The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 44
‘But you’re Russian,’ burbled the easily confused Astrid.
‘Oh, da … right,’ agreed Andronicus, remembering to stick to the script. ‘So I am.’
‘It says here they’re Islaminsists,’ read Astrid, struggling to read a caption. ‘In Istanbul … you know, like in those Araby kinds of places.’
‘Saladin’s mob,’ snorted Andronicus. ‘Oh fateful, doomed Byzantium, to be stuck in between such peoples: savage uncultured Franks to the west, and those heathen Muslim hoards to the south. T’is shocking to me that my Constantinople should fall to such ignominy. And to rename it Istanbul, of all things … I mean, in the name of all that is holy, what does that even mean?’
‘Lots of tourists go there,’ remarked Astrid, looking at some partying influencers by a swimming pool. ‘It can’t be that bad. The hotels look ever so pretty. This one here has spa! Look.’
‘We invented the spa,’ stated Andronicus proudly. ‘What need has some Arab of a steam room? Eh? They’re worse than the cursed Normans, a bunch of filthy soap dodgers. It’s all so wrong. It’s a travesty. They deserve to be wiped off the face of the earth with those weapons I’ve been looking at on that television thing, like the iron dragon, the flying smoke pigeon, and the blazing tree trunk of death.’
‘Is there going to be a war?’ asked Astrid. ‘Isn’t that … dangerous?’
‘Only for my enemies,’ replied Andronicus, rolling over, greasy breath puffing out of his fat nostrils.
*****
The door to Gabby and Viv’s makeshift cell popped open as Helena Kraakenhausen slipped back in, smartly closing the door behind her as her finger lifted to her lips.
‘Shhhh.’
Footsteps passed slowly outside, stopped and then moved away again.
‘Gonna release us now?’ asked Gabby, once they’d gone.
‘Nein,’ said Helena firmly. ‘This is not a good time. Ve are back out in the sea. There is novhere to escape to.’
‘You should have cut us free when we were off Istanbul,’ suggested Viv. ‘Where were you?’
‘Hiding,’ explained Helena. ‘There are gunmen all over this boat. It vould not have ended vel. Vot did they tell you ven they took you upstairs?’
‘I think they thought they’d be welcomed in Istanbul,’ laughed Viv. ‘They so weren’t.’
‘Nein?’
‘Very much nein,’ agreed Viv. ‘Seems they were chased out of town by the locals.’
‘That oligarch guy was well hacked off,’ added Gabby.
‘He’s not the oligarch anymore. He vos possessed.’
‘Well, if he’s not the oligarch, who is he?’ Viv asked.
‘A very nasty Byzantine emperor,’ answered Helena. ‘Andronicus … the Terrible.’
‘Never heard of him,’ said Viv. ‘Should I have?’
‘Better off not knowing,’ replied Helena. ‘Vhen I say “Terrible”, I mean “terrible”. He is a murdering, lying, voomanising Schweinhund.’
‘Tosser,’ remarked Gabby. ‘He wanted to make me his concubine. So naturally I kicked him … right in the nuts.’
‘Vell done,’ approved Helena, nodding.‘This is vot I vould have done, also. So, he vent back to Constantinople to reclaim his empire, but found it a little … changed, ja?’
‘Just a bit. Blew his tiny mind,’ laughed Viv. ‘Whatever they had planned there, it must have gone seriously pear-shaped.’
‘So where’s this boat going?’ asked Gabby. ‘We can’t tell anything from down here.’
‘Ve vent east,’ answered Helena. ‘Through the Bosphorus.’
‘And what’s through the Bosphorus, then?’ asked Viv, not wanting to know.
‘Russia,’ replied Helena. ‘That is mein guess.’
‘I’ve always wanted to not go there,’ said Viv.
‘Same,’ agreed Helena. ‘The archaeology is very dull.’
‘Ok, but look, what’s the plan?’ urged Gabby. ‘We can’t stay down here forever.’
‘Yeah, normally we’d have tried to escape by now,’ added Viv.
‘I keep telling you!’ exclaimed Helena, impatiently. ‘There is novhere to escape to… dammit, ve’re in the middle of the sea. Ve vill have to vait until they land. Then, you can make your move.’
‘Great,’ sighed Gabby.
‘I’ll be back later,’ promised Helena, looking cautiously through the barely open door down the corridor. ‘For now, keep your heads down.’
*****
On the airfield at Lesbos, Thunderbird 2 had taken a dishearteningly long time to refuel. Unlike their last pit stop, the officials at the modest airport had been frustratingly bureaucratic, insisting on paperwork that had added hours to the journey, leaving Newton swearing to himself beneath the starboard engine.
Finally, after three long hours, Valenti had come running back, documents in hand and a petrol bowser on his heels. Forty-five minutes after that, they were back in the air.
After another thirty minutes, they were over the ruins of Troy, swinging north-east along the Dardanelles and up into the Sea of Marmara.
‘We’re being tracked,’ reported Valenti.
‘We are?’ asked Newton. ‘How do you know?’
‘See that gizmo?’ said the pilot, pointing to a small black box duct-taped to the dashboard beside the fuel gauges. ‘That’s the radar warning set the Purgs gave me.’
‘Ok. Fancy.’
‘Fancy?’ laughed the pilot. ‘Really? Look at it; it’s a goddamn Radio Shack lash-up.’
‘It works, though. Right?’ enquired Newton.
‘It works enough,’ replied Valenti. ‘The green light you can see now means we’re being tracked. Flick that switch on the side, and you can hear it too.’
Newton reached over and flicked the switch. A low static growl began, just audible over the roar of the engines.
‘Ok, so what would a red light mean?’
‘You don’t wanna see a red light,’ said Valenti, popping in a fresh cigar. ‘Trust me.’
‘I don’t?’ asked Newton.
‘Missile launch,’ explained the pilot. ‘You’ll also hear a very loud buzz if that happens.’
‘Riiiight,’ nodded Newton fearfully. ‘No. No, I don’t. It will give us time to take evasive action, though, right?’
Valenti chuckled. ‘This bird is eighty years old!‘Couldn’t evade a slow cloud. If the red light comes on, you’ll be playing a harp by the evening.’
‘That’s reassuring.’
‘Used to be able to dodge SAMs over Nam,’ said Valenti. ‘Not now. No way, José. Modern missiles have a ninety percent kill rate. Goddamn.’
‘I thought we could jam them?’
‘If the box of tricks works, yeah, maybe,’ explained the pilot. ‘But that’s a big IF. I had a look in it back on Lesbos.’
‘And?’ asked Newton, pessimistically.
‘There were mice … nesting in it.’
‘Of course, there were,’ sighed Newton.
‘Anything more from that Bonetaker guy? We’re coming up on Istanbul in five minutes … last known position, and all that.’
‘BENNET!’ shouted Newton through the open cabin door. ‘Anything more from our bloodhound?’
‘EAST,’ boomed the Bonetaker, pointing. ‘EAST.’
‘They’ve gone into the Black Sea.’ The pilot tapped the atlas.
‘Looks like it,’ agreed Newton.
‘Russians,’ said the pilot grimly, looking over at the map.
‘There’s a good chance that’s where they’re headed,’ nodded Newton. ‘Yeah.’
‘Goddammit,’ cussed Valenti. ‘That’s just peachy.’
‘Bennet!’ shouted Newton. ‘Text the boat. Looks like they’re headed for Russia.’
*****
Both sides of the Dardanelles were clearly visible as they sailed past the battlefields of Gallipoli, the Olympias carried by an obliging breeze.
‘Message from Dr Barlow,’ announced Vasilakis, joining Enrico Pescatore at the tiller. ‘He say bad guys, they enter Black Sea.’
‘Really? Not been uppa dat way before.’
‘Barlow is sure they are headed for Russia,’ added Vasilakis. He shook his head, his face grim. ‘Is not good.’
‘It’s not?’ asked Enrico.
‘No,’ confirmed Vasilakis. ‘Is not. They are difficult people. Many weapons. We don’t want tangle with those guys.’
‘Well,’ said Enrico. ‘We just gotta be careful then, sì? How’s da engine holding out?’
‘Also not good,’ answered Vasilakis. ‘Some of the monks, they look at it. But I wouldn’t hold my breath. I fear we have pushed it too far already.’
‘Well, at least da wind is in our favour,’ replied Pescatore, looking up at the single billowing sail. ‘It will take us all da way to Istanbul. After dat, I dunno.’
Chapter 34
Viktor
The Sea of Azov is a sea within a sea, nestled as it is between the eastern flank of the Crimean Peninsula and the western shoulder of the Caucasus. On the Russian side of the water, the land is low-lying, a mass of wetlands and salt marshes, home for thousands of seabirds, aggressive insects and very few people.
What people there were … were wearing uniforms.
After Russia’s illegal 2014 annexation of the Crimea, the defiant Ukrainians were left glaring back at them across the Sea of Azov to the north. Russian army outposts popped up all along the coastline, radar stations and missile batteries proliferating as the tensions mounted.
Flea-bitten resorts, once a holiday destination for nobility, began to fill with khaki as the military moved in to enjoy the gnat-ridden coastline. Faded dachas, wooden country houses, now just a shadow of pre-revolutionary decadence, proved a particular favourite with the top brass. One of the grandest, sitting upon the dunes north of Krasnodar, was now the headquarters of one Colonel General Viktor Nahrapov.
Viktor Nahrapov sat on the worn-out decking, leaning back on a broken plastic chair as he slobbered his way through a dinner of vodka and blinis. Viktor was fatter than his brother, his combat fatigues straining to hold back the outcome of a diet consisting almost exclusively of meat, more meat, pasta, beetroot and meat. And, he smoked. He smoked, and he drank in wholesale quantities, turning his innards into a wasteland of hardened arteries, sclerosis and impending cardiac failure.
He was the kind of Russian who unfortunately gave all other Russians a bad name.
The call from his ‘brother’ had been a surprise, if not an outright irritation, as little love existed between them. Nonetheless, Viktor had felt obliged to offer his rough hospitality to a sibling he had little in common with but corruption.
As Viktor watched, the Black Sea Princess emerged from one of the regular sea mists, its lights burning through the murk as it dropped anchor.
Watching the Zodiac, the superyacht’s fast inflatable boat, heading ashore, he emptied the second bottle of potato wine that day, dragged the fortieth cigarette of the afternoon into his tar-black lungs, and then waddled down to the jetty.
‘Hello … brother?’ yelled Andronicus, as Dima pulled alongside, hoping he’d correctly identified him.
‘Boris,’ replied Viktor, nodding unemotionally. ‘Been a while.’
‘Has it?’ asked Andronicus. ‘Yes, … now you mention it, it has. I’ve missed you.’
‘The hell, you have,’ snorted Viktor, not helping Andronicus, Homer or Dima up onto the jetty. ‘What you want?’
‘I wanted to see how you were getting along,’ added Andronicus. ‘You remember Dima Matsigura here?’
‘Sure,’ answered Viktor, shaking the gunman’s hand. ‘What you do working with my brother? Last I heard, you were with Wagner.’
‘I prefer it with Comrade Boris,’ replied Dima. ‘Wagner is a cheap gig. Phrigozin is an evil bastard.’
‘That’s what’s so good about him,’ answered Viktor, lighting another cigarette. ‘You don’t get anywhere in modern Russia by being nice.’
‘True, General,’ agreed Dima. ‘Very true.’
‘So, brother, what brings you back to Russia?’ asked Viktor. ‘I thought you were now western playboy?’
‘Oh, but I love Russia,’ lied Andronicus enthusiastically. ‘Best place in the world!’
‘Like hell it is,’ snorted Viktor. ‘It’s a dump! But … it’s our dump.’
‘It is?’ said Andronicus. ‘Right.’
‘Of course, it is,’ continued Viktor. ‘Mother Russia is eighty percent swamp, twenty percent industrial waste and a hundred percent people who are so terrified of us they will believe everything you say, and do everything you tell them. Where else in the world can you be so corrupt and get away with it?’
‘Good point,’ nodded Andronicus. ‘Corrupt is good.’
‘Who’s the blind guy?’ demanded Viktor, noticing Homer.
‘This,’ began Andronicus, ‘is ….’
‘Priam,’ announced Homer. ‘Mr Priam. I’m a consultant.’
‘Consultant?’ asked Viktor. ‘Consulting about what?’
‘History,’ explained Homer. ‘Antiques, archaeology. Things like that.’
‘What kind of business you do now, brother?’ snorted Viktor. ‘Doesn’t sound very macho. I thought you were still in gun-running, drugs, extortion. You know … proper business.’
‘Oh, I do a lot of that too,’ answered Andronicus. ‘Of course.’
‘I should hope so,’ replied Viktor. ‘Don’t want you to go soft on me. Let’s get up to the dacha; you can tell me all about it.’
Andronicus and Dima, leading Homer from the Zodiac, followed the general up to his residence sat above the beach.
‘Nice place you have here,’ remarked Andronicus as they entered the sagging dacha.
‘Falling to bits,’ said Viktor, kicking a chair out of his way. ‘Built next to a damn swamp. It’ll do for now.’
‘Wow,’ gasped Andronicus, looking out of the back window. ‘Is that your army?’
Viktor joined him at the window. Outside, dotted amongst the dunes, was a host of olive-green military vehicles: armoured personnel carriers, a few tanks, radar trucks and missile launchers. Everywhere Andronicus could see, they were dug into the landscape, their crews languishing and bored beneath the overhanging camouflage netting. Overhead, two attack helicopters whop-whopped their way inland, their stubby wings hung with rockets and gun-pods.
‘79th Guard’s Motor Rifle Division,’ replied Viktor, yawning. ‘Just one of my armies. I have five.’ He looked at his fingers, counting. ‘Or, was it six … I forget.’
‘Cool,’ admired Andronicus. ‘Do you get to use them much?’
‘Use them? What you mean, use them?’
‘In combat?’ asked Andronicus. ‘You know … war.’
‘Nah,’ sighed Viktor. ‘Hell, we got Crimea without a fight. Pity, we wanted to blow the crap out of them damn Ukrainians, but they just rolled over … the bastards. Seems like ages since I had a decent brawl.’
‘What a shame!’ lamented Andronicus. ‘What’s the point of an army that doesn’t fight? You must be very frustrated.’
‘I do OK,’ shrugged Viktor, opening a new bottle of Siberian moonshine.
‘I’m sure you do, brother.’
‘I do,’ insisted Viktor. ‘Maybe not as much you, with your fancy football clubs and your trashy casinos, but people pay top rouble for what I have. Business is brisk.’
Andronicus saw his opening. ‘I was going to ask you about that.’
‘Ask me what? What you want from me?’
‘Can we borrow your army?’ asked Homer.
‘Ha,’ laughed the colonel general, rolling his eyes. ‘Niet.’
‘But that’s what you do, isn’t it?’ continued Homer. ‘Hire out your army?’
‘Da, of course. But not a whole army,’ laughed Viktor. ‘You think that would be ok with the Kremlin? I don’t think so. Niet, my friend, I just sell bits of it. Tanks, missiles, guns, stuff no one will miss.’
‘Oh, that is a pity,’ sighed Andronicus. ‘Because we really wanted an army.’
‘What you want army for?’ snorted Viktor. ‘You lost your brains, brother?’
‘We wanted to invade Constantinople,’ answered Andronicus. ‘I mean Istanbul. You know, in Turkey.’
‘I know where it is,’ retorted Viktor. ‘But, why the hell would you want to invade it? What the Turks done to you, eh?’
‘It’s a long story,’ said Andronicus.
‘It’s a very long story,’ added Homer.
‘You’re mad,’ suggested Viktor. ‘I wouldn’t attack the Turks if I had the whole Russian army on my side. NATO. It’s part of NATO, dammit.’
‘NATO?’ asked Andronicus. ‘I see. What’s a NATO?’
‘What’s a NATO!’ laughed Viktor. ‘It’s the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation, you cretin. You hit one of those bastard countries, and you’ve attacked them all. Look, Russia is the best army in the world, no question, but attack NATO? Niet … don’t even think about it.’
‘Well, what if we just bought some weapons off you then?’ suggested Andronicus. ‘And did it ourselves. I’ve heard you might have those big bombs, the one can that destroy a city?’
‘Nukes?’ asked Viktor. ‘Sure, I’ve got some warheads somewhere. I’ve got Iskander missiles to launch them with, too.’
‘Excellent,’ said Andronicus. ‘I’ll have three.’
‘Not selling,’ replied Viktor. ‘You wanna start a world war?’
‘It’s not a world war. It’s ours,’ declared Homer.
‘A world war belongs to everyone, you stupid old man,’ stated Viktor. ‘Mutually assured destruction. Use a nuke … and everyone uses a nuke. That’s how it is. I don’t make the rules.’
