The Accidental Existentialist (2 page)

“
So it was someone from
outside the States?”

“
Why you care so much?
Deal or no deal?”

“
What’s with the
boat?”

Rayshkin shrugged, pursed his lips,
took another puff of his cig, and flicked it into the water. “He
likes fishing. What can I say?”

“
Tell him, I’m not about
to give—”

With surprising speed for a man who
looked too lazy to scratch his own back, Rayshkin grabbed him by
the neck. Pushed him back to the iron rails. Bent Chris backwards
so half of his body dangled over the inky water. “You come on boat
now! Understand?”

The pain in his back nearly tempted a
shout out of him. But Chris refused to let that happen. Instead, he
focused on a much greater pain—the thought of what they’d done to
Ben, and his next move.

With all his strength, he hooked his
leg upwards with such relentless force that when his shin crashed
into Rayshkin’s ‘nads, he almost felt a sympathetic
cramp.

To his surprise, though Rayshkin
grunted and strained, though his eyes bulged, red with tears, he
only clamped down harder on Chris’ throat. Flecks of light shot
around his eyes like a fireworks show with no color but
white.

He was fading.

Unable to draw a breath.

Again, Chris kicked him in the crotch.
This time with the steel reinforced tip of his boot.

Rayshkin let out the breath he’d been
holding and cried out in agony. He let go, fell to the ground in a
fetal position holding his family rubles.

When Chris straightened up and rushed
over to Rayshkin, the pathetic assassin lifted a hand as though to
shield the next blow, and curled up even tighter. Like a pill
bug.

Catching his breath, Chris glanced
around and watched pedestrians walking by, ignoring the entire
scene. He reached down, grabbed Rayshkin by the arm and pulled him
to his feet. “All right. Where’s this boat?”

“
Pier…Seven!”

Before Rayshkin could do anything
about it, Chris relieved him of a Glock, a cellphone, and a box
cutter. And a tiny two inch blade that was sheathed and strapped to
his ankle. Looked like a silver arrowhead, but it was probably
sharp enough to slice through rope like it was
spaghetti.

Could come in handy.

He strapped it to his own ankle, and
then shoved Rayshkin forward towards the pier. “Let’s go and talk
to your boss now.”

A look of terror mixed with respect
emerged on Rayshkin’s countenance. “Now I know why my boss likes
you, O’Reilly. You’re crazy.”

Chris Connor smirked. “You have no
idea.”

It wasn’t one of those big fishing
boats that takes fifty or more out to water. Just a nice looking
yatch—the kind you might hold a small party on with a few friends,
no more than a dozen. Nothing impressive. Rayshkin stepped aboard
first, then Chris followed. That’s when he saw the name panted on
the hull.

Potemkin

Oh please, delusions of
grandeur, ya think? This ain’t no battleship
—Boris, a short man in a black leather jacket smirked at
Rayshkin. The entire conversation was conducted in their
mother-tongue and went to the effect of Rayshkin’s manhood being
question. Rayshkin tried to laugh it off, but his tell-tale limp
betrayed him.

Boris stiff-armed Chris as he tried to
pass him. He opened his palm and wiggled his fingers. “Come on, you
should know better.”

From his pocket Chris produced his
Beretta, held it by the muzzle and placed it in Boris’ hand. Then
he took out Rayshkin’s Glock, box-cutter and slapped them down on a
bench. Recognizing his comrade’s weapons, he laughed and called out
to him. “Evgeny, you are getting soft!”

Rayshkin turned around and gave him
the one-finger salute and went below decks.

His face otherwise stone cold, Chris
cracked a tiny grin from the side of his mouth. To Boris (in
Russian): “He’s a lamb.”

Boris slapped him on the back and
snickered like the rat he was. His blue ball-bearing eyes narrowed
and he rubbed his bald pate as he shook his head and continued to
make jokes about the Evgeny Rayshkin, aka “Evgeny the
Terrible”.

Chris stood still, though
the deck of the
Potemkin
tilted with the gentle tide. It was enough
though. He rarely went out on boats, and when he did, Dramamine was
his only salvation. “I don’t like boats very much.”

“
That is your
problem.”

“
Tell your boss that we’ll
talk right here.” Chris pointed to the red padded seats at the
aft.

Boris just shook his head and laughed.
“He will speak with you wherever he wants to. Now, come. He has
been waiting.”

Affecting an arctic scowl, Chris
prayed to God they would not sail out into the Atlantic. The last
thing he needed was to get sick all throughout this mission.
“Fine.”

The boat actually had an office. Boris
led Chris inside and had him take a seat on the sofa facing the
window of the starboard bow. Before him sat a polished mahogany
desk, with gaudy souvenirs: a figurine in a coconut bra, its
grass-skirt covered hips swaying with the motion of the boat, a
gold pistol-shaped cigarette lighter, and on the wall next to the
port holes, a framed picture of dogs playing poker. Where did this
guy get all this crap?

Boris stood at the door, his hands
behind his back and rocking back and forth on his heels. Every once
in a while he would make eye contact with Chris, wag his eyebrows
and smile. He must have hated Rayshkin’s guts and was glad to see
that someone had taken him down a notch.

Or ten.

The office cabin was dank, an
invisible cloud of dusty carpet fumes and salt-water hung in the
air like a dead rat in the basement. The only light came from the
green banker’s lamp on the boss’s desk, and the gray light through
the window. Every time he lifted his foot, the carpet made a sick
peeling sound as its surface clung greedily to the sole of his
shoe.

Chris had been waiting for ten minutes
now. He refused to engage Boris in any conversation, abruptly
answering his questions with yes, no, or with a silent, menacing
grin. He checked his watch.

2:15PM.

Time to make contact.

He reached into his jacket—which made
Boris stiffen—pulled out his iPhone and held it up for Boris to
see. “Just need to contact my guys about another deal.”

“
What other
deal?”

“
You don’t want to
know.”

“
Why?”

“
You’d have to
die.”

“
Pftt!” Boris started to
laugh again. This time, anxiety creased his brow. “You are too
close to deal here. You won’t do anything so—”

“
That’s what Rayshkin
thought. Now shut up, and let me send this text.”

“
Whatever.” Which came
out:
vhatewer
.

Chris’s heart felt like it would blast
out of his rib cage any moment. However calm he appeared on the
outside, he was passing bricks inside. Only someone who really was
involved with this kind of business would dare send text messages
in a situation like this. Or someone who wanted to get caught and
killed. He was betting on the former being the impression he
gave.

He fired off the text message and
within seconds the reply came.

Everything in place. Tracking
you.

“
Good.”

“
What?” Boris leaned over
and tried to steal a glance at the iPhone. But Chris clicked the
button on top and shut the display.

“
All I can say is, seven
billion doesn’t come easily. Had to break a lot of
heads.”

Boris rubbed the shiny top of his head
and did not smile. “You just watch yourself here, O’Reilly. Maybe
we all get rich today.”

“
Only a fool thinks in
terms of money only.”

“
What else is
there?”

Chris put his iPhone back in his
jacket. His fingers brushed over the little package wrapped in
plastic and his heart nearly stopped. He’d almost forgotten it was
there, it was so light. “Money is only a tool.”

“
You just made seven
billion.”

“
Like I said, it’s not
just money.”

A line stretched across Boris’ face
where his mouth had been. He crinkled his blonde eyebrows. “What
could be more important than money?”

Chris put his feet up on the glass
coffee table and sank back into the pleather upholstery. It let out
a nauseating puff of air. He stared right at the space between
Boris’ eyes and held his gaze. He did this until Boris swallowed,
looked away, looked back and shifted from one foot to another. Then
he told him.

“
Power.”

The sound of heavy footfalls and two
people shouting approached. The door swung open and a tall, lanky
man with dark brown hair draping over his eyes stepped in and
slammed it shut. He wore loose khakis and his shirt had not been
buttoned properly.

Boris stepped forward and gestured to
Chris. “Yuri, this is— ”

The door flung open with a bang. Chris
continued to sit with his feet up on the table, unperturbed and
only mildly curious. In came a blonde, wearing nothing but a large
white shirt, presumably Yuri’s, the red of her bikini bottom
flashing as she gesticulated wildly and swore at him in
Russian.

Yuri glanced over to Chris and spun a
finger around his head (the international “whacko” sign) and with
the fingers of his other hand made a chatterbox gesture. Finally,
he said to the girl, “Shut-up!”

She continued to swear.

“
Boris,” Yuri said. “Would
you show Svetlana off the boat, please?”

“
Of course.” Boris grabbed
Svetlana’s arm and pulled her out of the office.

Eyebrows angled in embarrassment, Yuri
shut the door, stepped over and shook Chris’ hand. “Yuri Stogorsky.
You must be Mark O’Reilly.”

“
In the flesh.”

“
Yes, well. Your flesh
smells like it hasn’t had a shower in weeks.”

“
All part of my
disguise.”

“
I see. Or smell—rather.”
Yuri went over to his desk and sat. He bent down and disappeared
for a second, then emerged with a bottle of Rodnik and a pair of
vodka glasses. “You’ll have to excuse me. Sometimes the girls they
send are—how do you say?—spirited. Care for a drink?”

Chris frowned severely and shook his
head.

“
But you know, it is a
trade-off. The spirited ones, as you know, are like sports
cars…eh…like Ferraris. High RPM, strong drive. Me? I like fast
women and beautiful cars.”

“
Man’s gotta have a
hobby.” Chris felt sick. He wasn’t sure if it was the rocking of
the boat or the sleazy role he had to play in order to get the job
done. Colonel Masterson was counting on him to get to Stogorsky,
who would lead him straight to the Big-K. But from the looks of it,
Khrenikov wasn’t even on the boat.

Yuri set down his glass, lit a
cigarette with his chintzy gun-lighter and puffed a toxic cloud
into the cabin. “So, I see you’ve introduced yourself to my body
guard.”

“
Rayshkin? My grandmother
could kick his ass. Frankly, I think Boris would do a better
job.”

“
Boris?” He took another
puff then exhaled loudly. “Maybe.”

“
Listen,
Stogorsky.”

“
Call me Yuri.
Please.”

“
I’ll call you Stogorsky
and you’ll call me O’Reilly. We’re not friends, were doing
business. Nothing personal. Got it?”

Impressed, he nodded and lifted his
glass to salute him. “All right, then. I knew I liked your style
from our phone calls and emails. You’re even better in…in...what
was that you said? I like that phrase.”

“
In the flesh.”

“
Yes, yes… in the
flesh!”

“
So this deal we talked
about? It’s solid. But like I told you, I speak directly with
Khrenikov or it’s off.”

From the window behind Yuri Stogorsky,
a flash of fair skin, a large white shirt, and a hint of a red
bikini bottom stumbled by. Then the black pant legs of Boris. A few
more choice Russian cuss words from Svetlana, then a huge splash of
water which sprayed the port holes on the starboard
side.

Yuri turned his head slightly towards
the sound and hiked a thumb at it. “Ferrari sometimes run too hot.
I’ll try a Porsche next time.”

“
Whatever.”

Stogorsky grinned briefly, then turned
to confront Chris. “Look, Khrenikov is a busy man. He counts on me
to vet potential dealers. Talk to me, then we’ll see about your
meeting with him.”

Impatience boiled to the surface of
Chris’ mind. Slowly, he lowered his feet from the table and leaned
forward. As he had with Boris, he fixed his gaze on Yuri’s forehead
and waited until the Russian blinked. “You’re changing the terms on
me. And if you’ve done your homework, you’ll know that’s a very
dangerous thing to do.”