[b]Sevan, Armenia[/b]

The drums set the beat. Trumpets shouted, and when they went quiet there was a fast, but folksy, clarinet solo. Two singers took the stage. One was a man with a salt-and-pepper beard, grinning and hopping to the beat. The other was a woman, taller than the man, with an olive-complexion and bushy hair reaching past her shoulders. Sahle watched the rest of the room nervously. The attack in the Dead Man's Den had him on alert, even after Vasily had mysteriously taken care of the problem. Vasily was with them now, on the other side of their table, but Sahle couldn't rest. He held tightly to Aaliyah's hand and spied on the other patrons.

They were watching the show. They were laughing, and talking, and flirting. Some drank, others paid more attention to dinner, tearing into their lamp and popping stuffed grape-leaves in their mouths. None of them looked Egyptian, but it was difficult to tell. The room was full of people who could pass for Arabs. Some were. Others were Persians. Most were Armenian, but many of them looked Arabic. 

Everything in the room was a deep red. It was only the stage, with its heavy blue curtains hanging to the side, that looked any different. The floor was red shag-carpet, the tables draped in red cloths. Lamplight glowed orange and cast everything in a Gothic light. 

"I am thinking Oziryan will be liking you." Vassily warbled. "He is smart at this business, you are knowing. Smart at this business more than the old man Horasian."

"Will we be doing shows here, friend?" Yared asked. His wiry beard was wet with champagne. Vasily had insisted they all wear suits, and when he discovered that they didn't own any, he had them outfitted. Yared and Marc looked ridiculous. The neatly pressed, pristine black suits did little more than accentuate how unkempt they were. Why Vasily had not insisted they shave and rein in their hair Sahle did not know. It occurred to him that, though they did not know it, their "Samel" was the only one who had any real experience with the trappings of wealth. 

"Maybe, if you be wanting." Vassily answered. "Oziryan will be wanting favors, but I am not thinking that he means your work. Entertainers are not hard to find in Sevan, you friends." 

Sahle glanced up at the stage, at the prancing singers smiling like they were mentally unhinged, and hoped he was a better entertainer than that. He looked at Aaliyah.

She had covered her eye-patch with a lacy veil that only covered the one lost eye. Perhaps she hoped it would be mistaken for high fashion. Since they were sitting at the Owner's table, it was possible that it would. She was wearing a dress of pure white silk, in a way that made her look like she was ready for a wedding. In the deep bloody red of the club, she stood out like an angel suspended in hell. To Sahle, she almost seemed to glow.

"I apologize." a young voice said. Sahle looked up and saw their host as he sat down. He was young. Younger than Sahle. Seeing him now, a pale skinned boy of a man with grease-slicked hair, Sahle couldn't believe that he could help him. 

He was followed by two other men who wore pistol holsters over their shirts as if they were carnations. A woman was with him as well. Though she looked older than Oziryan, she was young. A blonde-haired European, with a sequin studded red dress that caught the light and glittered. She looked at him in a way that Aaliyah only ever did, as it made him suddenly aware of how slender her hips were, and how excellent her breasts must be beneath the tight-fit of her dress. Thinking about another woman's breasts was not infidelity, he reasoned. It was involuntary, and completely natural. Surely Aaliyah thought about how fat other men's dicks were, or whatever it was that women looked for in a man. Perhaps she was thinking about Oziryan's fat dick? That made him feel jealous for a split second before he realized his hypocrisy. He put it all out of his mind.

"I was talking to a friend in the foyer." Oziryan said. He sounded strong and sophisticated, much more than a man of his age should be. Sahle considered that maybe he himself was getting old. He had never truly considered old age. It was always in the future, and the future was too far away to worry about. Now that he might be reaching it, it started to worry him. He had been the Emperor of Ethiopia at a younger age than Oziryan was now, after all.

"Apparently the Chinese are approaching Omsk." he explained. "I am curious how Russia will take it when the Orientals rule them."

"They will be appointing Red Russians, I am thinking." Vasily said. "And Omsk is a long away. I am thinking that Russia will not be easy. She is not a girl who spreads her legs to the mongols"

"Siberia has, it would seem." Oziryan added. 

"Siberia is a floozy, I am thinking. Her vagina is wide open like the sea. She has had that many sailors too." he chuckled to himself, and then bowed his head. "I am apologizing to the ladies for my foul joking." he warbled.

"So, Samel." Oziryan said. Sahle felt a shock go down his spine from the way the Armenian talked. "What are your thoughts on Omsk?"

Sahle paused. "I don't know much about it, to be honest." he struggled. "Vasily is the only Russian I know."

"Oh." Oziryan said. "Well, did you know that Vladimira here is Russian."

"Finnish." she corrected bitterly. 

"Finnish." Oziryan repeated. "That is right. She worked with Viktor Laine and Juhani Mikhael, right up until the end."

"I was their driver." she explained. Sahle could hear the empty yearning in her voice. "They were revolutionaries."

"Yes." Oziryan replied. "That is an apt way to describe people who fight in a revolution." he paused for a moment to pull a cigar from his vest. "They have done good by me, anyway."

The upbeat Armenian jazz cut away and was replaced by a quavering Russian cello. The bandstand was moved to reveal a painted plywood scene of snow and pine-forests. Dancers took the stage, dressed like Russian boyars and Tatar warriors. The lighting dimmed and the room darkened, and the den of crimson reds was obscured by shadow so only small patches of velvet purple stood out near the flickering lamps. Across the table, Oziryan's face was lit up by the burning glow of his lit cigar.

"I am in the business of security." he explained. All at once, he sounded twenty years wiser. "It is not my primary business, but it is one of the many. I am told that you are being hunted by people from the south. I can stop this, but you have to come under my wing."

"What does that mean?" Yared asked.

"It means that when I need your services, you will comply." Oziryan answered. The singing intensified, proud military horns joined the cello. The dancers were leaping, and there was a cool smoulder in Oziryan's eyes. "I am in many business, as I have said. My brother and I started as weapons smugglers. My country helped me to become rich. Smugglers are important people. You come from Africa, you know this. The Emperor's of Africa have been Smuggler-Kings since Iyasu. Yohannes, Yaqob, Sahle..." he paused, and Sahle felt a shock go down his spine again. "I have bought guns from the last two. I have bought from Persia, and Canada and Spain. And I have sold plenty as well. I have the resources to make your problems go away. I have the resources to let you come in orbit around me and become rich because of this. You only need to answer."

"I still don't get it, friend." Yared said. "What services? We aren't smugglers. Or killers."

"No." Oziryan paused. "But there are many ways to serve."

"How do we know this isn't, like, a hoax, brother?" Marc spoke. 

Oziryan smiled and pulled a small bag of white powder from his pocket. He slipped it over to Marc. "You have some blow." Marc said. Sahle could tell that had been enough to buy him, but the Armenian continued.

"I have a friend who procured this. There is an island of the coast of Venezuela that is owned by the person of Alfonso Sotelo. The very same man who is Prime Minister of Spain. The island exists solely for the purpose of growing his personnel supply. He has hired the best drug chemists he can find. He has men from Africa, from Columbia, even an American from the state of New Mexico. Their purpose is to distill a product so pure that it can feed his purported addiction. You are only allowed to reach the island on a single steam-powered paddle boat, a boat slow enough that hijacking it to flee would be futile. The hand-pick their smugglers, doing their best to check for any inconsistencies that would lead them to believe theft is in a smuggler's repertoire. They have armed guards, several private jets dedicated entirely to this venture. They do all of this, but what I have just handed you is his product. Sotelo's own cocaine."

Marc stashed it in his jacket. Sahle had his doubts, but the thought of snuffing Sotelo's own snow was strangely exciting. He looked forward to it.

"Even if you doubt my claims, it still remains that you need help. If I can help you, you would do good to accept my offer. If I can't, you would owe me nothing."

Sahle nodded.