Kingmakers, Graduation

25. Sabrina

25

SAbrINA

I ’ve been shopping at GUM, which is the main department store in Moscow. It’s really more like a mall, with a lovely glass dome roof, high-end boutiques, and fancy eateries. It faces Red Square, which is currently not red but white, blanketed with the first snow of the year.

That’s why I had to shop—to get warmer clothes.

I model my new outfit for Adrik—bright orange fleece joggers, a white hoodie, and a pair of Stan Smiths that are probably counterfeit, but an excellent fake. They even have the little green tabs on the tongue with Stan’s portrait.

“Orange looks amazing with your skin.” Adrik gives me an appreciative up and down. “You have good style—it’s fuckin’ sexy.”

“Thank you, thank you,” I say, posing for him.

“What’s this for?” he says, tugging at a little stretchy string on the butt .

The joggers have several pockets and zips with no apparent purpose.

“I dunno,” I say. “Don’t pull on it.”

“I think your pants are on backwards.”

“No, they’re not! Knock it off!”

Ignoring me, Adrik pulls the strings out about a foot. “That’s the drawstring! They’re definitely on backwards.”

I twist around, trying to look at my own ass.

“Goddammit.”

His shoulders shake with laughter. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you did that.”

“I won’t tell anyone you thought I looked stylish as fuck!”

“Watch it,” he growls, seizing me and pulling me close.

He’s trying to put his hands down my pants and up my shirt simultaneously. I smack him away.

“I don’t have time for that—I have to meet Zigor.”

I throw that at him like an accusation, because it’s his fault that I’m going on this stupid errand. This is my third time tagging along with Jasper for a supply run, and each adventure has been worse than the last. Not because of Jasper, surprisingly—because Zigor Zakharov really is a fucking moron. His only genius seems to be finding new and creative ways to annoy us.

He brings his two favorite goons along with him everywhere he goes. Jasper and I call them the Bookends, because they look exactl y alike, and they flank Zigor like he’s the president, instead of a two-bit gangster so incompetent that his father only uses him for babysitting.

I’d much rather be at the lab with Hakim. I’m almost finished the third formulation, the one for concerts.

When I head down to the kitchen, I tell Hakim, “Don’t work on the new pill without me.”

“I can’t work on shit,” he says. “We’re out of supplies.”

“I know—Jasper and I are picking up a double order today.”

We’ve been continually increasing our orders from Lev Zakharov, but it’s not even close to enough to keep up with demand. Now that we’re selling in Veniamin’s nightclubs, we’ve had to scramble to keep up with production. We’ve got Andrei pressing pills and Vlad delivering orders to our dealers. Adrik’s making agreements to supply my sex drug Eliksir to all the brothels.

Chief is probably working hardest of all—he’s got to handle the money and balance the books, an increasingly impossible feat. Adrik is intent on expanding as quickly as possible. We’re operating on miniscule margins, taking all the cash we make and rolling it into bigger and bigger purchases of raw materials.

Adrik and I argued last night. I told him we should have a ninety-day cash reserve. He said we didn’t need it.

“We’re vulnerable,” I told him. “If something goes wrong?—”

“Nothing’s going to go wrong.”

“If we took twenty percent of the profits?— ”

“We can’t. Business is booming. We have to grab all the market share we can before someone figures out how to make their own version of the product.”

I scoffed. “They’ll fuck it up. And by the time they copy Molniya, I’ll already have made five more formulas.”

“If doesn’t matter if their drugs aren’t as good—I’m already seeing counterfeits popping up. Not everyone is as discerning as you. They’ll buy whatever’s cheapest and easiest.”

I glared at him, arms folded. “You said we’d make decisions together.”

“We do. All the time.”

“Unless you disagree with me.”

“When two people disagree, you still have to make a choice.”

“And it’s always your choice.”

“I’ve let you do whatever you wanted with the drugs,” he snapped at me.

“ Let me?”

“The supply chain is my business.”

“All of it is our business!”

“There’s still division of labor!”

“I’m not talking about labor! I’m talking about organization and planning?—”

“When we’re in a better position, we’ll have a reserve. We’ll have so much money rolling in you can fill a vault with cash and swim around in it like Mak Dak. ”

“We can’t wait for that!” I cried. And then, “Wait, what did you just say?”

“I said we’ll do it when we’re in a better position.”

“No … the part about swimming around in the vault.”

“Yeah—like Mak Dak. You know—the little duck with the spectacles.”

I started laughing. “Are you talking about Scrooge McDuck?”

“Yeah! Mak Dak. He’s very popular here in Russia. There’s a whole restaurant chain named after him.”

The argument was derailed by the urgent need for Adrik to pull up photos of said restaurant chain, so I could marvel at the Russian custom of ripping off American brands to decorate every kiosk in town.

I had already observed shawarma shacks with upside-down McDonald’s “M”s in place of the “W” in “Waurma.” If that’s not enough cache, they also slap a Nike or Adidas logo on the side of their restaurant for no goddamn reason at all.

Adrik and I spent an hour happily employed in that manner, our debate forgotten.

My irritation swells all over again when Jasper slouches into the kitchen, equally annoyed at the errands Adrik’s been assigning us.

“Let’s get this over with,” he says, surly and sulking.

We have to drive because there’s too much snow on the ground for the bikes.

It doesn’t improve Jasper’s mood to sit in a car with me for over an hour, driving out to a trucking depot in the Mozhaysky District. I put on my favorite song and he deliberately switches to the next one right when it gets to the best part. I spend the ride fantasizing how I could shut Jasper in a crate and nail it shut and ship it to Mongolia by the slowest route possible.

Zigor is already waiting when we pull up to the low, cement buildings, teeming with trucks pulling in and out, and forklifts unloading the cargo.

“ Privet druzhbani !” Zigor cries, coming over to slap us both on the back. He smacks me so hard that I stumble forward. I have to restrain myself from popping him in the nose.

“Is the truck en route?” Jasper asks.

“Nice to see you too,” Zigor says, in English for my benefit.

Jasper ignores this, waiting silently for Zigor to answer his question.

“ Da, da,” Zigor assures him. “Everything is good. The driver call me—he comes in ten minutes.”

Zigor refuses to use any names for his mules or provide more details than absolutely necessary. He knows that if we had our own connections to the suppliers in Thailand, we wouldn’t need him at all.

Even if Zigor is an idiot, his father is no fool. Lev Zakharov has flawlessly navigated the complexities of switching trucks and altering manifests so the origins of the shipments are less suspicious to the border guards. He pays out all the bribes along the route and seems to have designed several ingenious systems for hiding the drugs from anyone who hasn’t been paid off. So far I’ve witnessed sliding double walls in the shipping containers and false roofs and floors in the trucks .

These measures are necessary because the bribes we pay are already ruinous. We shell out thousands at each checkpoint, including here at the depot.

Jasper has cash on hand for that purpose. He leaves me alone with Zigor while he goes to make our “donation” to the depot master.

Zigor looks me over, smirking.

He’s on the wrong side of thirty, big and soft-shouldered. He has an unfortunate coif, thinning with suspicious blond streaks, reminding me of every time they try to give Bruce Willis hair in a movie.

“Is better when Adrik sends you,” he says. “Next time, maybe no need for Jasper at all.”

I throw him a filthy look.

“Nobody sent me,” I lie. “I’m here to get what I need.”

“Why you need so many different things?” Zigor asks. “Keep it simple. I get you good geroin much easier—you make more money too.”

“Not interested.”

Opioids are the one drug I won’t touch, and I’m not interested in selling them either. I want willing customers, not slaves.

Tweedledum and Tweedledee stand on either side of Zigor, hands clasped over their crotches, staring at me from behind the lenses of their Matrix-style sunglasses.

“Don’t you get sick of those two gargoyles breathing down your neck?” I say to Zigor .

“ Nyet .” Zigor shrugs. “They carry all my things for me. What not to like?”

I shift impatiently, checking the time on my phone. Jasper better not be dawdling in the depot office so he can avoid Zigor’s jokes.

“How much longer till the driver gets here?” I ask.

I want to get back to the lab.

“Ten minutes.”

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

In response, Zigor pulls out a toothpick and starts picking his teeth. He does this with maximum smacking and clicking sounds, leering at me the whole time.

“Where you get those pants?” he says. “I like.”

“Honestly, Zigor, your approbation is an insult. Knowing you like them makes me like them less.”

He stares at me a minute, then bursts into braying laughter. The Bookends smile too, but only because they think they’re supposed to. I’m pretty sure neither one of them speaks English.

“Funny girl,” Zigor says.

Luckily Jasper reappears before Zigor can ask me on another date. He’s been trying to pressure me into coming out for a drink every time I see him. I told this to Adrik, hoping he’d murder him, but Adrik’s shocking lack of jealousy continues. He only laughed and said, “Zigor’s a lightweight. He’d probably pass out on the table after two shots.”

At last our truck arrives. We’ve paid for the use of the most distant loading bay, the one where the cameras don’t work .

Jasper drives the SUV right up to the back of the truck.

The Bookends help with the unpacking. This takes longer than expected because this time the product is hidden inside the frames of several treadmills. We have to take the machines apart using wrenches and Allen keys.

When we’re finished, Jasper and I climb back into the SUV, planning to drive the product back to the lab.

Zigor jumps in the backseat. “I come with you.”

“That’s not necessary—” Jasper starts.

“Filipp and Georgiy will follow,” Zigor says placidly.

Seized by an evil impulse, I ask Zigor, “What’s your favorite song? I’ll DJ.”

“You have Hard Bass School ?”

“Of course.” I find it on Spotify. “That’s Jasper’s favorite.”

I play what is commonly known as the “ gopnik national anthem” at top volume. It’s a pounding, repetitive, ass-fuck of a song, the Russian equivalent of Gangnam Style if it were sung by squatting thugs in tracksuits.

Jasper turns and stares at me silently.

I promised Adrik I would be nice to Jasper … but I also promised myself not to let opportunities pass me by. And this is the perfect opportunity to give Jasper an aneurysm.

“You want it on repeat?” I say to Zigor.

“ Da! This song best song, can never play too much.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Narkotik ne klass

Ya yedu na hard bass!

Zigor and I sing along as loud as we can while Jasper pulls out of the depot, his right eye twitching.