Cold Fury. Don Pendleton

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      The phone in his cabin rang and he picked it up.

      It was Fedor Udom. “Some of these assholes are getting sick. The men mostly. They are puking and shitting all over the place.”

      “Has Boris finished taking the samples?”

      “Hours ago.”

      “Good. Just keep them all confined, then. We are almost there.”

      He terminated the call, replaced his glasses and took out one of his long cigarettes, mashing the hollowed-out end to form a filter. The briny smell of the sea was omnipresent. Perhaps the earthy resonance of human excretions would be welcome in the hold.

      The ship pitched and bounced a bit as the waters were getting rougher, and he wondered how close they were to shore. He pulled the phone from the cradle and pressed the button to speak to the captain.

      “How long before we arrive?” Rokva asked, holding his lighter to the cigarette.

      “Very soon. Why?”

      “Some of the cargo is getting sick.”

      The captain’s laugh was a harsh bark. “No sea legs, eh? They should count their blessings we are not on an extended voyage. I could tell you stories of some of the rough crossings.”

      “Yes, I’m sure you could. Just advise me when we’re getting close.”

      “I will,” the captain said. “But know this. We’re going to leave as soon as we drop you there. There’s a storm coming and we must get back across.”

      Not bothering to reply, Rokva hung up, stood and then stretched. He hated sea travel, although the relatively short jaunt across the Bering Strait between Russia and the Alaskan coast was not that stressful. And the rewards were certainly great. He leaned against the narrow bunk and settled his stockinged feet into his boots. He glanced at the phone. Yuri had still not responded and Rokva pondered the wisdom of sending another text.

      No, he thought. If the son of a bitch hadn’t answered by now, something had to be wrong. If that were the case, it would necessitate altering the plan. This did not bother him. He always had another plan formulating in his mind. It was what made him a master of the game, be it chess or his criminal endeavors.

      One always had to be thinking a few moves ahead.

      He blew out a cloud of smoke as he strode to the door of his cabin and pulled it open. He found the small space disgusting because it reminded him too much of his meager upbringing in Moscow. His father had moved the family from western Georgia to the large city in search of work. But instead of the “prosperity for all” the Communists had promised, they’d found only more poverty masked by an inadequate state-sponsored stipend and no motivation to do better. Rokva had found himself always cold and hungry and roaming the streets. Soon he’d realized it was far easier to merely take what he wanted. A loaf of bread, a container of borscht, a piece of fruit. And that was how he’d met Sergei.

      He’d been crouching in the shadows of the alley, devouring an apple, when a large shadow fell over him: the man from the market where Rokva had stolen the fruit. The man was large and his face was twisted with an angry scowl.

      “You little Georgian thief, stealing from me. I will shove those glasses up your ass.” He raised his arm and was about to deliver a strike that Rokva knew would surely cripple him.

      But the blow did not come. Instead, another boy appeared, perhaps a year or so older than him, and much bigger and stronger. The boy swung a thick cudgel into the merchant’s left knee. The man howled in pain and started to turn when the boy brought the heavy stick down on the back of the merchant’s neck. He emitted a low grunt and then fell, keening, onto the ground. Rokva stood transfixed as the other boy brought the stick down again and again until the merchant’s groans ceased and he lay unconscious, a copious amount of blood seeping from the many cuts on his head and face.

      The other boy smiled.

      “That old bastard gave me a beating yesterday,” he said, holding up the thick wooden cudgel. “So today I brought this.”

      “Is he dead?”

      The other boy toed the man’s face with his well-worn shoe, causing the merchant to moan.

      “Not yet.” He kicked the merchant’s face.

      Rokva grinned. “You’re strong. Where did you learn to fight liked that.”

      “My father. He was in the army. In Afghanistan. He was Spetsnaz. Soon I will join, too.”

      “What is your name?”

      “I am Sergei Dankovich. And you?”

      “Nikoloz Rokva.” He pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose.

      Sergei’s eyes narrowed. “You are Georgian?”

      Rokva nodded. “We came from Kutaisi.”

      The other youth smirked. “No matter. I need someone to play with.”

      “Come on,” Rokva said. “Let’s go get some more of the old bastard’s fruit.”

      And so it began. Their lasting, special friendship was formed... Brothers... But much more than that, enduring even after Sergei and he left for the army, and years later, when Rokva became a low-ranking associate for the mafiya, eventually rising to the position of captain just as a disillusioned Sergei returned from the fighting in Chechnya. Sensing his friend’s weariness and disenchantment with the military, Rokva quickly recruited him to be his soldier. And now they were both getting rich. If this current plan materialized the way he had envisioned, they would soon be a lot richer. He thought about telling Sergei of the special treat that he had for him, the American cigarettes that he enjoyed so much, but decided to wait for the right moment.

      He came to Sergei’s cabin and knocked on the door.

      “What?” The voice was mixed with exertion.

      “It’s me,” Rokva said. “We have a problem.”

      “Shit. Wait a minute.”

      He could hear a murmuring sound through the door, then a series of harsh grunts, followed by a truncated scream. Then the door was flung open and the naked figure of Sergei stood there, his powerful body covered with a sheen of perspiration despite the cold temperature. Beyond him, in the narrow bed, Rokva could see a nude, moaning woman. He recognized her as one of the prettier ones they’d taken onboard. She lay on her back, making no effort to cover herself, her breathing coming in fits and gasps.

      Sergei strode toward a dresser, grabbed a bottle of vodka from the top and took a swig. He returned to the doorway and offered the bottle to Rokva, who shook his head. He preferred to keep his mind clear when business was at hand.

      Sergei shrugged, took another swig and then said, “What problem?”

      “Yuri did not return my text.”

      Sergei inhaled deeply, pondering this. “What is next then?”

      “We should be docking soon. Let me see if everything СКАЧАТЬ