboard. He paused before pulling the chair away from the short side of the Formica table, opposite the stranger with the gun. He paused before sitting and made an asking gesture with his hands. The pistol waggled permission and Zelenko eased his bulky frame into the little aluminum-framed chair. He poured himself a full glass of the cognac and drained half of it before filing it again.
The man mimicked his move and drank from his own crystal glass through a slit in the pantyhose.
"Here's how this works," said the man. The pantyhose stretched as he talked, and was Zelenko mistaken or was there a hint of facial hair poking up through the mask? A mustache? A beard? "I'm going to rob you, but first I'm going to ask you some questions and you're going to answer. You might even get something out of it if I like your answers."
Zelenko could crush this man with his bare hands if he could reach across the length of the table before the man could pull a trigger. Unlikely. So, he'd play along until his two henchmen arrived as scheduled. It took a moment of discipline to not glance at the Bell & Ross strapped to his wrist.
"Do you understand?" said the man.
"Quid pro quo, Clarisa," Zelenko said slowly, each word absolutely dripping with Russian accent.
"Ah! In the movie it's Clarice, but close enough. Now, first question: what the fuck is this?"
The man indicated the odd rifle in the long black case.
"You don't know, but you are here to steal it?"
"I'm going to steal it, but I'm here for answers."
"It's toy."
"For whom?"
"For me," Zelenko said and drained more of his cognac. If he was going to die tonight, he wanted some fire in his belly before he went.
"A better question then: what does it do? Please keep in mind that there's a pistol aimed at your gut."
"There's always pistol . . . but, okay, it messes with electronics from far away. GPS. Altitude. AM/FM radio."
The man snickered. That was good. Make him laugh. Build rapport and keep him talking until the opportunity came to crush him.
Zelenko continued. "Good for countering drones on battlefield."
"Like Ukraine?"
"Like everywhere," Zelenko said and shrugged.
The man sipped on his glass and Zelenko copied, instantly regretting it. Maybe he shouldn't have had the Jäger earlier. His head was feeling as thick as his English. "My turn for question," he said.
A laugh from across the table. "Okay, shoot. That means to proceed with your question, not you know." He waggled his silver pistol.
"Englishman robs Russian in France, for tool he does not recognize." Zelenko slowly reached forward and closed the lid on the black case, securing its clasps when the masked man didn't stop him. He pushed the case closer to the man across from him. Visible now on the top was a little logo painted by stencil with white paint: an orca or killer whale, the Kosatka. It was Marat Solonik's signature, in a way, and a sign of his ego.
"Take it. It's not even mine and I won't miss it. But who are you and what do you really want?"
The pantyhose mask stretched into a grotesque smile.
"Now that I see it, I actually want that beautiful watch, old man. You don't keep shit for valuables in this hovel—with the exception of advanced electronic warfare devices, apparently. You're a strange man, Zebra. I expected cash or jewelry."
"Zebra? Hmph. Not the worst I've been called." Zelenko undid the clasp and set the Bell & Ross on top of the black case. Easy come and easy go.
"Last question and I'm out of your hair, gone like a—"
"—thief in night. Yes, very poetic. I should be robbed by English more often. You are very Shakespeare."
Zelenko's head was killing him now. Exactly how many drinks did he have?
The man laughed. "Shakespeare? That's the first example of an English poet you could come up with?"
"I prefer movies." He blinked his eyes slowly and made an effort to keep his head upright. Something was wrong. "You poison me?"
"Drugged you." The man in the pantyhose mask nodded at the open bottle of cognac. "You won't die. Well, not tonight and not from the pills I slipped in the bottle. Now, my last question, and it's the most important one, so listen carefully: who is the fat man on the Kosatka?"
Zelenko's face drooped towards his chest. Small waves of tiredness lapped at the pebble shore of his mind.
"Hey!" the man said. "Stay with me, now. The fat man: who is he?"
"Quid pro quo," Zelenko slurred, suddenly smiling. "Remember?"
"Ah! Now you're playing! I know you're into some shit, but it's not your shit, is it? Look around at this hovel! You deserve better, my friend! You work so hard and have so little, don't you? Not compared to your boss in his hillside villa or the fat man hiding on the yacht. Both could be yours, you know? The villa. The boat. Everything. Quid pro quo, my little Clariska. Who's the fat man?"
Zelenko had envisioned this very thing, taking over the business or—hell—maybe just retiring and living off the fat of Marat's bloated accounts. Zelenko had the access; did all the transfers. It wouldn't be impossible to—the future swam through his mind, slowly, like a fish in a cognac pond.
"Stay with me, old boy. Let's make a deal."
There were voices beyond the apartment door behind him; people talking on the stairs beyond. The masked man's eyes flashed from Zelenko to the door and back.
"New deal," Zelenko slurred. "I take everything and you fall out window."
The man across from him muttered something about Russians and windows, but then the door opened with a burst of laughter and then sudden silence. Zelenko had his back to the door, but he imagined his lackeys assessing the situation.
They shouted in unison and then there was a rustling of clothing and the drawing of weapons. The man in the pantyhose stood and grabbed the long black case in one motion, aiming his pistol with his other hand. Zelenko expected a 9mm slug to hit him in the chest, but the masked man kicked the Formica table into him instead, and both crashed to the kitchen floor. The silver pistol barked twice at the same time the bottle of cognac cracked apart on the tile. Behind him there were answering barks from two Glock pistols that sent plaster raining down from the ceiling and exploding from the wall: shots gone astray as everyone dived for cover.
The masked man disappeared in the chalky haze, but the peal of broken glass from the back of the apartment announced his escape. There was a balcony outside Zelenko's bedroom window, and balconies on the floors below. It would be a desperate escape, but it was possible. From his prone position and through drugged, cloudy eyes, Zelenko watched his minions quickly but cautiously penetrate deeper into the apartment with their guns leading their way.
The long black case containing the electronic rifle was gone, but Zelenko's eyes caught the bronze and green face of the Bell & Ross on the floor, soaking in an amber pool of cognac and dusted in plaster from the ceiling like powdered sugar over a French pastry.
Zelenko's head was spinning wildly and his ears rang from all the gunfire. He'd been lucky this time, like he'd always been in battle, unless—like Einstein's carnival float had said earlier—it was all an illusion. Maybe it hadn't been his father, dead and staring up at the gilded ceiling of an Orthodox church; maybe it'd had been himself all along, poisoned by the mines of Norilsk. Or maybe it'd been the stranger's poisoned drink that had done him in? Zelenko closed his eyes, ready for the tattooed moths to flutter up from his neck and carry him into the void beyond, be it death or just sleep.
Time would tell.