Firestorm: Book III of the Wildfire Saga (9 page)

"Command, I think we got something here."

C
HAPTER
10

London, England.

V
ASILY
A
NDROPOV
STEPPED
THROUGH
his hotel’s massive front doors.
 
He coughed in the stiff breeze that ruffled a few bits of trash down St. Martin’s Lane.
 
Glancing at his watch, he pulled the well-worn coat a little tighter around his shoulders.
 
Catching his reflection in the front door, he resolved his first order of business would be to get a new coat before finding a suitable club for the night's entertainment.
 
He had plenty of money and time to kill before tomorrow morning’s meeting at Onnei’s UK branch.
   

Perhaps Mother would like some nice fabric…she could sew a dress or make new curtains or something.
 
He frowned.
 
He didn't know the first thing about what his mother would do with a bundle of fabric.
 
Vasily wanted to get her something, but what?

Another problem troubled him: he had no idea where to find the shopping district.
 
London was a huge town, easily dwarfing anything he'd ever seen in Russia.
 
Even Kursk—until today the largest town he’d ever visited—could fit inside a suburb of the British capital.

He’d been so lost in thought he did not notice a black cab approach the curb nearby.
 
The driver said something unintelligible, so Vasily assumed the man wanted to know if he needed a lift.
 
Vasily nodded, his fist at his mouth as he coughed.
 

"Shopping," Vasily croaked.
 
He cleared his throat and turned the collar up on his old farm coat.
 
English…try English.
 
"If…I wish…shopping."
 
Was that it?

Comprehension crossed the man's face.
 
He nodded and spoke again, jerking his thumb to indicate the street.
 
Vasily frowned and pointed at his jacket.
 
The driver leaned over the seat as Vasily got in the cab and asked something again.

Vasily looked around, unsure what the man was asking him.
 
He understood the word ‘shop’, but little else.
 
He sighed.
 
If only I’d been assigned Paris.
 
At least I would have had a chance at understanding what people are saying.

Vasily spotted an attractive woman across the street as she talked with an old man in a sharp suit.
 
He pointed at her.
 
"Fancy."

The driver turned, took in the pair and flashed a smile at Vasily.
 
He rattled off something and put the snug little car in gear.
 
Vasily nodded his thanks and stifled a sneeze.
 
Cursed doctors and their vaccines…

Vasily sat in the back of the cab and watched as the gray stone buildings blurred around him.
 
The driver weaved in and out of traffic, honking his horn when needed to avoid pedestrians and other cars.
 
More than once, he closed his eyes as a pedestrian stepped out onto the street and narrowly avoided a trip to the hospital.
 
The driver continued talking to Vasily, but he understood little to nothing.
 
He nodded along and tried to smile at what he thought were the appropriate times.
 
As he grunted agreement at the man’s inane rambling, Vasily marveled at the large stone structures and classic architecture of downtown London.
 
The city seemed to sprawl on forever.
 

Is there no end to this place?

At last, the cab driver pulled up to the curb of a street filled with shops—department stores, dressmakers, tailors—all displaying their wares in well-lit windows.
 
Vasily stared in open-mouthed wonder at the frank display of luxury.
 
Such wealth was largely unknown back in Kursk, with the exception of the local mafia lords.
 

He reluctantly tore his eyes from the happy shoppers outside and thumbed through a stack of British currency.
 
He examined the numbers on the driver’s fare meter.
 
Hoping he picked the right brightly-colored bill, Vasily handed the driver his money.
 

The man looked between the money in his hand and Vasily with a furrowed brow.
 
He shook his head and tried to hand the money back.
 
Vasily insisted and refused to take it back.

“Keep it,” he said in Russian.
 
“I feel generous tonight!”

The driver tried again to refuse—a bit half-heartedly—but in the end he relented.
 
Vasily watched as he removed a few of bills before pocketing the rest and handing over the change.

Even through the language barrier, Vasily understood what the man was trying to do.
 
He smiled—for the first time in his life Vasily was able to be financially generous and enjoyed raising a hand to signal the driver to keep the change.
 
A wide smile spread across the driver’s face.
 
He motioned for Vasily to exit the cab and seemed content to wait.

Vasily shook his head.
 
“I don’t know how long I’ll be…”

The driver looked at him askance, the language barrier palpable.
 
At length the man nodded.
 
He pointed at his watch, then pointed at the cab, and finally pointed at the curb.
 
Vasily watched in silence.
 
Then he pointed at Vasily.

He wants to know if he should wait for me!
 
Vasily smiled and nodded.
 
He glanced at his own watch and adjusted for London time.
 
I shouldn’t be out late tonight.
 
I want to make a good impression tomorrow, so that means a good night’s sleep.
 
An hour for shopping and another for dinner…that should do.
He pointed at his own watch, held up two fingers and arched an eyebrow.

The cab driver nodded and flipped the switch on his fare meter.
 
A yellow light changed to blinking red on the meter.
 
Vasily exited the vehicle and coughed again.
 
He shuddered and hurried forward, eager to get inside the warmth of the building.
 
He continued to cough and sneeze inside the first store, trying not to wince as people took notice.

These British are scared of the flu?
 
They sit here in the lap of luxury with more resources and bounty than I've ever seen in my entire life and they fear a little sickness?
 
These weaklings would never survive back home
.
 
Vasily caught a man staring at him.
 
The taller man nodded stiffly and shuffled past, wrapped in gravitas.
 
He looked weak.
   

In Russia, only the strong survive.

They fear me the flu.
 
Vasily smiled to himself as he sneezed into his hand before he absently wiped it on his pants.
 
His eye caught the price tag on a skimpy dress.
 
That much?
 
For that?
 
There's hardly enough fabric there for a scarf, let alone a dress.
 
Nyet.
 
He sniffed and cleared his throat as he moved toward the men's department.

An hour and a half later, Vasily emerged from the boutique wearing his new full-length trench coat.
 
He turned up the collar to protect his neck and spotted the cab driver.
 
A coughing fit struck him as he approached the little black car and he doubled over in an attempt to pull air into his lungs.
 
The driver lurched from his car and ran to assist.

"It’s okay," Vasily said through clenched teeth.
 
A cold sweat broke out over his forehead and he failed to hold back another sudden sneeze.
 
The cab driver recoiled and wiped at his face as Vasily apologized profusely.
 

The cab driver laughed it off and finished cleaning his face with a handkerchief.
 
He said something to Vasily and the smile on his face said there were no hard feelings.

Upon reentering the cab, Vasily made it clear he was hungry.
 
The driver nodded and off they sped into the growing twilight.

Time to eat and then maybe it’s off to bed.
 
My chest feels thick.
 
A good night’s sleep will help.
 
And vodka.
 
Dedushka
always said vodka will cure anything that ails a good farmer.

Vasily watched the blurred buildings as exterior lights turned on and London cloaked itself in a sparkling evening gown.
 
He lost track of the statues and ornate buildings bathed in floodlights as they skimmed around parks.
 

At last they pulled up out front of what looked like an old townhouse.
 
Vasily noticed the people entering the place wore tuxedos and ball gowns.
 
Mortified he would be under dressed and seen as a foreign simpleton, Vasily shook.
 
He shook his shoulders as if he were dancing.

The driver's eyebrow climbed his forehead.
 
He laughed and said something Vasily didn't understand—but the driver did say the word ‘club’, so he nodded enthusiastically.

Almost an hour later, Vasily settled into a comfortable booth at Club Rodina.
 
He belched and looked at the remains of his steak dinner.
 
Full and fortified with his third vodka of the night, Vasily felt better than he had since he'd been hired by Onnei.
 

He swirled a glass of vodka and surveyed the dance floor.
 
His table vibrated in time with the loud bass.
 
He watched with an amused smile on his face as several dozen scantily dressed women gyrated to the music.
 
All around him, other men and women were watching those on the dance floor.
 

Vasily knew dancing was out of the question–what dancing he’d experienced had been common Russian folk dancing.
 
Hardly something that would garner him the attention he wanted from girls in a place like this.

He finished the vodka and put the glass down, then signaled his waitress for another round.
 
He hoped it would boost his confidence enough to approach one of the unattended women at the bar.
 
His server walked over with a shy smile on her face and brought him a fresh glass.
 
Vasily took a sip and decided he had the money, he would no longer drink cheap vodka.
 
He grimaced and put the glass down.
 
It was time he drank real vodka.

The waitress asked him a question, and he doubted he would have been able to understand her even if he could hear over the noise.
 
The alcohol in his system had already begun to affect him, so that didn’t help either.
 
Vasily smiled and put his hand over the glass.
 

"I don't want this Polish horse piss anymore.
 
Give me some good
Russian
vodka."

The woman regarded him with half closed eyes.
 
After a moment, she shook her head and offered an apology by way of shrugged shoulders.
 

She doesn't understand me.
 
Vasily sighed and slowly said, "Russian," as he pointed at the drink.

To help sweeten the deal, he removed his billfold and pulled out a another artistic bank note.
 
Does this work better?
 
He slapped it on the table and put the glass of vodka on top of it before sliding both back toward the waitress.

Her face lit up.
 
She nodded effusively, took the vodka and downed it herself in one gulp before turning the glass over and slapping it on the table.
 
She picked up the bill,
 
slipped it into her ample cleavage, and winked.
 
As she walked away, Vasily couldn't help but appreciate the sway of her hips as she disappeared into the crowd.
 

He leaned back into his chair and sighed, watching a redhead on the dance floor.
 
She has lovely hair…I wonder what it smells like?
 
Vasily smiled.
 
With the money he had in his billfold, anything was possible.

And tomorrow I will have ten times as much!

The waitress bounded back to the table and produced a new drink with a proud sweep of one arm.
 
She put the glass down before Vasily with a flourish, exposing the top of her pillowy breasts.
 
Vasily smiled at the sight down her shirt.
 
He rubbed his hands and leaned forward in anticipation, taking a sniff of the clear liquid.
 
It smelled right.