Potboiler

It was a lively scene, made more so by the presence of what appeared to be the entire population of East Zlabia. For the most part they looked like their cousins across the border, except more obese. They were snacking and sipping soft drinks, pushing strollers and leaving junky compact cars at any of the myriad valet stands. Outside the Amazon jungle–themed casino, they applauded and snapped pictures as a team of pink dolphins broke the hypnotic blue of an artificial lake to execute a precisely choreographed midair pas de deux.

The largest casino was at the end of the street. It had a Vassily Nabochka theme. A massive gold statue of the prince stood out front. He was holding a root vegetable in one hand and a sword in the other. Though the iconography made it clear who he was, his face had been cast to resemble Kliment Thithyich’s.

The limo pulled up. Valets rushed to greet it. Pfefferkorn was escorted inside at gunpoint and guided through a bleeping, blooping field of slot machines to the shopping promenade. Savory led the way. They entered a men’s haberdashery done up in dark wood and brass railings. Pfefferkorn was handed a binder of sample fabrics and made to stand on a wooden box. A tailor appeared and began taking his measurements.

“Pick a good one,” Savory said. “It’ll be in the photos.”

Pfefferkorn selected an understated blue. The tailor nodded approvingly and rushed off.

In the meantime Pfefferkorn was taken to the spa. He got a hot-stone massage at gunpoint. He swam a few laps in the saltwater pool, also at gunpoint. His moustache came off, revealing a semi-hardened scab. He left the moustache floating on the surface of the water.

Back to the haberdashery they went. He stood up on the box for a fitting. The tailor slashed at him with chalk.

“Have you ever had a suit made before?” Savory asked.

Pfefferkorn shook his head. “I’ve never had a hot-stone massage, either.”

“First time for everything.”

The tailor promised the finished product by morning.

Their last stop was the casino courtyard, wherein a magnificent black granite plaza surrounded a runty tree.

HERE LIES IN ETERNAL SLUMBER

THE GREAT HERO

FATHER AND REDEEMER OF THE GLORIOUS ZLABIAN PEOPLE

PRINCE VASSILY

“HOW LIKE A ROOT VEGETABLE SWELLS MY HEART TO GAZE UPON THY COUNTENANCE

HOW LIKE AN ORPHANED KID GOAT DOES IT BLEAT FOR THY LOSS”

(canto cxx)

Pfefferkorn and Savory bowed their heads.

“All right,” Savory said. “Party’s over.”

They got into an elevator. One of the guards pushed the button for the thirteenth floor. Beside it was a little placard.

 

13: EXECUTIVE LEVEL / HONEYMOON SUITE / DEATH ROW

 

87.

Pfefferkorn’s death-row cell featured movies on demand, a bidet, multizone climate control, and seven-hundred-thread-count bedding. For a man about to be publicly shot, he didn’t feel afraid. Nor was he angry, at least not at Thithyich, who after all was a barbaric, unhinged autocrat acting on the advice of an expensive American consulting firm. Mostly he was disappointed in himself. He had failed the mission, and by extension Carlotta, his daughter, and the free world.

This was the part of the story where he applied his ingenuity to escape from a life-threatening situation. Now that he was in such a situation, he appreciated how asinine a trope it was. In real life, evil captors did not forget to lock the door. They didn’t accidentally leave out an assortment of parts that cleverly combined to form a working crossbow. Lying on his comfy sheets, he ruminated on the phrase “action hero.” It didn’t mean merely that the hero underwent a series of exciting events. It meant that the hero was active—that is, he did something. But what could an action hero do when there was nothing doable? Did the fact that he wasn’t attempting to escape mean that he wasn’t a hero, or that the concept of action heroism was inherently far-fetched? He decided it was both. He might not be able to escape, but he doubted that anyone else could, either. Still, his passivity did make him feel guilty, as though it was morally incumbent upon him to fight back. He could kill himself. That would show Thithyich. His first thought was to hang himself with his bedsheet, but the walls of the cell were made of a smooth plaster inhospitable to nooses. He examined the bedframe, hoping to take it apart and use a piece to slit his wrists. The screws were tight, meant to resist just that sort of mayhem. The television was set into the wall and covered with a thick layer of Plexiglas. The minibar held pretzels, Baked! Lay’s, SunChips, golden raisins, two ingots of Toblerone, six-ounce cartons of orange and cranberry juice, cans of Coke and Diet Coke, and plastic mini-bottles of scotch and vodka. With luck he might be able to snack himself to death, but more probably he would go to his fate with heartburn. Suicide was out.