Kimball nodded. “Nah, I think I’ll keep it for posterity.”
The punk fell back with his group, and then they headed for the opposite end of the alley.
Kimball pocketed the knife, watching. When they rounded the bend he hastened his pace. Regardless, there were always vultures out there waiting in the shadows ready to close in on what they think may be carrion to feed on. This was not a good area to take things lightly or remain complacent.
When he reached his apartment he finally felt at ease, knowing he was safe because his apartment was rigged to deal with any unwanted visitors.
The interior was small, hot and closed in, the kitchen nothing but a single-basin sink and a microwave oven. The bedroom was equally small and allowed nothing larger than a super-single sized bed and adjoining nightstand. Across the way was a small dresser with a 13” flat-screen TV. Next to that was a bathroom, small, with walls that were stained with patches of black mold that he had to wash away with a sponge on a weekly basis.
But it didn’t matter to him. It was just a place to lay his hat.
Removing the knife from his pocket, he depressed the button and watched the blade slide out. The metal was clean and shined with a mirror polish. But it wasn’t a well-made knife. More like something that was made in Tijuana and brought across the border.
He tossed the knife onto the dresser, took a quick shower, and felt fresh and new as he got into bed. Most nights he would lay there and watch the news, often using the remote to switch channels by the second — going from channel to channel until settling on a station.
But tonight he just wanted to lay in the dark and think about what Louie had to say about how he saw the fight in Kimball’s eyes, which caused him to wonder if his destiny was truly set. The skirmish in the alley was testimony to that, the “fight” always seemed to be within arm’s length no matter how hard he tried to avoid it.
With Louie’s words and the images of the brawl in the alley playing out in his mind, and if he wasn’t so consumed with the sequence of the day’s events, then he would have been watching TV. And if he had, then he would have learned that Pope Gregory had died of an apparent accident by falling off the Papal Balcony.
What a day.
CHAPTER FIVE
The man was in his late sixties but moved with the alacrity of somebody much older. With a cane in one hand and a small bundle of bread and eggs in the other, the old man walked along the cold streets of Moscow. Above him the sky was gray; the sky was always gray as the man shuffled along in a laboring gait to his apartment on the third level of the complex. Every day the journey up the stairs were beginning to prove too much for his increasingly feeble legs.
Someday, he considered, when his legs finally gave, so would he.
He would sit by the window with a bottle of vodka and drink himself into a stupor with the last thought on his mind of the Cold War, when he was someone of purpose. Now that the walls have crumbled and communism nothing but an afterthought, the old man had become a societal burden surviving on a meager stipend equal to four hundred American dollars per month. Often he would go days without heat during a Russian winter because he didn’t have enough rubles to pay the bill.
Yet the old man eventually adapted, finding warmth with booze and aged memories.
Climbing the stairway only to take a time-out on every fourth or fifth step to catch his breath, the old man worked his way to his apartment that was approximately 350 square feet of living space.
Once inside he placed the eggs in the refrigerator and the bread on the counter, then leaned against the badly stained kitchen sink to regain his strength.
“You’re getting old, Leonid,” he told himself. “It’s getting close to putting this old dog down.”
The old man removed his scarf, his jacket, and draped them over the kitchen table that wobbled on weak legs. And then he made his way to a time-worn lounge chair situated before a small casement window that gave him a view of Red Square. This was his comfort zone. Just him, his memories, and the cheapest bottle of vodka he could afford.
Yet the chair was moved away from the window and the drapes were drawn, pinching out the drab light of an overcast day.
The old man stopped, his heart fluttering irregularly in his chest. “Who’s in here?”
From the depths of the shadows a man sat in the old man’s chair, which to the old man was sacred property. He was cast in obscurity as a silhouette bearing no contour or shape, just a mass of darkness.
“I’ve come to give you back your respect,” the shadow simply stated. “To give you back all those years of glory and achievement.”
The old man recognized the voice immediately, clicked his tongue in disgust and waved his hand dismissively. The Middle East accent and the steady lilt in the man’s voice told Leonid that it was Adham al-Ghazi, not a man he expected or wanted to see under any circumstances.
“You come into my home unannounced and scare an old man half to death! What’s the matter with you?”
Al-Ghazi said nothing.
“Say what you have to say, and then leave.”
Al-Ghazi sat unmoving, a shade of deep black. And then, “My bathroom in Iran is bigger than this place,” he said. “And it smells better, too. It’s a shame that a man of your talent is forced to live in such conditions.”
“If you’ve come all this way to tell me that your crap doesn’t stink, then you’re wasting your time.”
“Still full of spitfire, I see. That’s good.”
“What do you want, Ghazi?”
The Arab stood and moved into the light. He was impeccably dressed in an expensive suit bearing pinstripes and a matching silk tie. His beard was perfectly trimmed, not a single hair was misplaced or out of proportion from any other hair on his chin. To Leonid, it appeared perfectly sculptured.
“I want to give you back your glory days,” he said, placing his hands behind the small of his back. “I can give you back what Russia cannot.”
The old man waved his hand dismissively for a second time. “Impossible,” he said. “That ship has already sailed and Mother Russia is gone.”
“Perhaps. But a new ship has arrived.” Al-Ghazi reached into his jacket pocket, produced a thick envelope, and placed it on the kitchen counter. Leonid Sakharov didn’t have to be told of its contents. “That’s just a beginning, my friend. When you’re finished, then you’ll be able to live out your life in luxury. I guarantee it.”
Leonid Sakharov stared at the envelope, refusing to make any type of commitment by picking it up.
“Whereas Russia has turned a blind eye to you,” added al-Ghazi, “my people have not.”
“Your people are al-Qaeda.”
“My people, Leonid, can make you whole again. No more pining away in that rat trap of a chair of yours looking over Red Square and reminiscing of old times while drinking rotgut. Unless, of course, that’s the way you want to go out. As a seething old drunk who has nothing to look forward to besides a cheap bottle of vodka every morning.”
“And what’s it to you? Maybe I like being ‘a seething old drunk who has nothing to look forward to besides a cheap bottle of vodka every morning,’” he mimicked.
Al-Ghazi smiled. “You’re so much better than that,” he told him. “In fact, Leonid, I know you don’t believe that yourself. Or you wouldn’t get up every day just to reminisce about times that used be. You want to be there again, don’t you? To ply your trade and be someone who is needed.”
The old man cast his eyes to the floor. Al-Ghazi hit the head of the nail straight on. A tired Old Man he may be, but al-Ghazi was correct to presume that he lived everyday in a drunken haze just to make his world more bearable. “What is it that you want?” he finally asked.