The general stared at the hard planes of his daughter’s pursuer and tried to make himself believe that everything would be all right. Dreading what he would find, Cherkshan clicked on the file in his mail, saving it off to another folder on his hard drive. He buried it among plans for the Ukraine invasion, but he would know where it was. Then he opened it and watched the file spread across his monitor.
One of the files showed the bodies of Colonel Linko’s confirmed kills. Linko obviously most enjoyed those assignments where discretion was not enforced. Several of the kills had been of Islamic terrorists, CIA agents, and black marketers. Those had been done in public, and they had been very messy.
The man was a psychopath on a very loose leash. It was no surprise that he had been hidden away in the FSB.
Farther back in the files, Cherkshan found more pictures, these of Chechen women who had been tortured. According to the accompanying information, Linko had demanded information from them, but they had died and taken it to the grave with them.
Cherkshan felt certain that the women had had no information worth knowing. No one could have been that dedicated to keeping a secret. Linko was a sadist who enjoyed hurting and killing people, that was all.
He closed the images and read through Linko’s service record. Much of it had been redacted, but enough of it remained to fill in the blanks. People summoned Linko like a rusalka, a succubus that came out to mesmerize victims then deliver them into death’s embrace. The gender was wrong, but the end result was the same.
Now this thing was after Anna, and Cherkshan felt certain he knew who had put Linko on Lourds’s trail. After his audience with President Nevsky and the man’s mention of Alexander the Great, Cherkshan had read up on the Macedonian king. Nevsky hadn’t said what had interested him so much about Alexander, and Cherkshan couldn’t fathom the reason.
During the past few months, the general had read dozens of books and grown more frustrated with his independent research. He had a small library of the books at home but had found nothing that would warrant the Russian president’s focus.
Growling a curse, Cherkshan closed down the file, took a final look at the image of Colonel Sergay Linko, and hoped that the men protecting Anna and Lourds would kill the FSB agent, or that he could at least tell Anna about the danger she was in, but that would circumvent Nevsky’s actions to apprehend or kill the American linguist and take whatever he was truly after.
That, too, was another mystery.
Cherkshan drank the dregs of his tea, now tepid, then grabbed his greatcoat and put it on. He wanted to walk among the tanks. That was when he felt most in control of a coming battle.
Turning out the lights behind him, he departed the room.
30
Seated at the long dining room table, Lourds reached into a basket and took out a small, fresh-baked flatbread. Breaking it open, he inhaled the naan‘s sweet aroma. He glanced at Fitrat sitting across from him. “Did you make this?”
“I did.”
Lourds scooped up a large bite of qabili palau, a rice pilaf prepared in a seasoned broth. The taste exploded in his mouth, and he sighed contentedly. “You set a very good table, Captain. My compliments.”
“You are most welcome, Professor.”
As he ate, Lourds parceled out the story he had put together in his mind. “In order to understand Aristotle and why his presence as Alexander the Great’s mentor was such a great blessing, you must first understand Plato.”
“The Greek philosopher and founder of the Academy in Athens?”
Lourds shot Captain Fitrat a glance, then remembered what Layla had told him of the man, how he had been schooled in America and his parents had expected him to become a doctor. “That’s right. He founded it on a piece of land called the Grove of Hecademus, also called Academus, hence the name Academy.”
Layla sipped her water. “The Greeks did have a way of naming things what they were.”
“They did.” Lourds ate a bichak, a small turnover stuffed with potatoes and herbs. “Aristotle was at the Academy when Plato was there. In fact, it was after Plato died — of natural causes, not hemlock like his mentor Socrates — and the position as head of the Academy came open, that Aristotle chose to leave Athens.”
Layla reached for a piece of bread. “As I recall, Aristotle was passed over for the position.”
“Yes. Even though he was the man best suited for the position, by all accounts. His work had already started to eclipse Plato’s, and Plato was even sitting in on some of Aristotle’s classes to learn the new methodologies his former student was creating.” Lourds sipped water. Wine had been offered, but he chose to honor the Islamic traditions of his hosts. “The position went to Speusippus, who was Plato’s nephew by his sister.”
“Ah, so the Greeks invented nepotism as well.” Captain Fitrat grinned again. “Very crafty, those Greeks.”
“Actually, they were practicing it, but the name didn’t come into favor until the Middle Ages with the Catholic popes and bishops who were busy trying to create heirs. That whole vow of chastity fouled up the normal fathers-to-sons inheritance. But I digress. After Aristotle discovered he was being passed over for the position and that it was being given to a man he felt was inferior to him, he left the Academy. There are some historians who think that he actually left before Plato died, that he already knew who was going to be appointed the head of the Academy. But that doesn’t matter. Xenocrates, his friend, also left.”
“I seem to recall that Xenocrates was head of the Academy.”
Lourds looked at Fitrat in surprise.
The captain looked a little embarrassed and shrugged. “I have a very good memory.”
“You must. Pity you took up being a soldier.”
“If I had not, perhaps you and Miss Cherkshan might not have survived your encounter earlier today.”
Anna, who had been mostly preoccupied, spoke up from her seat on the other side of Layla. “Personally, I am very glad that Captain Fitrat is who he is.”
Fitrat smiled at her.
Lourds held up his water and toasted Fitrat, who responded and clinked glasses with him. “Even without the death of Plato, Aristotle might have chosen to move on. He was thirty-seven and had to be feeling the pressure to develop something of a career.
“He and Xenocrates planned to start a school in Assos, which is near Lesbos. While Aristotle was in Assos, he married a young woman, Pythias.”
“I suppose Aristotle also felt it was time to take a wife?”
Uncomfortable now, the ring in his pocket pressing into his leg, Lourds squirmed in his chair. He caught Anna looking at him questioningly. He shook his head slightly, unnoticed by Layla, but not unnoticed by Captain Fitrat. The captain said nothing, but he looked appraisingly at them.
“Possibly, but their marriage only lasted ten years. She died, leaving Aristotle alone with a young daughter, named for her mother. He later married again, and he continued working at the school he founded with Xenocrates.”
“But not as the head of the academy?”
“No. Serving as second under Xenocrates, who would eventually be called to Athens when Speusippus died a few years later. But by that time, Aristotle was with Alexander. In 343 or later, depending on your resource, Philip II asked Aristotle to his court and presented Alexander to him. Alexander was thirteen, already a prime specimen of a man, tall and handsome and trained as a warrior. And in him, Aristotle must have seen his opportunity to make his mark in the world.”