State Of The Union

When Popov asked him why he didn’t have any antiseptic on hand, the shopkeeper explained that a young woman had come in and bought all that he had. She had also bought several boxes of bandages, and a healthy amount of antibiotics.

Immediately, Popov’s interest was piqued and his questions began flowing.Did the shopkeeper recognize her? No, he didn’t.Was she local? No, she was definitely not local.What did she need the medical supplies for? She didn’t say.Do you know where she is staying? No, but he did direct her to the market around the corner where she could buy food and order firewood.

And, without so much as a ‘spaseeba,’ Popov was out the door and headed toward the localriynak.

The woman who ran the market prided herself on being well informed on everything that happened in their small village. In other words, she was an insufferable gossip. It took very little for Milesch Popov to coax out of her the location of the dacha where the old woman’s son had delivered the order of firewood. It was only three kilometers away.

Popov hid his car up the road and picked his way by foot through scrawny trees with bare, claw-like branches to the dilapidated house. Above the poorly shingled roof, small tendrils of smoke rose into the sky from a rusting stovepipe. In the driveway sat a lone Lada hatchback. As Popov approached it, he withdrew his stiletto and slashed both of the Lada’s front tires. Returning the knife to his coat pocket, Popov maneuvered himself closer to one of the dacha’s rear windows to get a good look inside.

In his thin, Italian calfskin loafers, his feet were beyond freezing, but when he saw the man propped upright in a small metal-framed bed with his head wrapped turban style in a long white bandage, Popov was suddenly infused with a surge of warmth.

He crept a safe distance away from the house, withdrew his cell phone and dialed. Stavropol answered on the third ring.

“I have found your package,” said Popov.

“Where?” asked Stavropol, the moan of a ship’s horn discernable in the near distance.

“Out in the countryside.”

“I knew it,” purred Stavropol. “Listen carefully. I’m going to give you an address. I want you to put the body into the trunk of your car and drive it-”

“There’s a small problem.”

“I paid you to find a body, not problems. Now I want you to put him in your-”

“He’s alive,” interrupted Popov.

“What do you mean,he’s alive?”

“Alive -as innot dead.”

“That’s impossible,” snarled Stavropol.

“I was just looking at him. He’s got a bandage around his head and he’s sitting upright in a bed.”

“Are you sure it’s him?”

“Would I be calling you if I wasn’t? He looks just like the picture you sent me, so either it’s him, or he’s got a double with a very bad head wound.”

“Head wound,” reflected Stavropol. “Damn it. Is he alone?”

“I don’t know. I only took a quick look through the window. I think there might be a woman in there with him,” replied Popov.

“I want you to find out for sure and then kill them both.”

“Kill them both?”

“Don’t act so unsettled, Milesch. I know you’ve killed before. That’s why I chose you.”

“Our deal was only that I find him,” responded Popov.

“That’s when we thought he was already dead.”

“Well, killing him and anyone else who’s with him is going to cost you more.”

“How much more?” asked Stavropol, not surprised that Popov was asking for more money. Had Stavropol been closer, he would have done the job himself, but he couldn’t risk losing Karganov in the time it would take him to get there. Stavropol waited longer than he should have for Popov to respond and when he didn’t, he said, “Popov, are you there or not? What’s going on?”

Alexandra Ivanova pressed the silencer of her nine-millimeter Walther P4 hard against the spot where Milesch Popov’s left ear met his skull. The steel tube felt like ice to him, but that was only part of what made him freeze. He was absolutely amazed that anyone could have snuck up behind him. He had been so careful. Or so he had thought.

“You’ll have to call them back,” said Alexandra. “Drop your weapon and hang up now.”

Stavropol’s voice could be heard coming from the cell phone, “Milesch? Milesch? What’s going on there?”

Popov didn’t move. He just stood there in shock.

“No second chances,” said Alexandra as she readjusted the angle of her silencer and then pulled the Walther’s trigger.

There was the sound of a muffled cough and then Popov roared in pain as his earlobe was torn from his head in a spatter of blood and pink tissue. Both his weapon and the cell phone fell to the ground as his hands shot to the left side of his head, frantically searching for what was left of his ear.

Stavropol’s voice could still be heard shouting through the cell phone, “Popov! Popov! What’s happening?”

Alexandra shattered the phone with a bullet and then gave Popov a quick kick to the back of one of his knees, knocking him down. As he clutched desperately at his ear, the snow running red with his blood, Alexandra retrieved his Pit Bull and ordered him to get up.