Free Expiration Date by Eric Wilson

cooperation required to maintain such a—”
    “Why’re you here?”
    “Your manners, A.G.” Monde placed an arm over his guest’s shoulders. “This woman’s visit is an honor, proof that the Consortium supports our objectives.”
    Asgoth suspected the motives were less noble, but he eased up. “Pristi, you caught me by surprise. Glad to have you. Would you like a seat?”
    She steepled her hands beneath her chin. “No need for formalities. I’m in a hurry, on the go, in a rush. We know you intend to culminate your plans during the upcoming Scandinavian Festival, but have you planned the acquisition of funds yet? One hundred thousand is not so much, but here it’ll present a challenge.”
    “Don’t worry, you’ll get your money. I’ve got an idea.”
    “Engine 418?” Pristi ventured.
    Asgoth turned stone faced. How did she know of that?
    “Your secret’s safe with me.” Pristi winked. “As of yet, no one else in the Consortium knows. Being quite the history buff, I was intrigued by a recent article in which a Finnish historian mentioned a Bolshevik journal dating back to the First World War. A fellow revolutionary wrote of Lenin’s consternation over an item he’d left on a particular train engine. A Finnish locomotive. Engine 418.”
    “This is public information?”
    “Why so appalled? I’m sure you’ll devise a way to reach it before your rivals.”
    “Rivals? But who else could understand the significance of—”
    “Who else but those connected to Rasputin,” Monde said.
    “The Brotherhood of Tobolsk?”
    “None other,” Pristi corroborated. “Boris Soloviev was the first to lead them. Although raised within the Russian Orthodox Church, he was versed in hypnotism and the occult. He was married to Rasputin’s daughter, a match made in hell. He discovered things known to only a handful and let selfishambition take over. This Brotherhood was established to protect the Tsars, but—”
    “They failed. They disbanded.”
    “Or so we believed.” Pristi closed her wide eyes. “A new faction has arisen, and they are committed, dedicated, religiously devoted to their task.”
    “Which is?”
    Her eyes popped open. “Is it so difficult to discern? I suggest you move quickly. They want the treasure, just as you do.”

    Dmitri Derevenko weighed the cell phone in his wide palm and, from the back of a taxi, watched the streets of Orlando slide by. This vast country, this American union of states, irritated him. For over two centuries she had held herself together. If a place of such debauchery could manage this, surely Russia could rise again.
    The Brotherhood of Tobolsk endeavored to make it so.
    With heat hanging between the palm trees and sidewalks, the morning was already stifling. Dmitri longed for Ekaterinburg’s cool summer breezes, for the days of leisure along the shores of Shartash Lake.
    Those days were over.
    He rested his left hand on his hip, where European-cut trousers hid his scar. All those who pledged loyalty to the Brotherhood bore it, a slim hot-knifed incision in the shape of an angel’s wing.
    The mark commemorated Jacob’s wrestling with the angel on the riverbank. Jacob had grappled with God and prevailed. The Brotherhood would do likewise.
    After paying the driver, Dmitri bore his laptop case between dilapidated apartment buildings, past a pool of green-tinged water, up warped wooden steps. His firm knock brought to the door a tan, stocky man with a shaved head, wearing a white tank top. Juan’s gold wristband flashed as he reached out in greeting.
    Dmitri bristled. In his country it was bad luck to shake hands over thethreshold of a home; it was proper to meet in unity on one side of an issue, never in between.
    “How’s life treating you,
mi hermano
?” the man said. “Everything good?”
    “I’m breathing, da. But my soul is heavy.”
    Juan laughed. “Are you always so dramatic?” He led the way into a living room where bamboo blinds covered windows and