Constantine rolled, hurrying to rise.
Bodies — running, skidding in mud — piled on top, smothering him.
Constantine screamed like he never had in his life. A hand clamped down his mouth, trying to silence him. He bit. Now it was the hand’s owner who screamed. Someone else punched Constantine, and he let go, jarred, an ugly taste of blood in his mouth. He was subdued. Powerful tentacles twisted his arms, fingers dug into his jaw. Four of the bastards were holding him up, presenting him to Weinstock, their leader, the natural-born killer who had destroyed his life a year ago.
Constantine shrieked, “You son of a bitch!”
Weinstock smirked. “Fool.”
Then, savagely, he slammed the pistol butt against Constantine’s head.
10
The house in Bykovo offered all the comforts, but not the burdening presence, of civilization. Heeding Klimov’s advice, Sokolov came here for a few days of peace and quiet, to wait out for the governmental upheaval to die down as the EMERCOM chief handled the backlash of their mission in Sochi. For once, Sokolov was beginning to appreciate his work leave.
Bykovo. The village conveniently placed on the mid-point between Moscow and Zhukovsky had all the peace and quiet one could ever ask for. Eugene Sokolov’s home was secluded, tucked away in the woods, only a driveway connecting the plot of land to the estates of other cottagers. A microcosm created by his father, whose touch lived in every item belonging to the two-storied loghouse. It was all that he had left of the past. Due to the proximity to Gene’s work, it had turned out naturally that he would occupy the house, and their family’s apartment in Presnya had become Constantine’s. And so it was, until his brother’s disappearance.
Constantine…
An entire year, not a single day of which had passed without Gene thinking about him. He would sometimes imagine that he was still there, near him, but it was so only in his memories and dreams, not reality.
Sokolov had received no help from the authorities, who added Constantine as one of the 100,000 Russian names that ended up in the missing persons list every year.
His own search became pointless as time progressed. He did not know why or where Constantine had disappeared, but he hoped that one day his elder brother would return. Even if it would take another five — or fifty — years, they would find each other.
Before then, his days would be tarnished by gnawing futility, the pain of not knowing the answers.
There was only one way to clear his mind from the torment — incessant workouts.
On the second floor of the dacha was his bedroom and study; the rooms below had been completely converted to accommodate his private one-man dojo, screened off from the rest of the floor by sliding shoji partitions. Bright sunrays passed through the wall-sized glass door that opened into the backyard where his Land Rover Defender was parked — it was an EMERCOM staff car, for he couldn’t afford his own. Either wall was covered with frames — paper scrolls with the quotes of Sosai Mas Oyama on one side; on the other were blown-up black-and white photographs, the first pictures Gene had ever shot in his life — a portrait of his family. His parents and his brother. All gone.
The environment inside these walls felt like a living being, interacting with him. Years ago, the dojo was the place where Constantine had saved him from disability. After the shots fired in Beslan, he was bedridden for two months. The complete lack of motion had caused his muscles to atrophy. His normal life was on the line. Recovery would be painful, he knew, though he hadn’t known just how painful. His legs caused the worst suffering. He started his daily warm-up with prayer and meditation, sitting in Japanese seiza style, the traditional kneeling position. Placing his weight on his heels, with feet and knees on the floor, the simple pose was torture. The pressure on his shins and ankles was crushing. Stretching exercises followed. Joints cracked. Stiff ligaments protested. Every cell in his body hurt.
After that, the real work-out began. He practiced his punches and kicks, first cutting through air, then battering a bag. Every strike reached an imaginary target — a masked gunman, or a black-clad woman with a bomb belt. Sometimes he would move outdoors, especially when he needed ample space for kata. Then came the weights, and his routine was finished by push-ups and sit-ups.
He had wanted to give up a thousand times. Each time when he knew he couldn’t take it anymore, Constantine would prod him on, reassuring him, making him believe that he could return to normal life.
Four-hour sessions, one after another, day after day. It had been hell then, but he had recovered. He had been second dan before Beslan — and earned the fourth afterwards. He’d had to pass the toughest test in martial arts and overcome a hundred opponents to get it.
He’d done it all to punish — and prove — himself, to heap self-accusation — and reach ultimate redemption. On that horrible day in Beslan, he’d carried a six-year-old girl in his arms, running out of the burning school. And then the shots came, and the slug passed through him. She had died, yet he was alive! He would have given anything to have it the other way around. Convinced that a trained soldier would have done better in his place, he’d set out to surpass any soldier, to achieve physical perfection.
He’d accomplished his goal, purging the mixed poison of guilt and vanity, but above all else he had done it for his brother, the only person for whom his life had any worth.
As usual, Sokolov dressed in his karate uniform — the rustling, starched-white gi, and his black belt. The belt bore his name, sewn in golden katakana, a mark of his achievement. Now he entered his dojo with a new sense of strange emotional turbulence, similar to what he had experienced after Beslan.
Asiyah. The helpless, comatose young woman that so reminded him of the child he had failed to save. Thinking about Asiyah, remembering her face, he felt her longing for his protection. Leaving her, giving her away to the FSB was wrong. An inexplicable uneasiness was swelling inside him.
He tried to push it aside. He had other thoughts to occupy his mind — rational contemplation. The mystery of the Black Sea disaster intrigued him. What agent, chemical or otherwise, caused the killings — perhaps that would be known via the EMERCOM lab tests. But the essential questions were who had done it and why? Was it a show of force? A sample of a new destructive weapon? Then the choice of instrument for political assassination was unusual. He was vying for answers, and again he mentally returned to Asiyah. What could her role be in it?
Sokolov found himself pummeling the punching bag with more force than was necessary. He paused, grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat off his face, wondering what had taken over him. Two hours of his work-out had gone in a blink. He felt a strange premonition… No, it was a sound he heard.
Outside, car tires scratched against the gravel road, coming to a stop. Throwing away the towel, Sokolov opened the Japanese wall screen and walked past a small dining area to the front entrance, just as the doorbell rang. He glanced out the window. Sure enough, a dark blue sedan was parked on a small clearing between his house and the pine grove.
Sokolov opened the door. Two uniformed grunts in gray suit-and-tie attire were waiting on the porch. Short hair that screamed former military — or active.
“Eugene Sokolov?” The statement-question came from a black-haired man with stained teeth. Both of them were of middle height, and he was the shorter of the two, reaching Sokolov’s shoulder level in height. His right hand was bandaged.