Of the five members of the squad, Piotr Janyk spoke the best English, so the general selected him to handle the transaction. If the seller had any concerns about possible irregularities, the bundles of cash the redheaded young man passed to him would keep his questions to a minimum.
Unfortunately, it also prompted the seller to be too helpful.
“You boys driving outta state?” The seller was Honest Jim Johnson, an obnoxious parody of an American cowboy, Borodin thought. Johnson’s once-white Stetson was sweat-stained. His cowboy boots worn, the silver toe tip missing from the left foot, his jeans tightly belted beneath an enormous gut. To the Russian general, this man was the embodiment of everything that was wrong with this country. Not that he cared. America was in its last days, rotting from within. It was no longer his enemy.
“We don’t know yet.” Janyk properly showed no impatience as Honest Jim laboriously filled in a bill of sale. The transaction was taking place in the motor home Borodin’s squad was buying. An old Winnebago Vista Cruiser. The cheap laminate trim was peeling from the fold-down table and cupboard doors. The narrow shower stall in the back was edged with mildew. Captain Korolev, however, had examined the engine, a Mercedes diesel, and said it would make the journey to the objective. For his part, the general appreciated the collection of twenty or so souvenir stickers plastered across the vehicle’s tailgate. Good protective color.
Borodin, whose own English he knew was passable, though more accented than Janyk’s, sensed there was a point to Johnson’s question. “Why do you ask?”
Honest Jim grinned. His teeth were cigarette stained. One was silver. “Could save you some money. See, you got fifteen days to register the sale with the MVD. You stay local, it’ll cost you fifteen bucks for thirty days. You say you’re nonresidents, you get ninety days, same price.” He slid the bill of sale to Janyk.
Janyk looked to Borodin for his cue. “That’s good to know. Are we done?”
The general frowned. There was $38,000 in cash on the fold-down table. Was this cowboy really talking about saving fifteen dollars?
Honest Jim looked anything but honest as he glanced from Janyk to Borodin. “Well, now. This being a cash transaction greater than ten grand, I do hafta fill out a bank declaration. Guess I’ll need some kinda ID. Passport numbers, maybe. And you gotta tell me the, uh, source of your funds.”
“Is that necessary?” Janyk asked.
Honest Jim’s face gleamed with sweat. It was 10:00 a.m., the temperature was already in the eighties, and barely a breeze through the open windows. Outside, a handful of used cars and pickup trucks baked in the Arizona heat under a sun-faded sign showing a thinner, younger version of Honest Jim promising to SAVE YOU MONEY. “Well, now, there are ways to expedite the, uh, paperwork. But it does entail additional expenses.”
Janyk glanced at Borodin, the question unspoken.
Honest Jim tried to close the deal. “If you’re in a hurry to get started on your vacation, I could save you a whole lot of time and trouble.”
Borodin agreed with the sentiment. Best to keep this simple.
Janyk reached into his faded denim jacket. Honest Jim tensed, then relaxed as Janyk withdrew another roll of bills and placed them on the table. “Two thousand?”
“Just what I was gonna say.” Beaming with relief, Honest Jim made a show of tearing up another sheet of paper. “And that is that.” He squeezed himself out from the narrow bench seat beside the table, handed Janyk a key. “She’s all yours. Half a tank of diesel already in her, no extra charge.”
Janyk walked forward to slide down into the driver’s seat.
Borodin waited as Honest Jim shoved the bundled bills into a large brown envelope. “Can I help you fellows out with any maps? Directions? There’s a fine barbecue shack ’bout five miles toward the highway.” He jammed his copy of the bill of sale in with the money. Borodin knew it would be torn up later. As planned, there would be no record of the transaction. For a certain type of man, greed was something that could always be depended upon.
Honest Jim suddenly slapped a meaty hand against his back pocket. “Wup. Phone’s a buzzin’. Better get that.” He pulled out a phone, tapped the screen.
The camper van’s engine started. Borodin saw Janyk looking back at him from the driver’s seat. The general held up his hand, telling Janyk to wait.
Honest Jim peered at his phone’s display, gave another of his teeth-baring grins. “Ah, that’s okay. Just the little woman. She can leave a message.” He went to slip the phone back into his pocket.
Borodin’s hand shot out, twisted the cowboy’s hand around.
On the phone’s display, he saw his own face. Borodin spun Honest Jim around and locked his arm around the man’s fat neck.
Honest Jim gasped a quick, desperate explanation. “S’only a pitcher for my wall of happy customers. No names if that’s what—”
He said nothing else as the general sharply angled his head forward, cutting off the blood flow to the brain in seconds.
As Borodin waited for the struggling Honest Jim to sag in his grip, he looked out the window. The used car lot remained deserted. Only plastic pennants moved, stirred by the morning breeze.
Janyk returned as Borodin laid out the unconscious man on the floor.
“We could leave him in his office, set fire to it,” he suggested.
The general stood up, stretched. It had been a long time since he’d engaged in hand-to-hand combat. He was pleased his reflexes and his instincts weren’t diminished. It made him even more confident of achieving the mission’s objective.
“No. We’ll take him back to the house, dispose of him there. The authorities will think he’s involved with the smuggling operation.”
“To buy us extra time.”
“We don’t need extra time,” Borodin said. But the mission he was on was his and his alone, so he added what he knew his men needed to hear, to have them continue to believe the lies he had told them. “Six days more, and then the world will know exactly what we’ve done to bring down this country, and honor us for it.”
And I will have my revenge.