State Of The Union

He took his meal to the wheelhouse and listened to the marine radio chatter of lonely Finnish and Russian fishermen plying the cold Baltic Sea. Several men spoke of an approaching storm, and Leighton felt a chill as a gust of wind found its way through a poorly insulated gap between two of the windows. He was glad he didn’t have to be out there tonight, but at the same time, he dreaded how soon he would have to move. He decided to try to make contact one more time.

Chapter 20

SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE ZVENIGOROD, RUSSIA

It had taken Milesch Popov two years to find the weapon he now held in his hand. He had been watching an American documentary on modern-day gangsters when he first saw it-the Thompson ZG-51 Pit Bull. The.45-caliber pistol was the rage with all the high-level crime kingpins in East L.A. While lesser wannabe gangsters were running around with their nine millimeters, classy, more self-confident original gangsters were fully strapped with Pit Bulls, complete with a depiction of the notorious dog.

Popov had an engraver give the Pit Bull on the pistol’s slide a huge set of balls. Then, carved right in front of the animal, was the outline of a naked woman on her hands and knees with a huge set of tits covered by the letters O.G. for original gangster. What Popov lacked in class, he definitely made up for in creativity.

As he pulled back the slide of his Pit Bull to chamber a round, Popov made a mental note to invoice Stavropol for this recent purchase of custom ammunition. After all, it was a legitimate expense, one which Popov couldn’t imagine conducting his business without. The armor-piercing rounds were made from hardened machined steel that had been hand-dipped in Teflon. With his enemies relying more and more on heavily armored cars and bulletproof vests, complete with titanium trauma plates over their hearts, he needed every advantage he could get.

The armor piercing rounds had become his signature and though they did seem a bit of an overkill for what he was about to do, he had modeled his career on the old Russian proverb,while fame travels slowly, at least notoriety travels fast. The runaway orphan from Nizhnevartovsk had learned much during his short time in this world.

The missing general had been easier to find than Popov had expected-though he wouldn’t inform his current benefactor of that fact. No, he would let the famous General Sergei Olegovich Stavropol believe that he had moved heaven and earth to track down his quarry. In reality, it had been as simple as driving to certain shops in and around Zvenigorod, making inquiries.

After having examined the empty grave at the hunting lodge, Popov had decided to operate under the assumption that General Anatoly Karganov was indeed wounded, but not dead. Either he had escaped under his own power, or someone had helped him. Under the circumstances, Karganov would not have been able to return home. It would have been too dangerous. In fact, if his injuries were serious enough, he might not have been able to travel very far at all.

At the very least, Karganov probably would have needed some sort of medical attention. With this in mind, Popov had visited not only every physician, but also every veterinarian within a fifty-kilometer radius. Popov had a way of making most people, especially hardworking law-abiding citizens, feel uncomfortable around him. Maybe it was his slightly repugnant, street-savvy demeanor or the way his eyes held you in their gaze and never let go that made most people automatically assume he was a special investigator or some other State law enforcement officer. Not one soul bothered to ask him for identification. His suit alone, hell, even his shoes, cost more than what most of the people in the Odinstovo area saw in an entire year. Whoever he was, Milesch Popov was important and conveyed the distinct impression that failing to cooperate with him brought with it a slew of undesirable consequences.

When the physician and veterinarian trail went cold, Popov moved to the next item on his checklist-stores that sold any type of medical supplies. He left no stone unturned. If a shop carried anything that even remotely resembled what he was looking for, he paid them a visit.

It was at the end of a very long day, when most of the shops were preparing to close, that his efforts appeared to be finally paying off. “Dobri vyechyer,” he said in an officious tone to the aging shopkeeper, as he scanned the provincial pharmacy’s scantily stocked shelves. “Do you sell bandages?”

“Da,” replied the old man, pointing to where the bandages were.

“And antibiotics?”

“Da,” repeated the old man as he came around the counter to help direct his wealthy young customer.

“How about antiseptic?”

“We’re all out,” said the man as he shook his headno.