The Tsarina's Mask by K.L. Abrahamson

Author:K.L. Abrahamson [Abrahamson, K.L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-927753-74-3
Publisher: Karen Abrahamson

16

Kazakov’s room was cold when he woke the next morning. The room was dark. His nose and ears were half frozen, but under the tangled bedcovers he was sweat-drenched. The room reeked of the gun-metal stink of his fear. Around him the house was silent, but the pat-pat-pat of fresh flakes were like feather-soft fingers trying to break through the window pane. Soft and deadly came to mind. They would stroke you gently as they froze you to death.

He squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled deeply to slow his racing heart. There was nothing wrong here. Everything was fine. It had only been a nightmare.

A nightmare of everyone around him being skinned alive, layer by layer, as he demanded they remove their masks. Masks that didn’t just go skin deep. They were in the flesh. They were in the bone. His friends had flayed their flesh until their bloody remains stood before him. Then they expectantly handed the knives and flays to him. Show them who he was.

So he turned the tools on his flesh and dug and stripped his skin, his flesh. But when he was done, there was no Kazakov left—an empty man.

He sat and shivered when his feet met the cold floorboards. He went to the woodstove and stirred the embers and added wood. Soon heat ticked up the chimney and he could feel the warmth. He stood close to it, warming his front and hands, then turning to warm his back. The room smelled faintly of smoke. Unfortunately, his chill was deeper than flesh.

It was a nightmare. Only a dream, probably as a result of his discussion with Clinton. Nothing there. He looked at his watch. Almost four a.m. and they should get away by six if they were truly going into the mountains. Before he’d gone to bed last night, he’d heard from Khan. His photographer friend had rushed through the film development and Khan had the images before him. He’d found a fax machine at a local Kyrgyz shop—the owners had been roused from their beds to help—and he had sent images of the paper and leaves and of the man he suspected was Egorova’s forensic technician to people he trusted in New Moscow Forensics. He would hear from them by morning.

Kazakov had also advised Ayim Beshimov of their plans for the next morning and had arranged for mountain packs with appropriate supplies and equipment as well as a trustworthy Kyrgyz guide. Unfortunately, some of the most trustworthy were currently still languishing in police custody.

He dressed and packed the few things that would go with him into the mountains. Extra thick socks, sweaters, and long underwear—why had he thought to bring it?—his gun and extra ammunition, of course. With his heavy parka in hand, he headed for the kitchen and found Ayim Beshimov awake and cooking.

“Sit. Sit. I have tea.” She bustled about the room, her cheeks red from the heat from her oven. The luscious scent of frying sausage and potato filling the room.

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