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Abel approached the second to the last switchback and slowed quite a bit. This one was sharper than the others. Through a gap in the lush spruce trees he caught a glimpse of the local ski resort. It wasn’t set to open for another month. From Abel’s Alpine house it was a twenty-minute drive down into the village. The pristine, high mountain air was good for his asthma, and the solitude was good for both his mind and his business.

He had hesitated just briefly before calling Petrov. In his line of work everything had to be analyzed through the prism of risk/reward. There was always a trade-off. Abel had more than adequate resources when it came to the standard job, but this one called for something special. He needed fresh talent. Someone who was extremely good, but not yet known to all the usual suspects. As a general rule, the fewer people involved the better, but for a job of this level, he had no one in his Rolodex who he felt confident giving the assignment to. Petrov would know of someone, though. He was sure of that.

Abel swung around the last switchback and then turned onto his driveway which went back down the slope slightly parallel to the mountain road. The long driveway was lined with tall, skinny spruce and after a fairly steep initial descent it leveled out. Abel swung into the parking area in front and parked next to a rental car. He noticed his friend’s suitcase sitting on the porch next to the front door, and got out of the car. He walked around the wraparound porch to the left and found Petrov sitting in a chair, his eyes closed, basking in the sun.

Without bothering to open his eyes, the Russian asked in mildly accented English, “How long were you going to have me wait, you ungrateful Nazi?”

Abel smiled and noted the gray wool topcoat spread across Petrov’s lap like a blanket. With his silver hair he looked like a retired person on a sea cruise. A pack of cigarettes sat on one armrest and a well-used brass lighter on the other. “I have been watching you for over an hour, you old Stalinist dog. I thought you were either dead or napping…which considering your age, are both distinct possibilities.”

One of the eyes on the broad face shot open and Petrov began cursing Abel in Russian. Abel’s Russian had never been great, and had gotten much worse, but he got the gist of what his friend was saying. There was something about dogs fornicating and his lineage and then more of the standard Nazi stuff.

He laughed enthusiastically and then said, “Are you so old you can’t stand up to greet an old friend? Should I help you?” Abel put his hands out in an overly dramatic fashion. “Should I call a nurse?”

“I will break your pretty little nose if you lay a hand on me,” Petrov growled and yanked himself from the chair with surprising swiftness.

The two men embraced, and Abel once again tried to slap his Russian friend on the back as hard as he was being slapped. It was never enough, though. The two men were roughly the same height, both just under six feet, but the Russian had him by a good fifty pounds. Petrov was sixty-one and didn’t look a day under seventy. His silver hair, smoking, love of food and spirits, and undoubtedly the stress of his job had not been kind to him.

“Come,” said Abel, “let’s go inside. I stopped at the market and got all of your favorite things.” The two men walked around the porch and Abel unlocked the front door. “You know where your room is. Go in and get settled, and I’ll take care of everything else.”

Abel brought his own suitcase in and then unloaded three bags from the trunk. The first thing he did was take the bottle of Belvedere vodka and place it in the freezer. There was a better than even chance that his friend would polish off the entire bottle before they went to bed. Always aware of his asthma, he cracked a few windows to let some fresh air in. Next he threw a six-pack of Gösser in the fridge along with a six-pack of Kaiser. If that didn’t keep Petrov busy, there was a well-stocked wine cellar in the basement. He then placed the pickled herring, smoked ham, sausages, vegetables, and cake box in the fridge.

Petrov appeared right on cue, and Abel handed him a bottle of Gosser. He grabbed himself a Kaiser and held up his bottle for a toast. “To old friends and free markets.”

Petrov nodded and took a big swig. He was about to say something, but decided to take another drink. “I’ve been waiting for that all afternoon.”

“Sorry I didn’t get here earlier, but I just flew in this afternoon.” Abel looked at the clock. It was almost five.

“Where were you?” asked the Russian between swigs. The beer was already half gone.

Abel was about to tell him, but caught himself. “The better question would be where haven’t I been.” He opened a container of mixed nuts and placed them in a bowl on the counter. The key with Petrov was to keep feeding him.

“You’ve been busy doing OPEC’s dirty work.”

The Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries was headquartered in Vienna and was by far Abel’s biggest client. “Everybody needs to collect intelligence.” Abel held up his beer. “Even the Russian Mob.” The comment was a direct shot at Petrov’s sometime employer.

“Yes, well, the glorious experiment of communism has ended, and we are now left to fend for ourselves.”

“To freelancing and capitalism.” Abel raised his glass.

“I’ll drink to freelancing, but never capitalism. Those pigs have flocked to my country like vultures to pick at its carcass and prey on the weak.”

Abel laughed. “And what did the communists do?” This was a common argument between them, and Abel had never lost it. Capitalism was far preferable. If it was brought up again later, after Petrov was drunk enough, he could get him to admit it. The Russian would threaten to kill him if he told anyone, and then he would launch into a tirade about the corrupt communists and how they ruined a perfectly good idea.

Petrov was mumbling something about greed and the destructiveness of organized religion. Abel cut him off and said, “Go outside and have a cigarette. I’m going to get dinner ready. Here, take the herring. I brought it just for you.”

Petrov eagerly took the jar of salty pickled fish and then asked in a genuinely concerned tone, “What about cigars? Please don’t tell me I flew all this way and you don’t have cigars.”

“I have cigars. Don’t worry. They’re for after dinner.” Abel shooed him away and began preparing the meal.

Petrov came in to check on him periodically and shouted insults at him from the open porch door. By the time they sat down to eat, the six-pack of Gösser was gone. Petrov had only one Kaiser and immediately announced it was a girly beer. Too light. The bottle of vodka was placed in the center of the table and the bet was on as to whether or not

it would last to see the sun rise. Petrov said absolutely not and Abel agreed.

Abel was not a meek eater, but his Russian friend made him look like a sparrow. Soon all of the sausage and ham were gone, as well as the fried potatoes, and the lion’s share had gone to Petrov. Abel placed the dobosh torte on a platter and watched as Petrov’s eyes dilated as if someone had hit him over the head. The cake, a confection of layered chocolate sponge and chocolate buttercream covered with caramel, was mouth-watering. Abel had one piece to Petrov’s three, whereupon the Russian announced that if he didn’t get up and leave the table he would eat the whole thing. Abel was sure he’d be back in around midnight to finish the other half.

Finally, they retired to the porch and a starlit evening. Abel brought out two heavy wool blankets to ward off the cool air. There wasn’t a sound other than Petrov’s various attempts at aiding his digestion. Abel broke out the box of Montecristo cigars. He kept one and handed the box to Petrov.

“Yours to take home with you.” Abel rolled the cigar under his nose taking in the fine aroma.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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