Episode 2 #2
The plane circled the airfield, showcasing the cold grandeur of Russia’s Tunkinskiy National Park with its snow capped ridges and cold valleys surrounded by forests.
Lake Baikal stretched out to the east and directly to the south were the steppes of Mongolia.
The Merchari pilot flying the small aircraft signaled to Sevastyan that they’d received clearance, and banked the plane west and down.
Sevastyan allowed himself to gaze with disinterest out the window.
Beside him Rei sat in still silence, hands folded in his lap and eyes on his gloved hands.
As the plane turned, the windows revealed the beating heart of the Merchari, the Yadro.
Built to look like an exclusive resort situated between Tunkinskiy National Park and Lake Baikal, it was a mix of stone and wood, the main structure following a natural curve of land overlooking a ravine on one side and an expanse of flat snowy fields on the other.
The plowed airfield lay on the flat side as did a collection of auxiliary buildings, including barns for horses, and sheds for parked aircraft and what appeared to be storage and machinery.
What was buried beneath the grass was even more interesting.
There were vaults, holding cells, and the workshops, all moored in near wilderness.
And sitting in the center of it, like spiders in a web, were the directors, the string pullers of the Merchari.
Chosen by vote and rotated, there were always three.
Raska, Sevastyan’s mother, had been vying for a place among them since she had known they existed.
All three would be present today.
The plane touched down and taxied to a stop.
Off to the side, a jeep sped forward, meeting them as the plane came to rest. The locks disengaged.
Sevastyan gave the pilot a nod. The man would refuel and wait.
Flying was the only expedient way to get in and out of the Yadro, and Sevastyan had a flight to catch from Irkutsk to Kazen.
He paused to check the sleeves of his coat, giving Rei time to exit the plane.
Bringing him was a gamble, but not the first gamble Sevastyan had taken.
Frigid air rolled over the snow and shot through any tiny gap in Sevastyan’s clothes. He adjusted the hood of his coat and started toward the Jeep. Warm air from the auto’s exhaust pipe pumped white clouds into the air as the driver jumped out and opened the back door.
“Cal,” Sevastyan greeted the driver. Cal was a Canadian, wanted for a long list of crimes in his home country.
The Yadro was his refuge from the law. As criminals went, he was easygoing and chill.
He also didn’t mind the weather. In winter the Yadro always had fewer residents, many wishing to spend time further south unless their obligations to the Merchari required their presence.
“Sevastyan Antonovich.” Cal bobbed his head. “Thought you were going on holiday.”
Sevastyan shook his head, signaling for Rei to enter the jeep before him. “Some idiots in South Korea fucked that up.”
Cal smirked. “The directors sending you in again?”
Sevastyan grimaced. “We will see.”
He climbed in after Rei and shut the door. Cal hustled into the driver seat, shook his hands out, and pointed the Jeep toward the primary complex.
Only those who served as the immediate hands of the directors were allowed weapons inside the main building.
Sevastyan walked past the metal detectors and scanning machines without stopping.
A soft, “Master,” made him pause. The guard had stepped in Rei’s way and was reaching for him.
Rei had his eyes on the floor but was walking backward, keeping his arms away from the guard’s reach.
“Don’t touch,” Sevastyan said.
“Sir.” The guard half turned to appeal to Sevastyan.
“You wouldn’t have searched my bag if I had one; you will not search any other forms of my property.”
The guard blinked, confused. “Allow me to phone my supervisor, sir.”
Sevastyan canted his head at an annoyed angle. “Make it swift.” It was always vexing when someone new had not been briefed on protocol.
The guard nodded, swallowing nervously, and stepped back, giving Rei space. Rei stayed where he was, hands folded in front of him. At least his slave could be relied upon. He’d done as he’d been trained to do. Offered no resistance to a free man and kept his person from being touched.
No one touched Rei. Not without direct permission.
In another world, Sevastyan would be at his side comforting him.
Here, the only way to keep Rei safe was to let him stand there on his own.
Sevastyan tapped his foot and checked his watch.
The guard came back, bobbing his head in a clumsy half attempt at a bow.
“Your luggage is cleared without search, sir.”
“Like I told you.” Sevastyan snapped his fingers and Rei moved past the metal detectors and fell into his place behind Sevastyan’s left shoulder.
The entire complex was built for luxury and intimidation, but Sevastyan had grown up in the boarding schools of England, the universities of New York, Beijing, and Berlin, and on the summer yachts of the world’s elites.
The elaborate frescoes stretching down the hallways depicting Russia’s glorious history, eastern goddesses, and Roman excess were both familiar and inconsequential.
What mattered more was who was walking the halls, which music was being piped through the sound system, and whether or not those passing by met his eyes.
There was almost no one moving about on the fifth of January.
Christmas in the Russian Orthodox tradition started on the evening of January sixth and continued through to the seventh.
But holidays in Russia had already started on the first of January for the New Year.
Everyone who could be was in the middle of a ten day vacation.
That included criminal organizations, for the larger part.
Which meant even less patience for the nonsense coming out of South Korea and Chicago in the Gang Junseo case.
Sevastyan paused outside the directors’ chambers and shrugged out of his outer coat, hat, and gloves.
Rei followed his example, gathering up both of their garments and hanging them on the provided racks.
Two young women, done up in historically inspired dresses, the large red skirts supported by hoop skirts, greeted Sevastyan as he approached the doors.
The glittery makeup on their cheeks was not historically accurate.
“They’ll see you now,” one of the women said. The other extended her hand as she curtseyed and pressed the button, opening the double wide ornate doors engraved with a mountainous landscape and a large wild boar facing a brown bear.
Sevastyan gave the young women the barest of nods and continued into the directors’ chambers. The faint sound of Rei’s footsteps accompanied him.
The room was circular, placed on the lowest floor beneath one of the round glass domes of the complex.
There were two tiers above from where onlookers could gaze down on the main floor, but today they were empty.
Three aquamarine thrones were set up on the far side of the circle, facing the door.
The circular mosaics on the floor defined the space.
The directors were already masked, robed, and seated.
Everything was washed with an aquamarine tint, be it from the luminosity of the paint, the teal and aquamarine mosaics, or the glow of the light filtering in from the tinted windows above.
Sevastyan advanced to the edge of the center circle in the floor, the one banded in gold and black tile, went down on one knee and bowed his head, waiting to be acknowledged.
Behind him came the faint sounds of Rei folding himself down.
As a slave, he would have his forehead pressed to the floor, his palms facing downwards and extended past his head.
To even bring a slave into the directors’ chambers spoke to the amount of power Sevastyan had in the Merchari.
“Rise, Hand.” That would be Ruel, the director on the left.
Sevastyan recognized him by his voice, muffled as it was, and his height.
While the directors believed themselves to be unknown to Sevastyan, those were secrets he had long since cracked for Anton in their mission to destroy the Merchari from the inside.
Gaining Alexi’s trust had been a significant step in accomplishing that mission.
Ruel was a frequent enjoyer of certain parties Alexi hosted.
The directors might be chosen by vote, but the chosen who voted were limited.
Sevastyan was one rank below the ring whose voices mattered.
Raska voted. Alexi probably still voted. Hands did not vote.
Sevastyan stood. Behind him, the faint rustle of fabric signaled that Rei had rearranged himself on his knees, eyes down, hands on his thighs.
They had practiced often enough. Sevastyan did not need to look to know that Rei was presenting himself as a credit to Sevastyan’s discipline.
And not just his discipline, but also his taste.
With his outer coats off, Rei was sporting a custom cut black-wool suit from an Italian designer and matching black mask covering the burned half of his face, but leaving the beauty of the other side on display.
“Sevastyan.” Ruel opened the meeting.
“Directors.” Sevastyan inclined his head.