OOC: This had started out as a shortish idea and ended up being over 3000 words. Also, you'd better be warned, this contains some strong language.
The day had been a long one in the automobile factories of Detroit. Dozens of the workers descended on pubs and bars after their shifts ended, some because they had no families, others because they did. The clinks and whirrs of machinery were replaced by the sounds of glass on glass and laughter, much aided by alcohol. Drinking was the main business and not talk, yet small talk still occurred, some comparing their latest conquests, others whining about some girlfriend that had left them. But all drank.
It was close to midnight, and most of the regulars had already headed home, when the small man entered the small, run-down bar in one of the suburbs. He ordered two whiskeys and sat down next to the thin, balding black man sitting in a corner booth. He pushed both whiskeys to the other man.
"Drink. Then we leave." His English was perfect, not a trace of any accent betraying where he came from. He definitely didn't look American though.
I stared back at him, already stone drunk. Of course, an offer of free alcohol was never to be refused, so I happily took both glasses and quickly gulped down one of them.
"Wha...wha..." I managed to say, wanting to ask him what he wanted, but my tongue did not want to cooperate and after two more botched tries I gave up. I scratched my balding head with a still oily hand, leaving black smears.
I did have that other whisky before leaving though. The small man had to help me walk out of the place, and luckily he was the one, who drove my car. Of course, when he woke me with a bucketful of water in the morning, I didn't remember a single thing about the night before.
He told me all about it on the way to the airport. The wad of bills had silenced any questions I might have had in my horrendously hung-over state and I just let him talk.
I wasn't surprised when he handed me a false passport and a plane ticket to go with it. Apparently I was Joseph North, a resident of San Francisco. My black face grinned back at me from the passport. It was the same picture that I had in my real passport.
"How's your Russian been since '84?" he asked. Now that did come as a surprise. Not many people had known I had profited of the hospitality of Mother Russia in that troubled year. I had only fired a bullet, but getting out of the country had been hell afterwards. It was hard to hide as a black whiskey-drinker in a country of white vodka-lovers.
"How's the Russian hospitality been since then?" I asked.
"They despise a healthy looking, long-haired black man. Fortunately for you, you're neither of those."
We reached customs then and the next time we spoke was on the streets of Saint Petersburg, arriving via Amsterdam.
"So, who are we looking for?" I asked, referring to what must have been a job for the first time.
"Ivan."
"Ivan?"
"Ivan," he confirmed. The man who had hauled my ass out of the good old Soviet Union back in '84. I owed him my life. And I had made a promise.
"No," I whispered. "I can't do that."
My companion moved faster than I had expected him to, grabbing hold of my shoulders and slamming me against the brick wall of some orthodox church, slamming a forearm against my neck.
"Listen here, you prick. The Boss wants it done and if it doesn't get done lives shall be lost. Starting with you and me I guess. Now, I don't really know about you, but I don't want to fucking die because of feeling mercy for a son-of-a-bitch Russian bastard."
"Why me? The Boss knows my history with the guy."
"The Boss is full of horse shit and both of us know that, but one thing he has right is that you know the guy. You can get close to him."
He was right of course. The Boss had indeed become quite erratic in the last few years. Having his legs blown off a couple years back, while selling weapons to the Palestinians had evidently not helped. Still, he was a vicious bastard, and...my thoughts trailed off as the pressure on my neck increased. Finally the white man let go and I slid to my knees, clutching at my throat.
"Play nice negro, and I'll be nice to you, but fuck with me and I'll have your head. I didn't ask for you to be on this job. I don't like it, but I'm stuck with you. Come on, we need to get weapons."
That was something that I could readily agree with. I was nowhere near sure who I wanted to use them against though.
The contact was a retired army general, throwing down vodka after vodka, a whore on each arm. His once black hair was flecked with grey, but his thick beard was still as black as ever.
"General Semyonov! A pleasure to see you again after so many years!" I called in Russian. Even back in '84 he had been my contact for weapons, albeit he had been eighty pounds and several white strands of hair younger then.
"Greetings, General," my companion started, in horrendously bad Russian, but luckily switched to English afterwards. "So sorry to have forgotten your last birthday. Please accept this gift." The gift was a deluxe package of Russian Standard vodka. At least he had gotten the general's tastes right.
"Hohoo, just the thing to make this old bear even happier." He sent the two prostitutes away and called for clean glasses. "It would be my pleasure to share this bottle with you, gentlemen," he said, opening the package. A paper note slipped out. "Oh, a birthday card!" he cried in simulated joy. He read in silence while the barman placed the three glasses on the table. "It will take two days and five thousand dollars." Money exchanged hands under the table. I felt strangely out of the loop and was not used to it at all.
After the first shot of vodka however, I was back to my old contented drunkard Detroit-state.
"For fuck's sake, black man, do you always have to drink yourself into oblivion?" He had woken me with a handful of water, for want of a bucket. "Take a shower, your mouth stinks of shit." He threw a towel after me.
The General had been in a very good mood last night, buying two more bottles of vodka, after we had finished off his birthday present. I hadn't really minded, but the prick I had to work with scowled at me every time that I had taken a shot. Of course he couldn't say anything, as it would have been a grave insult to Russian hospitality. While scrubbing dirt and sweat off my body I smiled when thinking back. I had lasted longer last night than the General.
Three days later we were on the road, in a hired car, moving east from Saint Petersburg. He drove.
"Tell me, black man, why are you such an alcoholic loser?" he asked, anxious to break the silence I had been comfortable with.
"Occupational hazard," I casually replied, but the question tore open memories of Budapest, three years ago. Not even the Boss knew what had happened there. All he knew was that the job had been completed and that he shouldn't ask any other questions. Budapest. Some call it the Pearl of the Danube. Not me. I nearly drowned in that bloody river. I had to kill her in the end, had no choice. But I hated myself every day and night for it. Goddamnit, why couldn't I have been left in retirement, slowly drinking myself into nothingness?
When I came out of my daydreaming, I saw that he was watching me. I also noticed that my hands were balled up into fists. I didn't care.
"Listen here, white man." I had taken to calling him white man, because the only thing he called me by was black man. That and negro, when he got really pissed off. "You're still young for this shit." He looked no older than twenty five, and couldn't control his emotions. He had shown that plenty of times in the past few days. Yet now he had set my emotions off. I'd have to watch myself with him. "I'd give you advice, but I know you don't give a damn about my opinion, so I'll just shut up. Now, concentrate on your driving, or you'll back-end one of those horrendously slow lorries."
As he turned back to the road, I gave one last glance at the fields speeding past and closed my eyes.
I dreamt the dream again. The dream about Budapest. I woke with a start several hours later. I was covered in sweat, a blanket draped around me, yet I was feeling terribly cold. The car was stopped and white man wasn't sitting next to me. I blinked my eyes for a few seconds and then realized why I couldn't see out the front windshield. Snow had fully covered it.
I got out, mostly for a stretch of the legs. We were in a gas station. All around the whole landscape was covered in at least a foot of fresh snow. And it was still only late October. White man emerged from the building with two steaming paper cups of coffee. I gladly took mine.
I drove afterwards. Not because white man really wanted me to drive, but because I actually knew where we were headed. It was in the first foothills of the Urals that we started hitting roads with occasional snowdrifts over four feet high. White man had been intelligent enough to get a four wheel drive, but still, we got stuck in snow twelve miles from where we were headed.
"Call Ivan, tell him we need help."
"You sure? I can't really see how we could smuggle that awesome four thousand dollar sniper rifle of yours in if we were escorted by his men."
"We die a slow death if we don't kill him. I prefer dying a quick death trying to kill him than tempting the Boss's wrath."
I shrugged and dialed the number I knew from memory.
"Snowstorm and being in the middle of nowhere, I have no signal," I had to say after the third try. Annoyed, he handed me a satellite phone.
"Gregory. Nice to see you calling," came the answer in Russian. The voice on the other end of the line was heavier than the last time we had spoken. And how the heck could he have known- "I've only given this number to you Gregory, you took awfully long to call it."
"I am sorry to have kept you waiting Ivan. I trust Anya is well."
"She has given me another boy Gregory. You should come visit soon. Anya has been dying to show you how well she has learnt making potatoes with gravy from your darling wife."
I bit back sounds of grief. My wife hadn't made any potatoes with gravy since Budapest.
"I might visit sooner than you think, dear friend. I'm stuck with a friend in this blasted snowstorm, twelve-thirteen miles out. We were planning on making a surprise visit." I stressed the words friend and surprise only slightly. White man wouldn't pick anything up from it, but Ivan might.
"Splendid! I'm looking forward to seeing you Gregory! Sasha, Vladimir, get the truck and bring them in. You'll have to excuse me Gregory, but the oven is very badly prepared for such surprise visits, and I wouldn't want to be unprepared for your arrival." I could almost feel his smile on the other side of the call. I hung up and white man snapped the phone from my hands. "We're not going for a convenience visit, black man. We're going to spill his blood."
It was awfully cold in the car by the time the former military truck pulled up. It was still snowing heavily and, with the sun starting to set, visibility was rapidly falling.
"Do you need the car?" one of Ivan's six men asked. "We can come back for it when the weather clears!" I shouted over the howling of the wind.
The ride back in the truck was bumpy and uncomfortable and even the truck almost got stuck in a particularly high drift of snow. Finally, after more than three days since having left the city of the czars, we reached Ivan's countryside home. In the States it would have been called a magnificent mansion, but here in capitalist Russia it was small compared to what others had.
I was the first to enter, white man following right behind. Ivan was waiting for us in the entrance hall. I lifted my hand in greeting and then heard the gunshot.
As I lay on my back on the floor, blood gushing from what should have been my thumb; all I could keep wondering about was how I had managed to completely miss the gun in Ivan's hands? Had I been so happy to see him at last as to lose all of my professional training in less than a second?
White man was dead. Bullet went straight through his heart. Even at sixty two Ivan was an amazing shot. He entered the room with a bottle of vodka.
"Damn you Gregory. You made me hit you." He put a rag on my mouth and I bit into it, knowing what was to come. The bullet had burnt most of the flesh and the alcohol stopped the rest of the bleeding from the wound. Thick bandages were wrapped around my right hand. "I am sorry, Gregory. I wish it had happened differently." He spoke in English, with just a hint of an accent.
"No, Ivan, I am at fault. He wants you dead and I had no choice but to bring this one here. Nice work picking up the hidden meaning over the phone. Speaking of the phone…" Thinking along the same line of thought, Ivan motioned for one of his men to bring me the satellite phone. It was pretty easy to find the number that I was looking for.
Half a world away a phone rang and a secretary picked the phone up. After the caller assuring her that he was calling about an urgent personal business, she reluctantly transferred the call to her boss, who really was a man, who did not like to be disturbed.
The phone was picked up and put down almost immediately. I made a puzzled face, but then the phone in my hands rang suddenly.
"Alain, I told you never to call during the hours my secretary was here. Lord knows who else she might be working for."
"Boss, things have gone down the shitter here! Alain is dead, Ivan is dead, and everyone is dead!" I spoke quickly, making my voice urgent and panicked.
"Who am I speaking to?"
"Boss, I'm Gregory. Remember, the Gregory who you sent to Moscow in '84."
"Yes, yes, I remember. Listen here, Gregory, there is a very important thing I want you to do. I need proof of Ivan's death. I want pictures of his dead body. Bring them back to the States. Call me when you're back and we'll set up a meeting then. And do not call this number before then!" he hung up.
I handed the phone back to Ivan. I felt much more tired than I should have been.
"Well?" Ivan asked finally.
"The Boss happens to be a certain Senator Georgeson, whom I'm sure you've heard of quite enough already. He also happens to want proof of your death and wants me to take that back to the US." I sighed. "Pretty much means that we've got the bastard. All it will take will be setting up a meeting."
Ivan nodded. "Come, the table is laden. I shall cut your meat for you if you want," he added with a grin.
"You got whisky Ivan?"
"Gregory, in this country we drink vodka." It was a long running joke between the two of us.
Eating with just my left hand was definitely hard.
"Mmmm, Anya, these potatoes with gravy are indeed delicious." Ivan's wife blushed at the compliment. "Thank you Gregory. How is your wife?"
My expression darkened. "Did I say some-" Anya started saying, but Ivan waved her down.
"Budapest," I whispered. Ivan leant closer to Anya and whispered something to her. Anya left the room. My Russian friend stood up and walked over to his liquor cabinet. Tears came to my eyes and I did not wipe them away.
"I had planned to keep this for a happier occasion; we shall drink to Elisabeth's memory." I rubbed the sleeve of my shirt over my face. It was a bottle of my favorite whisky. Together we drank the bottle, and then another afterwards. The alcohol helped keep dreams of Budapest away and I woke surprisingly non-hung-over.
Four days later we landed in New York. We checked into a Manhattan hotel. I called the Senator again that afternoon. A meeting was set up for the morning after.
"So, what's the plan?" I asked Ivan.
"You know, one very significant advantage of travelling on a diplomatic passport is that your luggage never gets checked." He opened his large suitcase on the bed, and I gaped at the contents. Grenades, guns, and a horseshoe.
"Horseshoe? What the hell is that for?"
"Why, luck of course."
"I never pictured you as a superstitious man, Ivan."
"Oh, I don't believe in supernatural forces. But, just in case they exist, better be prepared, eh?"
We removed the guns and stashed them under the hotel bed. Ivan rigged the explosives on the suitcase and I delivered it the next morning to the Senator himself. Just in case we had planned to follow the suitcase and had rigged it with a triggered charge, but blowing up the car in the middle of Broadway also worked and that early in the morning killed only the Senator and his protective detail.
Thankfully New York was not going to be added to the list of ever growing cities I had nightmares about. Everything had gone smoothly. By late afternoon we were already in LA. Ivan had called FBI from New York. The Bureau didn't necessarily agree with the method and the loss of innocent life, but the end result pleased them. No one would have wanted the Boss to face trial over running one of the most proficient assassination agencies for almost three decades. It would have been too embarrassing for everyone.
For us, it had just been another contract like all of them. All it had taken was convincing the Boss that Ivan was a Russian detective, who had information on him he wanted to blackmail with. I was bound to have been involved. If only they had known the full truth about Moscow in '84…
We sat on the beach, our feet touching the gently rippling waves. I had bought the whisky. Good bourbon, not my favorite sort, but still good stuff.
"For Elisabeth." I toasted with my glass and drank a shot. Her image flashed before my eyes, but I fought down the sorrow. She was now avenged
"For our continuing partnership," Ivan said, lifting his glass.
I took another shot of whiskey and smirked at the sunset.
Horseshoes and hand grenades. Potatoes and gravy. Black and white. That's about how we worked, despite everything, worked. We liked it that way too.
I still might pay him back for my thumb.
