Potboiler

On cue, the door opened and fifteen bikini-clad women with global breasts bore in sterling-silver trays laden with food. They set them on the sideboard, kissed the president on the cheek, and left. Pfefferkorn could smell smoked fish and freshly made blini. One of the security guards loaded up a plate and placed it in Pfefferkorn’s lap. A second guard kept his rifle trained on Pfefferkorn while a third removed his gag and unlocked his hands. Thithyich watched him eat with a placid smile.

“Good, isn’t it? Better than ‘root vegetable this,’ ‘goat milk that.’”

“Thank you,” Pfefferkorn said. He didn’t see any sense in antagonizing the man.

“My pleasure. Drink?”

Pfefferkorn would have accepted even if Savory hadn’t told him to.

“This is the stuff,” Thithyich said, pouring. He held the tumbler out and a guard took it and held it under Pfefferkorn’s nose so Pfefferkorn could appreciate the aroma.

“Peaty,” the president said. “Yet smooth.”

Pfefferkorn nodded.

“Cin cin,” the president said.

Compared to thruynichka, the scotch went down like cream.

“Try the gravlax,” Thithyich said. “It’s house-cured.”

“Delicious,” Pfefferkorn said.

“I’m so glad. A little more, perhaps?”

Pfefferkorn handed the guard his empty plate. “Thank you,” he said, although he was feeling rather craven for taking seconds.

Thithyich stubbed out his cigarette. “And your trip? I hope it wasn’t too hard.”

Pfefferkorn shook his head.

“Lucian went easy on you, I hope.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Pfefferkorn saw Savory smiling at him in a threatening way.

“I feel like I’m on vacation,” Pfefferkorn said.

A guard handed Pfefferkorn a new plate. There was caviar and crème fraîche and capers and delicate matjes herring in a light tomato sauce.

“Well, good, good. It’s a matter of principle that you be comfortable and entertained.” Thithyich took out another cigarette and stuck it between his lips. “Everyone deserves a taste of what this world has to offer.” He summoned the jet of flame and sucked in smoke. “Not least those soon to depart it.”

85.

Pfefferkorn paused, an unchewed piece of herring in his mouth. He swallowed it down whole and wiped red sauce from his lips. “Beg pardon?”

Savory was grinning.

“You’re going to kill me?” Pfefferkorn said.

“You can’t honestly be surprised,” Thithyich said. “Not after all the inconvenience you’ve caused me. It was no simple matter, kidnapping Carlotta de Vallée, and for you to start running around, playing the ‘hero’—”

“Hold on,” Pfefferkorn said.

Everyone winced.

There was a long silence.

The president smiled.

“Please,” he said. “Go right ahead.”

“I—eh. Eh. I thought the May Twenty-sixers kidnapped Carlotta.”

“They did.”

“But you just said you kidnapped her.”

“Indeed.”

“I’m sorry,” Pfefferkorn said. “I don’t follow.”

“I am the May Twenty-sixers,” Thithyich said. “I created them out of whole cloth. Remember, I’m trying to provoke a war here. What better way to do that than to fan the flames of revanchism? The May Twenty-sixers’ raison d’être is to reunify greater Zlabia under true collectivist rule by any means necessary. It’s expressly stated in their manifesto, which I wrote in the bathtub. Lucian, the relevant part, please, from the preamble.”

Savory pressed keys on his smartphone and read aloud. “‘Our raison d’être is to reunify greater Zlabia under true collectivist rule by any means necessary.’”

“What have you done with her?” Pfefferkorn asked.

“She’s being held at May Twenty-sixer headquarters in West Zlabia,” Thithyich said.

“West Zlabia.”

“Naturally. If I put the headquarters here, it would be rather obvious who was ‘pulling the strings,’ mm? I give my orders through an intermediary. Besides, nothing lends a fake West Zlabian counter-counter-revolutionary movement verisimilitude like having it staffed by genuine West Zlabian counter-counter-revolutionaries. Fabulously committed bunch, they are. Trained from birth to embrace fervent dedication to unattainable goals. God bless the Communist school system.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, provoking a war,” Pfefferkorn said. “The U.S. won’t get involved.”

“Bosh. They’d much rather that than the alternative, which is that the West Zlabians give the gas up for pennies on the dollar to the Chinese.”

“It didn’t work the first time,” Pfefferkorn said.

“What first time?”

“When you faked your own assassination attempt.”

“That’s what your people told you.”

Pfefferkorn nodded.

“And you believed them.”

Pfefferkorn nodded again.

“Do you have any idea how much it hurts to get shot in the buttocks?”

“No,” Pfefferkorn admitted.

“If you did, you’d know that that’s utter claptrap. I never shot myself.”

“Then who did?”

“You did. Well, your government, really. They’re the ones who planted the book for you.”

Pfefferkorn was confused. “Which book.”

Thithyich looked at Savory.

“Blood Eyes,” Savory said.

“That’s the one,” Thithyich said. “Smashing title.”

“Thank you,” Savory said.

“That’s impossible,” Pfefferkorn said. “Blood Eyes had a dummy code.”

“My buttocks beg to differ,” Thithyich said.