The Camel's Curse by Eli Dahle

PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE

Southern Russia

April 7; 9:50 p.m. MSK

The cold, wet wind whipped past the two men, tearing at their clothes, carrying with it the jumbled smells of sea and dust and aviation fuel.  It was dark, the only illumination that of the flashing blue runway lights in the distance and a large sign on the roof of a yellow building 500 meters away that flickered, several letters dark, spelling the word Kra noda in white, Cyrillic letters.  The men glanced up in unison as the rumbling, guttural growl of a large airplane coming in low overhead made the ground tremble.

The man on the right was younger and shorter, with a protruding stomach and thick muscles visible at the base of his neck where it emerged from his raincoat.   The other was about 50, with puffy, swept-back hair that formed a solid crown on his head impervious to the strong wind.  He spoke in Russian, staring intently at the horizon without a glance at his companion.  “What do we have tonight Dmitry?”

Dmitry tore his eyes from the horizon and turned, squinting, toward his companion.  “You know, Igor, the usual.  How many times have we been through this already?”

Igor tapped his foot as he stared into the distance.  “The trucks are ready.  We’ll have it mixed and out within the week.  You’ll have your cut by Monday, latest.”

“Listen,” Dmitry said.  “Our krysha is upset; suspects there’s leakage somewhere in the chain, somewhere near the top.  You haven’t been getting greedy have you?”

Igor smiled.  “That notebook in your hands isn’t just for homework, is it?  Check as much as you want, I have nothing to hide.”

The men stopped talking and looked out toward the approaching airplane, which appeared in the distance as a dim, gray smudge on the black horizon.   As it taxied closer, Dmitry held his fingers to his ears while Igor, watching, purposefully did not, though he was unable to suppress a grimace as the roar of the antiquated jet engines slammed against his eardrums.  The old Ilyushin II-76 cargo transport, its wings high on its body, the only windows those for the pilots, pulled to a shuddering, ungraceful halt.  Green ZIL cargo trucks with canvas-covered beds that looked like relics from World War II approached from the direction of the terminal, their loud, smoky diesel engines drowned out by the whine of the Ilyushin. 

The door to the plane opened and airstairs built into the fuselage descended.  A tall man emerged from the door, his flowing blue robe billowing in the wind.  Igor watched as he carefully adjusted a black veil that covered his nose and mouth before striding down the stairs.

The ZILs surrounded the plane as an old, orange forklift unloaded large, wooden crates that were then pushed by men in camouflage into place on the truck beds.  Igor stood silently next to the robed figure as Dmitry dashed back and forth between the trucks comparing a list of numbers in his notebook with the information stamped on the side of the cartons.  When finished Dmitry approached, yelling to be heard over the roar of the engines.  “Your Cossacks are disciplined and work quickly. I like that.  But there’s an extra box here that’s not on my list.”

“And you were worried about leakage.  Instead, what? We’ve got more?  Your list must be wrong.”

“No, this is the approved list, direct from the Ministry.  I’m sure it’s right.”

The black-veiled man stared fixedly at Dmitry, then turned his gaze to Igor, who nodded with a twitch of his hair.  The man held his gaze for several seconds and gestured with his left arm, extending his index finger and flicking his wrist as if in a curt good bye.  Instead of returning to the plane, however, he unsheathed a long, pointed sword from a saber concealed in the folds of his robe.  He turned quickly toward Dmitry, who stood frozen, uncomprehending, before raising his arms reflexively as if in surrender or supplication.  Without hesitation, the blue-robed man swung his sword in a broad arc around his head that was only momentarily, almost imperceptibly, interrupted when it made contact with Dmitry’s neck.  Dmitry’s head balanced for a moment atop the now disconnected neck before dropping to the ground as the body that supported it fell forward to the tarmac. The man turned and, reaching into his robe, pulled out a small leather sack tied with twine, which he tossed to Igor.  Without a word he picked up the head with one hand, a leg with the other, and dragged the body toward the plane, leaving a stream of red behind him.    

Igor smiled to himself as he fingered the sack in his hands.  Another successful delivery.   The plane’s retreating engines kicked up a vortex of sand that swirled around him, engulfing him in a painful eddy as the grains pinged against his face.  Through squinted lids he thought he saw the sand form into the fleeting, indistinct image of a man, similar to the clouds he used to watch from the backyard of his house in Yerevan as a boy.  But before he could focus on the image, identify it, the airplane took off and the sand fell, formless, about his feet.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: THE NOVEL IS ALREADY COMPLETE SO I PROMISE NOT TO LEAVE READERS HANGING.  I PLAN TO POST CHAPTERS EVERY COUPLE OF DAYS.  PLEASE LET ME KNOW YOUR COMMENTS TO THE INTRO.  I'M A BIG BELIEVER IN, AND VERY MUCH APPRECIATE, CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM.