Episode 11

(June 17, 1983)

[Author’s note: We've now returned to just after the opening attack by Rin in episodes 1-4.]

Everyone knew who the tall thin man in the center of the room was. The operant word being was. He was the most powerful man in the country, the voice behind the throne so to speak. But now that his master and patron was dead, lying in a pool of blood not twenty feet away, it remained to be seen what he would be. Most likely he would be dead. Dead was where men such as him naturally ended. Officially his title had been the rather bland “Chief Intelligence Adviser,” but everybody knew he was the one man you didn’t cross. Didn’t.

Twelve members of the Securitad occupied a corner, speaking heatedly amongst themselves. Indecision was not a quality common in members of the Securitad. On occasion one or two cast a furtive glance at the well-dressed foreigner who stood apart, patiently wiping his glasses as if he didn’t have a care in the world. As if his life didn’t hang by a thread, a thread precariously flitting this way or that as one voice or another dominated the conversation.

The larger faction held that the Chief Intelligence Adviser had lost all authority when his benefactor perished. He had no other friends in the Palace and was of no further use to anyone. Besides, everyone knew he was a CIA plant even if nobody had dared say it aloud. What else could a well-dressed foreigner be?

Karkov was surprised nobody pointed out that the English acronym for his title was CIA. He had picked it specifically for that reason, hoping somebody would notice. Well, they probably never had seen it written in English. On the other hand, he had a decidedly Russian name. Why didn’t anybody assume he was KGB?

A few dissenting voices cautiously advocated his cause. They most likely were hedging their bets. This was a man who had guided the country no less, dare they say, than the Gracious Leader himself. He was at best harmless and certainly deserved no such vile recompense for his many services. If he indeed had the power imputed to him, had he misused it? How many in the room had felt him a burden? These supporters made certain he overheard them, of course.

Karkov chuckled to himself, drawing hostile stares from the corner. Nothing ever changed. Big Palace or Small Palace, Kingdom or People’s Free Republican Democracy, Palace politics was the same everywhere. The senior officers spoke against him, and only their more ambitious subordinates dared naysay them. As happened so often, the future of a country was being decided not by the staid judgment of venerable statesmen, but by a handful of scared police.

His glasses buffed to satisfaction, Karkov sighed and donned them. Then he calmly sauntered over to the group. Even after a decade carefully studying the manners, language, and accents of this country, he always would be an outsider. He physically looked different from the local population. But even aside from appearance there was another insurmountable difference.

Karkov spread his arms amiably and greeted the group. Their language was guttural and, to his refined ear, grating. But he nevertheless had mastered it. Only an expert could discern his subtle accent.

“Comrade Friends,” he began. The language may have lacked a certain expressiveness, but it did codify a strictly-enforced social hierarchy. There were twelve different formal modes, each reflecting a precise relationship between speaker and audience. Karkov’s seemingly innocuous greeting was that of a superior to those far below his station and carried a degree of condescension adequately expressed only by tone in other languages. He stood smiling, seemingly oblivious as his words drew murderous stares from some of the soldiers and smirks of contempt from others, who doubtless saw in them the neophyte blunder of a foreigner.

Karkov continued without hesitation. “I see something troubles you. Allow your friend to lend his tongue to your grief. What once belonged to our Gracious Leader now belongs to you.”

One of the soldiers muttered in a rural dialect that they would collect his tongue soon enough. Karkov struggled to refrain from laughing. Although he did not advertise it, he was conversant with all the major dialects. Ignorance of such things in a Chief Intelligence Adviser would have been unforgivable. What also was unforgivable was that the men in the Securitad he had created were too stupid to consider that possibility. They disappointed him, and he vowed to do better next time.

Karkov left few things to chance, a lesson he had learned young. As he listened to the ensuing discussion, he played the part of the clueless outsider — smiling and laughing stupidly when others did. Was this the man they all had followed and feared? He was nothing more than an idiot in a suit. Worse, he clearly was trying to be agreeable and ingratiate himself to them. He was not somebody to be feared, just a man who had weaseled his way into the Gracious Leader’s good graces. Karkov knew that to a soldier, nothing was as hateful as a sycophant. The sycophant possessed no strength of his own but could subvert the strongest of soldiers, and often did.

The conversation itself was simple enough. The soldiers physically had arranged themselves in two factions. This seemed stupid to Karkov; he would have hidden his intent and then cut from within. But he wasn’t here to teach the men anything so mundane. Captain so-and-so and four men on the left favored Karkov, while Colonel such-and-such and six men on the right had less amicable intentions. Karkov either hadn’t been told their names or didn’t remember them. He never troubled to learn names unless necessary. Everyone had one, and learning them created needless mental clutter. Should he go about memorizing the serial numbers of every couch and chair?

Rising voices signaled that the discussion had taken an ugly turn, with two men’s hands creeping toward their guns. Well, this just wouldn’t do. Karkov had positioned himself next to the faction which opposed him. Suddenly he started coughing uncontrollably, doubling over. The conversation stopped, and everyone stared at him. Out of the corner of his eye, Karkov could see that some of the friendlier soldiers now had doubts. What good was it to back a sick man?

As he rose from the coughing fit, Karkov casually slid a gun from the holster of the man immediately to his right. It didn’t really matter, but the holster conveniently was located on that man’s left hip. Was he a lefty or did he draw cross-handed? It never was a good idea to draw cross-handed. Before anyone could move, five shots rang out.

It is a little known fact that most handguns can fire at a much higher rate than commonly advertised. The constraint is the mechanics of the human hand. Like many trained professionals, Karkov could unload a magazine at near-automatic speed. It simply was a matter of practice and some dexterity. The men of the Securitad were neither inexperienced nor incompetent. Though they didn’t know it, Karkov had designed their training regimen and monitored their progress himself. Apparently, it needed improvement. He was unimpressed with their reaction times.

The Captain and his pro-Karkov faction lay on the ground, a neat red spot on each forehead and a far less neat spatter of blood on everything behind them. This was another Karkov innovation: the use of hollow-points as the ammunition of choice for the Securitad. Six guns were leveled at him. Any discord amongst the men had vanished when a foreigner killed five of their own. He could smell the confusion and fear. The Colonel wore a bemused expression, clearly desperate to find in Karkov’s eyes some reason for what had happened.

The officer’s internal struggle was utterly transparent, and Karkov tried not to smirk. It simply was unfathomable that a man capriciously would kill his own allies. Especially when it meant certain death. Surely, he had little doubt that Karkov was mad. Many men had stared into Karkov’s eyes for many reasons, and he had yet to meet one who could find anything in them. If so, he would have thanked him right before killing him. Karkov did not want to know what was in his eyes.

Nonchalantly waving the gun with his right hand, he laughed and explained that he could not abide disloyalty to the nation. The men who favored him did so to further their own ambition, and ambition would only breed disloyalty. The reasons he gave were only part of the truth, of course. He had learned that men who believed they brought you to power also believed they still possessed it, and that made such men difficult to manage. As a proof that he was no threat to the survivors, Karkov carefully slid the gun back into the holster of the soldier from whom he had taken it, genially patting him on the back.

The Colonel held his hand in the air, signaling that no action was to be taken. However, the pat on the back had served to infuriate the soldier, who apparently took it as a further sign of contempt. Without warning, he pulled out the gun and fired at Karkov. A minute later, Karkov stood with his arm draped jovially over the Colonel’s shoulder, gesturing apologetically at the room with his gun.

“It’s a pity to lose more men after we’ve already taken such a beating,” he explained. “But this is for the good of the country. Men who have no discipline cannot be counted on.”

Muttering to himself, Karkov sighed. “Looks like we’ll have to rebuild from scratch. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing, if this was the best we produced.” He looked at the Colonel. “Oh sorry, I didn’t mean you. I’m sure you’re a fine soldier.” He offered the man a broad grin.

The Colonel, no stranger to combat, stood trembling in silence. It was a natural enough response, Karkov allowed. Men who were used to fighting other men knew what to expect and how to deal with it. The Colonel had not expected this. He was not trained to deal with this.

God, he hoped the man wouldn’t piss himself. That would be too undignified to go unpunished. Karkov tossed the gun to the floor to prove he was done killing. This was, he realized, less reassuring the second time around.

“I’m really glad you weren’t harmed.” Karkov was genuine. He looked the Colonel over and added, “you never know what’s going to happen in this sort of shindig.” The man still had not recovered his wits.

“I hope none of these fine fellows were your friends.”

The Colonel shook his head, and Karkov was relieved.

“Whew, I was afraid we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. We can’t have that.”

The Colonel appeared to take in the situation for the first time.

“You did all this?” he stammered, though whether from anger or fear was not clear.

“You just saw me …” Karkov began, puzzled, before he realized what the Colonel actually was asking.

“Good heavens, no,” he laughed affably. “Just what you saw. I was not unhappy with our Gracious Leader. That was somebody else. A young lady of my acquaintance, if you must know.”

The Colonel crossed himself. “I am ready to die.”

Karkov chuckled. “Well, that’s good because you will.”

The Colonel stared ahead, tense with anticipation.

“Some day. But for now we’re going to be good pals, you and I.” Karkov slapped the man on the back.

“Oh,” he added, as if an afterthought, “I’d strongly advise you not to speak of any of … this.”

Once again he gestured at the eleven dead Securitad soldiers. “Let’s just say that it was her doing, part of the general massacre.”

The Colonel nodded, still in a daze.

“Now then, what shall I call you?”

When the Colonel didn’t respond, Karkov elaborated. “What’s your name?”

The Colonel quietly gave his name, but Karkov waved dismissively.

“No, no. That won’t do. What shall we call you, what shall we call you?”

After a few moments, his face lit up. “I know. You will be our Fervent Leader.”

The Colonel blinked at him, uncomprehending.

Karkov saluted the Colonel in the customary manner. “It is an honor, Fervent Leader.”

“Me?” the man gasped.

“Me … what?” Karkov prompted.

“Me … sir?”

“No, you idiot. You’re the Fervent Leader now. Me, Comrade Friend.”

Once again, he slapped the Colonel on the back. “Don’t worry, it’s not so bad. We’ll work on your confidence and,” Karkov looked at the man’s uniform with distaste, “this.”

“But why not you?”

Karkov shyly put his hand over his mouth. “Little old me? Why, I could never. I merely serve in an advisory capacity.”

“Me?” the Colonel slowly repeated.

“Well, that certainly won’t do. You’ll need to work on those speaking skills. You’ll get the hang of it.”

He took the Colonel by the hand and led him toward the entrance. “Come now, let’s introduce the people to their Fervent Leader.”

When they reached the door, Karkov paused and turned to the Colonel. “Oh, and do try to show some fervor. I’d hate to have to come up with another name.”