Chapter 5: Serialisation of the novel by Osman Khareef
Prologue — Chapter 1 — Chapter 2 — Chapter 3 — Chapter 4
JeanLuc and Igor followed the slight figure of Sophia, as she ducked and weaved through the crowd towards the East Gate of Izmaylovo Park. She led them to a large battered van parked in a side street leading off the main road that circled the Park. Fortunately, it had not snowed that day so they didn’t have to dig the vehicle out. The two men got straight in, sliding across the hard bench seat. Sophia pulled the bonnet latch and lifted the hood. She fished a distributor rotor arm out from of her coat pocket and expertly snapped it back into place under the distributor cap. She pulled a small 6 cm length of rubber tubing out of the same pocket and, reaching down into the engine compartment, slipped one end over a small tap which had been welded to the cut end of the petrol feed pipe. The other end she joined to the other half of the pipe leading to the carburettor. She then connected the battery earth lead to a bolt on the chassis with a big butterfly nut. Finally, she replaced the windscreen wipers retrieved from under the driver’s seat. Jobs done, she dropped the heavy bonnet down with a clang and clambered into the driver’s seat beside the two men. “You can’t be too careful these days,” she explained. The two men nodded in agreement.
Although empty, the van smelled strongly of paint, varnish and turpentine. Sophia pushed the key into the ignition and turned the engine, which fired after the third attempt and settled down into a rough tappety rhythm. They backed out into the street.
“If you have dollars, we’ll go to get some gasoline first” Sophia shouted above the noise of the engine.
“OK,” agreed JeanLuc. “Where will you get it?”
“I know a place near here on the ring road where we can get good Army gasoline on the black market. There will be no questions — even members of the government get it there,” she yelled flashing a smile at them, displaying a perfect set of white teeth. The two men sat back on the hard seat and let Sophia concentrate on driving the van, trying to avoid the potholes in the crumbling roads still mostly unrepaired from the days of the Union decades of hard winters ago.
They drove down a long dark unlighted underpass in the east of the city. “It is here, I think,” Sophia said peering ahead into the gloom. Beside the road, in the other lane, there were two canvas sided Army trucks parked together beside the kerb. Deep in shadow, they could only be seen when a vehicle silhouetted them in its headlights. Sophia drove through the underpass and out into the greying dusk beyond. She pulled off at the next junction and drove slowly back down the other side into the tunnel entrance of the underpass. They pulled in behind a Lada saloon that had stopped behind the two trucks.
The curtains at the rear of the truck nearest to them were parted to reveal four men. All wore black balaclavas. Two were armed with Kalashnikov AK47 submachine guns while the other two worked humping the drums of gasoline that were stacked high inside.
“We should get one drum for about $100, here,” said Sophia excitedly, the headlights of passing vehicles reflected like fireflies in her large dark eyes.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Igor said, eyes flitting back and forth trying to gauge the level of danger to which they were exposed. He knew this sort of black-market refuelling went on all the time, but when in Moscow he usually left all that to Karasamov. His own truck carried about half the necessary diesel to make the trip from Brest to Moscow, the balance he obtained with coupons from official diesel stations along the way, usually at Smolensk. He paid for it at the going rate, about a couple of dollars per litre.
The man in the Lada ahead of them was stacking jerrycans and containers of every description below a tapped drum in the rear of the truck. Quickly and efficiently, the two men dropped plastic hoses into the containers and started to fill them. Each time they moved the hose from one container to another a small amount of gasoline spilled onto the road. There was a strong odour of gasoline and exhaust fume in the underpass.
“I would put that cigarette out if I were you, Sophia,” Igor said calmly. She hurriedly stubbed it out.
“I’ll go and talk to them,” she said and opened the cab door to get out. She walked around the front of the van onto the kerb and went up to the truck. She beckoned to the armed men standing in the back of the truck, one of whom jumped down and went to her. JeanLuc and Igor watched anxiously from the van. Igor fiddled with his knife. He’d left his machine pistol in the lorry and swore to himself that he would pick it up at the earliest opportunity. This was just the sort of time when they would need it.
Sophia finished talking with the armed man and walked back towards them holding up her forefinger and thumb in a circle of success. “Five drums for $520,” she said smiling up at JeanLuc when he wound down the side window. “They wanted $600, but I said that was all we had and they agreed.”
JeanLuc shrugged off his coat and pulled it round his knees to cover his movements. Under the coat he unzipped one of the compartments of his money belt and extracted, by feel, used ten-dollar bills. Most US dollar transactions in Russia are done with used small- denomination notes. Large denomination or clean money implies there is more where that came from, leaving one open to robbery or worse.
“Go with her, Igor,” ordered JeanLuc as he handed down the George Washingtons to Sophia. “I’ll stay here behind the wheel in case of trouble.”
“Okay, Boss.” Igor dropped down beside Sophia and they walked together back to the gasoline truck. Beauty and the Beast! JeanLuc smiled to himself and slid over to get behind the steering wheel. He turned the ignition on but did not start the engine.
The man in front, with the Lada, finished filling and capping his cans and loading them into the back of the car. There was a pool of spilled gasoline by the tail of the lorry. The fumes were overpowering. He handed up a thick sheaf of roubles the size of a house brick to one of the gunmen in the truck who pulled a torch out and carefully examined each note until he was satisfied. The Lada started, pulled out into the traffic and drove off into the dark.
Igor and Sophia watched as a block and tackle was set up hanging from a steel bar in the canopy of the truck. They rolled out drums and lowered them with a sling onto the road one by one. After a brief conversation with Sophia, one of the men handed down two planks of wood to use as a ramp for the van. Sophia and Igor carried the planks to the van, opened the rear doors and laid the ramp. The drums were rolled along the pavement, up the ramp and into the back of the van with a lot of grunting and heaving effort from the two workmen. Eventually, they finished and Sophia slammed the rear doors closed.
One of the gunmen walked over to the van. He unhitched his weapon and held it loosely pointing at the road but with unmistakable threat. He stared in at JeanLuc through the slits of the knitted balaclava. “That was a lot of extra work, comrade. I would like some recompense for my hardworking colleagues,” he said in a thick muffled voice.
JeanLuc stared back at him. “We have no more dollars. She told you that,” he said and waved his hands helplessly.
“I don’t believe you. I think it is only fair that we are paid properly for our trouble.” JeanLuc heard the click as the safety was flicked off.
“Please comrade. We don’t want any trouble. We are poor people. It has taken many months for us to save this money for gasoline. It is needed for our business.”
“I don’t give a shit. What else have you got?” he grated.
“I have some roubles, “ said Igor who had come up silently behind him. The man backed away from the van holding the gun threateningly aimed at JeanLuc through the windscreen.
“I don’t want fucking roubles. They are worthless,” he shouted. Igor carefully put away the sheaf of roubles. “Okay, okay. Give me the dollars!” Sophia handed over the slim bundle. The man snatched the money and carefully backed away from them. He handed it up to the other gunman who proceeded to examine each note in the light of his torch.
Behind Sophia’s van, a Lada saloon taxi had pulled up. The driver beeped his horn impatiently.
Igor and Sophia jumped into the cab and JeanLuc started the engine. The man finished examining the money and shouting a command at the other gunman, picked up his own weapon. They beckoned, machine guns pointed with unmistakable menace at JeanLuc. Oh, shit! thought JeanLuc.
“Sophia!” he said urgently. “Give me a cigarette, quick!”. Hands shaking, Sophia spilled a couple out of the pack onto JeanLuc’s lap. Pushing in the dashboard lighter, he stuck the untipped cigarette in his mouth; flakes of foul tasting tobacco sticking to his tongue in a mouth dry with tension. “You know what to do, Igor?” JeanLuc said. “When I drop the cigarette, hit the gas and go. I’ll jump on as you go past. Okay? It’s the only way — these boys are looking for trouble.”
“Okay, Boss,” Igor said calmly. Sophia, eyes saucer wide, was shaking and clutching her coat to herself with white-knuckled fingers.
The dashboard lighter popped out and JeanLuc pushed the cigarette into its glowing face. He pulled a deep inhalation of tart pungent smoke and opened the cab door. He left the cigarette hanging laconically from the side of his mouth. The van engine ticked over sluggishly.
“Put your hands in the air and don’t give us any trouble, comrade.” JeanLuc stood by the tailgate of the truck, hands raised. As one of the gunmen lowered his weapon to drop off the back of the truck, JeanLuc let the dully-glowing cigarette drop from his mouth into the pool of gasoline by his feet.
To hell with them! he thought. With a fearsome whoosh, the gasoline exploded. JeanLuc threw himself backwards into the road. The two gunmen, engulfed in a sheet of flame, tightened scorched fingers on hair-triggered Kalashnikovs spraying bullets wildly in all directions.
Igor jammed the van in gear and booted the foot-throttle to the floor. The van lurched forward into and through the sudden wall of yellow flame ahead of them. Twisting the wheel violently, Igor swerved the van out into the road and shot off into the underpass, dragging a corona of blue fire.
Behind, there was a tremendous whump, as one of the bullet-punctured drums exploded. A near silent river of flame zipped eerily down the sloping roadway away from the burning trucks. Men ran for their lives from the inferno. The Lada taxi-man watched in stark horror as the truck in front of him disappeared in a balloon of orange flame. He dived for cover to the floor of his vehicle.
Like a cork popping from a bottle, Sophia’s van emerged from the underpass. Igor clubfooted the brakes bringing the van screeching to a juddering halt. He flung the cab door open.
“Looking for me, Igor?” JeanLuc let go of the wing mirror stanchion and dropped to the road with a gasp. Sophia opened her door and he climbed in beside her.
“Come on , Igor! Move it!” he yelled.
JeanLuc turned towards Sophia. Leaning over he pressed his smoke blackened blistered eyebrowless features into her startled face and kissed her hard on those dark full lips. He felt what can only be described as a fierce biblical stirring in the loins. Sophia’s hands flapped whitely like dying fish but her fingers soon dug into JeanLuc’s coat clawing at his shoulders with an equal passion.
Igor sighed heavily and steered the van Westwards back into the city. “Hey! Where the hell are we going” he yelled in exasperation. Sophia pushed at JeanLuc who reluctantly heaved himself off her body and moved across the seat to stare out the window, breathing hard.
“Pull over, Igor. I’ll drive us home,” she said shakily. Igor did as was told and pulled into the kerb. In the opposite carriageway, a fire engine deedah deedahed at high speed towards where they had just come from.
***
“Papa, this is Alexei Federov and Igor Golemov. They are the people we were told to look out for. Sorry we are late but we had some trouble.” Sophia gave a strained laugh.
The grizzled old man with long white beard and hair waved the weary travellers into the house with a welcoming smile that soon turned to concern when he saw the damage to JeanLuc’s clothes and face. JeanLuc stank of gasoline and damp charred cloth.
A large operatic-looking woman emerged from the living room and emotionally folded her daughter into a capacious bosom. Igor’s eyes flickered in his impassive face.
“Are you all right, my child?” she fussed. “Are you hurt? Who are these ruffians? My God! Your face is black and your lips are bleeding. What has happened?” she asked frantically.
“We went to get some gasoline from the black marketeers,” explained Sophia. “But they wanted to rip us off. We were lucky to escape alive! Please, Mama, let me go. I expect Alexei and Igor want to clean up, get changed and have something to eat. I certainly do.”
“Yes, of course. How stupid of me. Come in, come in. You can use Sergei’s room. I will make us some dinner.”
“Thank you, Madame Yemeljan. You are very gracious and your hospitality is most welcome. We will, of course, pay you for any inconvenience.” JeanLuc said formally bowing low over her hand.
“No. No! Don’t speak of it. You are a guest in our house, it would be an insult.”
“Shut up, Mother! Alexei has plenty of money. Let him give you some of it, “ Sophia said harshly, a slight glitter in her eyes.
“Now let’s stop this and let these gentlemen get cleaned up, shall we?” said Dmitri Yemeljan diplomatically.
JeanLuc and Igor went upstairs with Saskia Yemeljan and were each shown into a large high-ceilinged bedroom. In JeanLuc’s room, the walls were papered with posters of Elvis the King — clearly a young man’s room, the missing Sergei no doubt. At least the room was toasty warm. Both men pulled off their grimy clothes and JeanLuc went down the corridor to run a bath and do what repairs he could to his face and body. In his room, Igor fell asleep instantly, naked on the large double bed — a nasty shock for Goldilocks.
There was a knock on the bathroom door and JeanLuc opened it a crack after wrapping a towel around his waist.
“You can wear this until we fix you up with some clothes, Alexei. A slim bare arm stretched in holding out a white cotton robe. JeanLuc took it and the arm disappeared, closing the door softly behind it.
After bathing and washing off the accumulated grime of the trip, he felt good and relaxed. He examined himself critically in the full-length bathroom mirror. Not bad for forty years old, he thought. No fat yet. Firm belly and buttocks, strong muscled legs, a body much admired and fondled by women. In between bouts of passion several had traced curiously the distinctive rose-shaped birthmark between his shoulder blades. His Semitic nose and cheeks were now reddened and blistered as if sunburned and his eyebrows had been burned off short, giving him a strange startled look. His long dark golden hair was unaffected since he usually tied it back in a ponytail.
He pulled the robe over his head and tied the thin cord around his waste. Very nice, very Bedouin! he thought. He shaved carefully with the tackle he found in the medicine cupboard above the sink. JeanLuc finished his ablutions and padded back along the corridor to Sergei’s bedroom. Igor was lying naked on his back, legs spread-eagled, cock stuck up in the air like a fat stubby cigar.
“Hey, beautiful! Wake up and go get cleaned up.”
Igor grunted, shook himself and grabbed a towel off the bed.
“Took your bloody time didn’t you? All pretty and perfumed are we now, ducky?” he muttered caustically and marched to the bathroom.
A wonderful odour of cooking wafted from the kitchen. JeanLuc was ravenous with hunger as he went down the stairs.
Dmitri Yemeljan, Sophia’s father, was waiting for him in the living room. There was roaring fire lit in the large ornate fireplace. The bottle of Stolichnaya vodka was open on the mantelpiece with several shot glasses beside it. Dmitri poured. JeanLuc drank. “Nastrovia!”
Several Nastrovias later, JeanLuc felt a warm glow of alcoholic contentment seep through his bones. He started to feel exuberantly Russian.
“So. What of my stock, Alexei? What have you done with that?” asked Dmitri.
“I bought it all from your daughter. One thousand dollars.” “All?” asked Dmitri incredulously.
“Yeah, all of it. Why? Sophia said it was all tourist stuff — trinkets. Do you want it back?”
“No, No!” Dmitri said hastily,” I just wondered, that is all.”
“We also bought drums of gasoline, most of which we will probably need for our searches. Did they explain to you why I am here?”
“Yes, of course. His Eminence Cardinal Mirphy, said to extend to you all the help we could. Naturally, I am only too delighted to further God’s work in this unholy country.”
“Yeah well, I don’t know about that,” JeanLuc said carefully. He needed food to combat the vodka. “Thank you for your hospitality. It is wonderful to feel accepted in your home,” he said formally.
“You are very welcome,” said Saskia, coming into the room from the kitchen. The smell of food was driving JeanLuc crazy. “We will eat as soon as Sophia and your tough-looking friend come down,” Saskia said smiling warmly at him. “Please sit down by the fire and have another drink!”
Prologue — Chapter 1 — Chapter 2 — Chapter 3 — Chapter 4
Icon Rapture by Osman Khareef can be purchased HERE
