it.”
“Of course I enjoy it. We save lives, born and unborn.”
“So, I ask you, what are the names of the drugs Lyashko’s men have supplied?”
“One of them is called ecstasy,” said Ivan, taking out his cell phone and flipping it open. “I wish we had cell phone service here.”
“Who would you call?” asked Vasily.
“Perhaps I would call Mikhail Kalashnikov,” said Ivan. “He died a few years ago,” said Vasily. “Don’t you listen to your radio?”
“In that case, I would call his family and thank them for his invention. Do you realize that even though we use modified versions manufactured under the name AKM, everyone still calls them AK-47s?”
“I realize this,” said Vasily. “When I do not have it with me, mine is stored under lock and key. Do you have anything else on your mind this evening?”
“I would like to have access to satellite television,” said Ivan. “I believe the education would help me learn more about my future investments.”
“Investments?” asked Vasily.
“Of course,” said Ivan. “I am going to set up my own compound on the other side of the reservoir. There is plenty of vacant land. The only ones who go there are bird watchers. I will create a bird-watching lodge as a disguise for my trafficking operation … Did you know in Britain women are called birds?”
“Yes,” said Vasily.
Ivan continued. “In any case, I will set up a trafficking network to take advantage of the economic situation in cities with the highest unemployment. There are many young women begging for work. I will create my own trail heading north out of Ukraine rather than south. While everything else goes down in value, investment in young women is the wisest investment of all. Each evening, I will spend some of my capital, if you know what I mean … But above all, I will stay away from Moldova, because the traffickers there are insane. Instead of messing with them I will continue building my muscles with my exercise equipment.”
Rather than saying anything further, Vasily picked up his AK-47, walked up the beach, and then trotted along the main path to his cabin on the far side of the peninsula. As he ran, he wondered what this winter would be like when ice made travel across the reservoir impossible, even when using inflatables. If Ivan were still here, and still insane, and if Pyotr was still using Ivan and his boys as so-called soldiers, winter would be hell, especially with streetwise new arrivals to oversee. Too many new arrivals had been brought in this spring and summer, and drugs had become the only way to control them.
In his cabin on the peninsula, Pyotr Alexeyevich Andropov also considered the fate of the summer’s new arrivals. Almost three months and many, especially the ones from the Romanian raid, still seemed independent.
Pyotr’s cabin was large, furnished rustically with wooden chairs and tables, walled in knotty pine. He sat at a massive desk. Despite its size, the desk did not have the finely finished surface of an executive desk. It was rough hewn, its smoothness furnished by layers of lacquer.
Pyotr had his elbows on the desk, his face in his hands. Like the others on the peninsula, he wore a blue sweatshirt and blue jeans. He was thin, and this emphasized his height. His hair was silver and thick, too silver for his age. A pair of black-framed glasses rested on the desk beside a black telephone. He took his hands from his face and put on his glasses. He seemed to concentrate for a moment, staring at his hands. The glasses made him look bookish. The face seemed pleasant and kind.
He rose from the desk and went to a floor-to-ceiling wall cabinet. He took a key from his pocket, unlocked the cabinet. Inside were several computers, a video recorder, a satellite receiver, and a large-screen television. He flipped a switch on a power strip inside and sat on a sofa facing the open cabinet as the television came to life. The sofa was wood framed and covered
“Of course I enjoy it. We save lives, born and unborn.”
“So, I ask you, what are the names of the drugs Lyashko’s men have supplied?”
“One of them is called ecstasy,” said Ivan, taking out his cell phone and flipping it open. “I wish we had cell phone service here.”
“Who would you call?” asked Vasily.
“Perhaps I would call Mikhail Kalashnikov,” said Ivan. “He died a few years ago,” said Vasily. “Don’t you listen to your radio?”
“In that case, I would call his family and thank them for his invention. Do you realize that even though we use modified versions manufactured under the name AKM, everyone still calls them AK-47s?”
“I realize this,” said Vasily. “When I do not have it with me, mine is stored under lock and key. Do you have anything else on your mind this evening?”
“I would like to have access to satellite television,” said Ivan. “I believe the education would help me learn more about my future investments.”
“Investments?” asked Vasily.
“Of course,” said Ivan. “I am going to set up my own compound on the other side of the reservoir. There is plenty of vacant land. The only ones who go there are bird watchers. I will create a bird-watching lodge as a disguise for my trafficking operation … Did you know in Britain women are called birds?”
“Yes,” said Vasily.
Ivan continued. “In any case, I will set up a trafficking network to take advantage of the economic situation in cities with the highest unemployment. There are many young women begging for work. I will create my own trail heading north out of Ukraine rather than south. While everything else goes down in value, investment in young women is the wisest investment of all. Each evening, I will spend some of my capital, if you know what I mean … But above all, I will stay away from Moldova, because the traffickers there are insane. Instead of messing with them I will continue building my muscles with my exercise equipment.”
Rather than saying anything further, Vasily picked up his AK-47, walked up the beach, and then trotted along the main path to his cabin on the far side of the peninsula. As he ran, he wondered what this winter would be like when ice made travel across the reservoir impossible, even when using inflatables. If Ivan were still here, and still insane, and if Pyotr was still using Ivan and his boys as so-called soldiers, winter would be hell, especially with streetwise new arrivals to oversee. Too many new arrivals had been brought in this spring and summer, and drugs had become the only way to control them.
In his cabin on the peninsula, Pyotr Alexeyevich Andropov also considered the fate of the summer’s new arrivals. Almost three months and many, especially the ones from the Romanian raid, still seemed independent.
Pyotr’s cabin was large, furnished rustically with wooden chairs and tables, walled in knotty pine. He sat at a massive desk. Despite its size, the desk did not have the finely finished surface of an executive desk. It was rough hewn, its smoothness furnished by layers of lacquer.
Pyotr had his elbows on the desk, his face in his hands. Like the others on the peninsula, he wore a blue sweatshirt and blue jeans. He was thin, and this emphasized his height. His hair was silver and thick, too silver for his age. A pair of black-framed glasses rested on the desk beside a black telephone. He took his hands from his face and put on his glasses. He seemed to concentrate for a moment, staring at his hands. The glasses made him look bookish. The face seemed pleasant and kind.
He rose from the desk and went to a floor-to-ceiling wall cabinet. He took a key from his pocket, unlocked the cabinet. Inside were several computers, a video recorder, a satellite receiver, and a large-screen television. He flipped a switch on a power strip inside and sat on a sofa facing the open cabinet as the television came to life. The sofa was wood framed and covered
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