‘They’re everywhere,’ Olga Andreeva said. She held her hands over her mouth as they watched the buildings burn in Los Angeles.
‘Nobody has said that Kartsev’s people started this,’ Pyotr said trying to calm his panic-stricken wife despite his own suspicions.
‘Don’t be naive! Of course they did this. Why else would it happen now? Just coincidence?’
‘The police are being more aggressive. They just pushed the black people over the edge.’
‘Oh, you’re so ignorant about such things. You think like a man. Everything must be straightforward or you miss it entirely.’
The pictures on television now were of bodies strewn about one particularly devastated block. Andreev got his wallet from the kitchen counter and headed for the door.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out,’ he said, standing in the door and looking both ways down the hall. ‘I’ll be back soon.’
‘No, sir, we don’t sell any German guns,’ the sales clerk said to Andreev.
‘How about Uzis?’
The two men behind the counter looked at each other and laughed. The clerk standing in front of Andreev ran his hand down the glass-topped counter. ‘We got Colts, Smith & Wessons, Rugers, Berettas…’
‘What kind of Berettas?’ Andreev interrupted. ‘9Ps?’
‘Yep. They’re seven fifty new. Or I got some mint, like new-in-box, for five fifty.’
The salesman pulled one of the new Berettas from the display and pulled the slide back, locking it open. He lay it on a beat-up rubber mat atop the glass. Andreev picked the pistol up and released the slide. It snapped forward with a crisp ‘clack.’ He opened it again and stuck his thumb into the chamber, peering down the barrel which was lit with reflected light. The interior of the barrel looked smooth, and there was no wear on the gentle grooves which twisted down the barrel toward his eye.
‘That one there’s seven hundred and fifty dollars.’
Andreev checked the tension in the trigger and worked the slide again.
‘Can I ask what you’re lookin’ to use it for?’ the man behind the counter asked.
Andreev was testing the heft of the weapon by lifting it to his line of sight and resting the butt in the palm of his left hand. ‘Target shooting.’
He lined up the sights, which were well-designed and crafted.
The salesman leaned all the way down to the bottom shelf and came back up with a huge, nickel-plated automatic. ‘Well, this here is an American gun — a Smith & Wesson. Ten-millimeter.’ He pulled out two boxes containing ammunition of different calibers. The salesman pulled one bullet from one box, and a noticeably larger bullet from the other. ‘Now this one here is a nine-millimeter Parabellum, like the army uses in those Berettas. This one,’ he said, placing the much larger, thicker bullet down beside the first, ‘is a ten-millimeter. The Smith & Wesson 10-mm automatic was developed for the FBI. It’s got a thirteen-round combat capacity, twelve in a double-stack magazine and one in the chamber. It’s heavy. It kicks like hell. But it’ll knock the holy shit out of your “targets”!’ He and his grinning co-worker laughed.
‘I’ll take it,’ Andreev said, looking at the beautiful weapon without even lifting it from the mat.
‘It’s a thousand bucks.’
It had the right look about it. Businesslike. And the business of a pistol was killing human beings. Andreev handed over a fistful of one-hundred-dollar bills. He had been paid well to protect the Russian President. Now that money bought protection for Andreev.
‘You gotta fill these out,’ the salesman said. He laid a set of forms on the counter. ‘Then we run a check. There’s a seven-day waiting period.’
‘What?’
It’s the law. But if you are worried about crime…’ He lifted a huge pump shotgun — black metal overlaid with ribbed plastic — and held the heavy weapon by its pistol grip. The maw of the huge muzzle was gaping. Menacing. ‘You might try this ten-gauge pump. Holds five rounds. I’d recommend a mix of shot and slugs. It’s a mother, this ole pump. And there ain’t no waitin’ period on the shotgun.’
Andreev looked at the huge weapon. The bell at the door jingled, and he looked back over his shoulder with a start. It was a young couple, and they sheepishly made their way to the gun counter. They huddled together, whispering and pointing at the few remaining guns. It was only then that Andreev noticed the gaps on the display shelves.
‘I’ll take it,’ Andreev said.
Pyotr and Olga sat glued to the TV news. The knock at the door made them jump. They knew no one in America. Pyotr got the shotgun and headed for the front door. He risked pressing his eye to the peephole.
There was a small gathering of people in the corridor outside — mostly old men and women. He put the large gun aside before opening the door. Olga joined him.
‘Oh, hello,’ a kindly-looking old lady said — smiling. ‘We’ve never really introduced ourselves. We’re all from the building.’ Several people from the mostly male group nodded or waved at Pyotr. He nodded back. ‘I had noticed your children on the playground. They’re beautiful little darlings.’ Olga’s face lit up with a smile.
‘We’re forming a neighborhood watch,’ an old codger said from off to the side. ‘We were wonderin’ if you’d like to join up.’
‘A “neighborhood watch”?’ Pyotr asked.
He was met with stony stares. The talkative old woman in the center finally said, ‘That’s a beautiful accent. Where are you from?’
‘Switzerland,’ Pyotr said, and the group eased up. ‘What is this “watch” group?’
‘A neighborhood watch,’ the old man repeated more loudly as if Pyotr had a hearing problem. ‘You know, a patrol.’
Pyotr and Olga exchanged looks. She was equally perplexed.
‘It’s a group of us from the building,’ a younger man said from the back. ‘We patrol the apartments and look for any signs of trouble.’
‘What kind of trouble?’ Pyotr asked.
‘With the blacks,’ the old codger blurted out. Several people chastised him loudly.
The smiling woman in front said, ‘There’s just so much crime these days. And with what’s going on in California, we just decided to make sure our homes stayed safe. We’re going to patrol every night in shifts. We have radios,’ she said, holding up a cheap plastic children’s toy.
Pyotr looked at Olga. She had been scared of street crime in Moscow, but she was terrified of what they had found in America. ‘All right. I will join.’
They all welcomed him. ‘Oh,’ the old lady said, ‘there is one more thing. Do you have a gun?’
‘What?’ Pyotr asked. He couldn’t believe they were talking about armed patrols.
The woman stuck her hand inside her purse. ‘A gun,’ she said loudly — pulling a small revolver out. She held the weapon in her frail, bony arm — her finger on the trigger.
Pyotr was stunned, but he nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I have one.’
‘Wonderful,’ the woman said — smiling and returning her pistol to the purse. ‘Then welcome to the watch. Oh, and welcome to America!’
The Security Council meeting took a surprising turn. Angela Leighton — U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations — leaned over to her aide as they waited for the Chinese handout to reach them. ‘What’s this all about?’ she whispered.
The man shuffled papers and shook his head. ‘It wasn’t on the agenda.’
The red folder was handed to Leighton. She opened it and saw a map of Asia. ‘Chinese Territories Taken by Imperialism in the Old Democratic Revolutionary Era (1840–1919).’ She felt her jaw slacken, and she clenched her teeth. People were watching. On the map, the borders of China were clearly marked. But another set of lines bulged into neighboring countries. Huge tracts of China’s neighbors were blotted out by cross-hatched shading of different styles. And nowhere was the shaded area larger than in Siberia.