bottle of whiskey in the lonely room at the Intercontinental (Romanov didn’t want to drag himself back to his empty, remote home right after a meeting «at the top»), instead of spending «quality time» with his family in a cottage purchased three years ago in a small Belgian ski village, he quickly gathered his crew for a flight to Yakutsk the next day, for an «emergency trip.» He became so frightened that something very important was passing, something that will change his whole life, that he jumped out of bed in the middle of the night, awakened by a telephone call from his secretary and forced him to immediately take up this matter.
Romanov’s manic fear of becoming someone’s victim – of friends, of businessmen, of corporate raiders, or of omnipresent secret services – forced him to engage more in securities, stock markets, and resale of land, followed by the withdrawal of capital to quiet western markets, and less in the supply of hydrocarbons and metals. Having done some experiments with securities, he was convinced that they were a profitable activity. He continued to bribe public officials through whom he received ownership of national resources and treasures, but reselling securities became his main passion.
Still, at times Romanov was still attacked by unmanageable thoughts he was unable to escape from and failed to make logic of. At such moments he developed a tick. All the signs of neurosis were present. Instead of consulting doctors, he visited certain «mind expanders.» At such nagging moments, Romanov dreamt passionately that the Lord – yes, God himself – instructed him to an important task – the Mission – to receive information and so that he, Romanov, must humbly carry it from place to place. Yes, yes! He must become a messenger of God, the Chosen One. He wanted to rid himself of all this easy money that flooded his mind and life – money that prevented him from accepting and delivering the… let’s call it the stigmata. Yes, carry it from God to… someone else, just as high…
Romanov was brought back down to earth from his reflections by the cheerful voice of Nikolai Alekseyevich, who was marching through snow in long strides and moving his arms like a professional skier.
«Vodka will lure any fool to the station, Andrei Andreyevich,» joked the old man. He was a regional manager – a solid, serious man with graying temples and a huge black mustache that resembled a shoe brush. He was an adherent of a simple, soldier’s brand of humour and always knew how to support a conversation.
«Vodka-thirsty fools are exactly who we don’t need here. Either we place one station here for all three sectors, or we place three other ones – one for each sector to the south. These three other ones will cost me dimes, if not cents. Putting up IT geeks and hackers here… what do they care where they fuck their virtual babes, here or in Moscow? In the meantime, they’ll be busy enough looking after the system, so they won’t be biting their elbows from boredom.»
«That’s something! See, I’m an old man in my seventh decade, but I can’t tear away my granddaughter from that TV set, or whatever it’s called… a monitor!» Nikolai took a deep breath and continued, «All she does is babble over the Internet with her giggling girlfriends. And they live… two houses away from each other! In our town, there are just those two houses,» Nikolai laughed dryly, not letting the cigarette leave his mouth. «In the old days we ran to our friends without knocking on their door, but today’s youth doesn’t even leave their homes. Well, at least no one has to worry where they’re disappearing to!»
«Here, here. We’ll arrange in the right places the stations, and I’ll be able to locate you anywhere, brother, even from London. You won’t give me any excuses that there’s no connection…»
His boots crunching on razor-sharp ice-hummocks reaching towards the sun, Romanov sharply leaned away from a gust of wind and immediately bumped into Nikolai, almost tumbling him. Nikolai stood rock-still, eyes bulging, the cigarette hanging on his lower lip, trying to scorch his «walrus» mustache.
«Andrei Andreyevich, look! What is this mess, mother of God?»
The half-melted snow around the coastal black shapeless boulder exposed what at first sight looked like a pile of rags and paper. All of this miraculously hung on some carcass. A white carcass, treading through half-decayed tissue, upon closer inspection turned out to be the ribs of a decayed corpse, of human remains.
And here we’ve come… thought Romanov with an air of indifference. The anguish and chest pain, that was in him like a thorn for a week already, somehow left him all at once from the moment he arrived at these polar lands. He said aloud: «Well, Nikolai Andreyevich, this is where we’ll put the station… we’ll call it „At the Dead Mountaineer.“»
CHAPTER 9
34° 38’14» S
58° 21» 12» W
Buenos Aires, Argentina
October 14, 1972
Dinner went by strangely. Dalma seemed dispirited or upset. But that did not stop her, as always, from sitting at the head of the table and reading the traditional prayer that Diego knew by heart since the age of five. Dalma received this prayer in a letter from her cousin in the United States, on Long Island, with a note that it is «the most blessed prayer that your family can ever receive.» Three weeks later, the cousin died in a car accident. Since then, Dalma has recited the prayer as a testament before each meal.
I do solemnly swear that I will always respect the property of others and be content with their lot, destined in my life by the grace of God. I will always be thankful to my masters, will never complain either of my posited pay or of extra labour, but I will always question myself: «What else can I do for my masters, for my people and for God?» We were born on this Earth not for happiness, but for trial and ordeal. And this ordeal – the burden of Fire – was given to us to cleanse our souls. And if I want to carry this Fire from one place to another, then I must always be an unselfish, sober, and truthful person. I must always be of pure soul, body, deeds, and thoughts… Be full of respect for those whom the Creator, in his ineffable wisdom, has put over me. If I endure this trial, then death will be followed by eternal life and heavenly bliss. If, however, I will not endure, I will forever burn in the flames of hell, the Devil will triumph, and Christ will grieve of me.
Little Diego sat there; his eyes fixated on the eggs. Big Diego, leaning his head to one side, was looking admiringly at Diego’s mother. Then, while the boy was working on his thrice-heated omelet with pieces of coarsely chopped red bell pepper, the father and mother quietly discussed local news. Behind the wall, the younger sister, Maria, dropped off her blanket in response to the heat.
«People in the city are losing their minds. They say there’s a maniac who kills children at night. Here, listen,» Dalma smoothed the pages of the local newspaper, the Buenos Aires Review, on the table, «…Police Chief Don Rodriguez warns the local population of La Boca district, especially parents of young children. „Do not allow children out in the evening. Or look after them yourselves…“»
«Buenos Aires is slowly turning into Mexico City,» the father nodded.
«This maniac,» continued the mother, sighing and pushing the paper aside, «beats the poor things to death just like that, and then cuts off their ears and sends them to the police station… by mail, in a parcel. It’s as if he’s saying „catch me, police! Here I am!“»
«Yes, I heard parents from some schools in the lower city are doing night patrols on the streets. But how can you keep watch of everybody?» said the father, sitting on a creaking wicker chair, sipping Mendoza.
«Son,
