The Camel's Curse by Eli Dahle

CHAPTER 6

Moscow, Russia

April 11, 9 a.m. MSK

Slava was waiting in the Audi as promised the next morning, his burly, unshaven face unimproved by a good night’s sleep. 

“Good morning Mr. Evans.  How was your evening?”

“Fine, I guess.”  He told Slava of the strange man on Red Square but omitted the more pleasant encounter in the bar.

Slava shook his finger in admonition.  “I told you be careful.  You look like a foreigner.  Got a big target on your face.  But all’s good that ends good.  Let’s go.  Doug’s secretary called to say he arrived at office.”

As they drove Tim described the man’s uniform, the tall hat, the leather boots. 

Slava thought for a moment.  “Sound like Cossack to me.”

“What’s that?”

“They like your cowboy,” Slava said.  “Before Soviets they protect the Tsar and ride around steppe.  But they darker than cowboy, I no know words to describe them.  Nowadays, they live off their myths, drinking and screaming about foreigners and how Russia is corrupted.  Conservative and mean and violent.  Best stay away.”

Fifteen minutes later, Slava pulled into an underground parking structure in a modern high-rise office building surrounded by decrepit brick apartment buildings.  They exited the elevator together onto a marbled corridor lined with dark wood panel and recessed lighting set into sconces along the wall.  Slava touched his thumb to a sensor and a mirrored glass door slid open, exposing a bright room filled with windows that offered a panoramic view of Moscow.  Tim’s knees trembled as the usual vertigo threatened to overcome him.  A door in the far wall opened and Doug strode through, welcoming Tim in his booming, high-pitched voice.

“Tim, so wonderful to see you,” he said, wrapping his brother in a flaccid embrace.  “You look great.  Thank you for coming.” 

Keeping his back to the window, Tim looked at his older brother.  He could not see any particular familial resemblance, although he didn’t really want to find one.  Doug appeared sleek and well groomed in his expensive suit, but the years had not been kind.  He had a slight paunch, artfully concealed under the expensive tailoring, and his face, though unlined, was gaunt, with a yellowish tinge.  Tim thought he noticed a slight tremor in Doug’s hands, barely noticeable, like a light wind through the leaves of a tree. 

Tim, for a moment, did not know what to say.  Seeing Doug brought back bad memories he had long tried to suppress and he felt himself, against his will as if by instinct, reverting to his accustomed role of awkward, naïve little brother. 

“Good to be here, I guess,” Tim finally said.  “I’m the one with jet lag but I have to say that you look a little tired.”

“Tell me about it.  Actually, follow me, and I’ll tell you about it.”

They entered an expansive office with a long, glass conference table and an immaculate desk fronting a wall of windows that bathed the room, despite the gray day, in natural light.  Five large computer screens surrounded the desk and, in a juxtaposition of ancient and modern, shelves on the wall opposite held a collection of antique marble busts.  A beautiful secretary clad in Armani was setting out tea and coffee.  She glanced briefly at them with stunning hazel eyes before turning her attention back to the service. 

“That’s quite a collection,” Tim said, gesturing toward the busts. 

“Thought you were going to comment on Olga,” Doug said, glancing at his secretary with admiration.  “That’s what gets most of the attention.  Those things are gifts from a partner.  Excavated in Northern Africa.  Ancient Greeks, or Romans, or whatever.  Can’t remember.  Let’s sit over here,” Doug said.  He gestured toward two comfortable chairs facing each other on a Persian carpet in the corner.  “I imagine you want to know why you’re here.”