The Soul Stealer. Alex Archer

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      “But they don’t use slave labor anymore, do they?”

      Gregor shrugged. “Depends on your definition of slave labor, I would suppose. Some would argue that the wages paid to the workers are not much better than what the original laborers received.”

      A light drizzle fell from the sky, spattering Annja’s face as she saw the lines around Gregor’s eyes deepen. He sniffed the air and shook his head. “Death on the wind is never washed away, no matter how many times God cries.”

      Annja said nothing, but felt a cold breeze whip along the sidewalk. Gregor tugged her arm. “I apologize. Sometimes, I reminisce too much. You have a meeting to attend and I am supposed to make sure you arrive there intact.”

      “Intact?” Annja asked, alarmed.

      Gregor frowned. “In one piece? Is that better?”

      “Either one works. I’m just curious as to why you chose those words instead of saying something, I don’t know, less dangerous sounding.”

      Gregor smiled. “Robert told me something about you. He said trouble seems attracted to you. It was his wish I guide you along so that trouble this time keeps its distance.”

      “Damned thoughtful of him,” Annja said. “Now, where’s the bar?”

      Gregor led her down the street, passing a Mercedes dealership. Gregor nodded at it. “Russian mafiya likes flashy cars. They have the money to buy, so the dealerships come to supply them with their wants.”

      “Are there a lot of gangsters around?”

      Gregor sniffed. “Russia is run by gangsters now. Some of them wear suits, some wear army uniforms. All of them are dangerous men.”

      “Lovely,” Annja muttered.

      At the next block, Gregor turned right and the streets narrowed. Farther on, Annja could make out a blinking neon sign in red Cyrillic letters. Gregor nodded. “That is the place.”

      When they stepped inside, the heat and the smell of alcohol hit her at the same time. Smoke hung in the air, belched out by a hundred cheap cigarettes all bucking for room in the crowded joint.

      Gregor nudged Annja ahead. “Robert waits in the back,” he said.

      Annja shouldered her way through the rough crowd. Some of them looked like greased pompadour playboys while others had the look of hunted men and women, all trying to scratch out some type of existence in a place that seemed to reek of death and haunting memories.

      Annja spied a couple of Naugahyde booths in back and headed for them.

      “Annja Creed!”

      Rising out of one of the booths like a tall, rail-thin weed, Robert Gulliver rushed to hug Annja. To Annja it felt as if she were hugging herself, so lean was Biker Bob’s body. Still, she knew that despite his lack of weight, he was lithe and sinewy, with a great deal of strength from all the cycling he did.

      “Nice to see you, Bob,” she said.

      He hurried them back to the booth. Annja noticed that Gregor did not sit with them but lounged near the bar where anyone who wanted to get to the booth section would have to pass.

      “Gregor’s not joining us?” she asked.

      “Hmm? Uh, no. Gregor will keep an eye out so we aren’t disturbed,” Gulliver said.

      Annja frowned. “And he said you think I’m the one who attracts trouble.”

      “We can get into that later, if you don’t mind.” Gulliver leaned back and helped himself to the pitcher of beer on the table. “I’ve got a glass all ready for you, m’lady. Can I pour you one?”

      “Sure,” Annja said.

      She watched Bob’s hands grip the pitcher and pour the beer into her glass. Blue veins in his hand snaked their way up his forearm, twisting around bands of thin muscle. “I see you still haven’t porked up any,” she said with a laugh.

      “It’s genetics, I think. I was born this way and damned if I can eat enough to gain an ounce,” he replied.

      “That and all the biking.”

      “Well, sure, but then again, if not for my bike, we never would have met.”

      Annja smiled. She and Gulliver had met on the set of Chasing History’s Monsters a few years previously. Biker Bob had arrived on the set each day riding a candy-apple-red 1950s five-speed bike complete with a playing card striking the spokes for the required sound effects. Over lunches and quick dinners, Annja had learned that he possessed an uncanny intelligence and sense for finding unique dig sites. While his methodology was unorthodox, his research and passion were undeniable. Annja had quickly realized Bob had the makings of a true friend.

      “So what’s so special that you dragged me all the way over here? I mean, Siberia? That’s a bit of a stretch even for you, isn’t it?”

      “You know how much history is locked into this part of the world? We’re in the regions where the Mongol hordes got their start. The legends that exist here are spectacular. And now, with the old Soviet guard finally dismantled, we can actually begin to explore this area like never before,” Gulliver said.

      Annja sipped her beer. “And it will look ever so exciting as we tape bouncing along the roads on a bike. Is that it?”

      Bob fixed her with a stare. “You know I never call for my video team until I have something to really show the world. This is more of an excursion. I’ve been fascinated with Siberia for years. And when I decided to bike across the northern part of the continent, I thought it would finally be a good time to see what could be seen.”

      “And you called me.”

      “Of course! Why not share this with the one person I know at least respects my work? I thoroughly enjoyed the time we spent together on set and thought this would be a magnificent way to continue our friendship.”

      “I suppose it is.” Annja shivered. “It’s just this part of Russia leaves a bit to be desired.”

      “You referring to the poverty, the gangs or the somber mood?”

      “Is there an option for all three?” she asked.

      Gulliver laughed. “Definitely. I won’t pretend this is a pretty part of the country, because it’s not. But we aren’t staying here, anyway.”

      “We’re not?” Annja asked, intrigued.

      “No way. Our destination lies farther north. A road that winds its way through some very old places on the way to Yakutsk.”

      “Never heard of it,” Annja said.

      Gulliver downed his beer and poured himself another. “Remote doesn’t begin to describe it. I hear that when the Soviets ran things, even they didn’t dispatch much in the way of bureaucratic might to the area. Even to those guys, there were places in their own country that they deemed better left untouched.”

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