HUNGER OF THE WICKED

6.

Astana, capital of Kazakhstan Akmola Oblast, April 29, 2011

Wrapped in a thick down jacket, his face hidden by a large woollen scarf, Father Roland went up the paved driveway of the Palace of Peace and Reconciliation; this dreadful pyramid of multi-coloured glass. His bad mood, increased tenfold by the cold outside, had been added to by a new failure in his research. Grumbling, cursing, he stopped at the outdoor shop of a hot chestnut seller, precisely destined for tourists of his type. He had a lot of trouble paying—probably because of the mittens that he refused to take off—and consummated his precious acquisition by shaking the paper cone over his mouth. He went on his way and then to a bench, where he settled to wait.

Minutes passed. Despite his wool hood and a protective cap, he had the feeling that the wind turned his poor bald head into a frosty crust. He was shaking from head to foot. Finally, a man, dressed in the robes of the Orthodox priests, sat down at his side and bowed to him.

“Say nothing, my dear Pavel,” said Roland through chattering teeth, “you would only mock me.”

The person chuckled. He had to bend over to see the look of his partner, well concealed under his clothes. His Russian, very correct, was distorted by a French accent you could cut with a knife which didn’t fade much, despite the regular practice of a half-dozen languages. Pavel inhaled with delight the fresh air of the afternoon.

“The congregation should have sent someone more comfortable with our charming climate.”

“That’s drivel! I’m the only one able to complete this mission!”

“Certainly. Anything new?”

“No. Traces stop here: he seems to have flown away.”

“Even he cannot have just disappeared. I may have an interesting contact if you would like to meet him.”

“Obviously! I’m not freezing in this earthly hell for nothing!”

“Then come.”

Both men rose and walked to a black sedan waiting, parked at the curb. They went in the back and immediately the car started to drive through the traffic, dense at this time of great affluence. With the heating, Father Roland could remove some of his gear. He thanked his companion with a generous smile, before plunging into contemplation of the landscape. Built on the right bank of the Ishim River, Astana was an impressive city, expanding where there were only rare buildings before the period of the Soviet Union. Modern buildings, sometimes with bold architecture—a metal tower topped by a sphere, for example—invaded construction sites. The population explosion drove entrepreneurs to build, especially in the East. Father Roland didn’t like the style, accentuated by the flatness of the terrain. The semi-desert steppe which constituted more than half of the country made all these things dismal in his eyes.

They crossed the suspension bridge over the Ishim and arrived in a vast area occupied by parks where various attractions and restaurants were scattered. The sedan stopped in front of one of them. Father Roland put on his battle dress and went to face the elements. He threw a glance at the gardens on the other side of the street and winced. Dull. Even with pretty plants and towering trees, everything was desperately flat.

“I don’t like your country, Pavel. Where should you go to find mountains, forests?”

“North.” he leaned towards his colleague. “Where it’s colder.”

Meanwhile, entering the restaurant, a young woman, amused by this incongruous visitor came to help him take off his clothes. Pavel then led him to a table where an imposing guy smoked cigars while sipping vodka.

“A glass?” he proposed, pointing to the bottle.

“Something hot,” retorted Roland.

“Ah, a stranger! Italian?”

“French!” spat the other, upset.

The man considered this funny tourist with a mixture of amusement and ill-concealed interest. No doubt his presence here had nothing to do with the quaint restaurant’s appeal. He could, therefore, expect a nice sum of money out of him in exchange for the service he had to ask. Pavel confirmed his suspicions.

“In fact,” he said calmly, “my friend is searching for an Italian who stayed a few weeks in Astana. I think you could help?”

“Of course, if he pays the price.”

He accompanied his statement with a predatory smile, his gold crowns were fighting with the few remaining original teeth. Roland was hardly impressed and leaned forward, hands folded on the table. His eyes of an unpleasant grey, similar to a stormy sky, dug into those of the Russian.

“I’m a servant of God,” he whispered, “I don’t pay your kind in hard cash. However, I can bless your shop, to make it safe from the dangers of our century... or curse it, depending.”

The boss looked with concern at this little fellow, holding his gaze with no sign of apprehension. Either he was crazy or he was able to make good his threat. Naturally cautious, he decided to opt for the second solution.

“Hot wine for my guests!” he yelled at the waitress. “We’ll hear word, dear sir, I’m sure. No one can live in this city, even a week without my knowing.”

Pavel didn’t doubt for a moment that their prey would soon be cornered in his new home. No matter the time or trouble.

On the other side of town, Ecclesio Majorana entered the building of an analytical medical equipment rental company. Since his arrival in Astana, he had scoured the estate agents without success and finally decided to change his approach. In his research, he should scour any detail, if he wanted to succeed in getting hold of his prey.

In the sleek lobby, he headed to a young woman taking off his leather gloves. Aware of his charm, he offered his best smile.

“Hello, dear miss. I need some information.”

The clerk looked at her visitor carefully. He was Italian—indicated by his face and suit—but he spoke Russian without a hint of an accent. Medium-sized, slender, he wore a moustache of which he was very proud. He also stroked it, while observing the surroundings.

“Very specific information,” he replied after making sure they were alone in the room.

Even before the young woman said a word, the gentleman took out a bundle of several hundred roubles which he pushed toward her. In this country, it wasn’t enough to be polite.

“This is very important,” he concluded, smiling.

“Certainly, sir. My name is Claudia.”

In a flash, her hand had pocketed the money without letting go of the handsome stranger’s gaze.

“You are a pearl, Claudia. I would need your rental records for the last two months.”

The clerk took him into the archive room and pulled from the shelves two large volumes bound in leather. She put them on a table and left the room without adding anything. The stranger settled, pulled a notebook from his pocket, and opened the books on the dates he wanted. He had some ideas, tenuous certainly, but which could provide valuable information to cross-check with other data.

Armed with his pen, he followed the Cyrillic lines, not bothered by this alphabet so different from his native language. He noted some interesting information and compared it with what he already knew, eliminating names... until there remained only two. He noted them, put back the records, and went back to Claudia.

“Are you satisfied, sir?” she asked politely.

“Almost. Look at these names and tell me if you remember them.”

“Oh yes, fine, they made their order by phone.”

“They spoke with an accent?”

“The first was a Russian from our area, no doubt. The other had not a hint of an accent. I’ll be unable to assume his nationality.”

“I see. And the noted address is that of the delivery?”

“Yes, quite.”

“Perfect, thank you.”

Ecclesio hastened to leave the place. He returned to the main street, hailed a taxi, and once in the car, gave the address of his hotel to the driver. Before throwing himself into the mouth of the wolf, he had to get some information. But quickly. He knew that in town, other people were looking for the same man. The victory would belong to the first to arrive there.