Rule 34 - Charles Stross [10]
You’ve had enough of this bullshit. “Do I look like I was born yesterday?”
“No.” His brow wrinkles. “Here’s the thing: Issyk-Kulistan is a very new state. It used to be part of Kyrgyzstan, but five months ago there was a vote on independence, and they seceded, with official recognition . . .” You stare at him. The Gnome has a warped sense of humour, but he’s not crazy. He’s got dozens of fingers in scores of pies, some of them seasoned with very exotic spices. And right now he’s got that intense brow-wrinkling expression he gets on his gizz when he’s desperately serious, or trying to pinch a jobbie in the lav. He’s droning on: “No budget to speak of, but they’re soliciting recommendations. The angle is, they’re dirt-poor—all they’ve got is a played-out gas field and a bunch of collective farms. Their capital city’s smaller than Stirling; in fact, the whole country’s got the same population as Edinburgh. I believe the real story is that Issyk-Kulistan was let go by Kyrgyzstan because unemployment’s around 40 per cent and the big man in Bishkek wanted an excuse to cut their bennies. Think of it as national downsizing, Anwar—Kyrgyzstan’s got a budget deficit, so what are they going to do? Cut overheads! Anyway, the Independent Republic of Issyk-Kulistan can’t afford a real diplomatic corps. Indeed, there’s probably nae cunt from Karakol in the whole of Scotland. Or Latvia, Iceland, or Moldova, for that matter. Which is the reason—”
You look the Gnome in the eye and utter three fateful words: “Adam: Why. Me?”
What follows is blether: masterful blether, erudite and learned blether, but blether nonetheless. You swallow his flannelling. It’s all sound and fury, signifying naught; but you’ve got a scooby that there’s more to this than reaches the eye. The Gnome knows you, and he wants someone he knows in that shiny black diplomatic limo with the IRIK plates, which means he’s got some kind of caper in mind. And you know Adam, and you know this about him: He may be bent as a seven-euro note, but he disnae get caught. Ever.
Which is why . . .
Three days later, you are certain you’re about to die.
You are twenty-eight years old and a miserable sinner who has been a bad husband to his long-suffering wife and a terrible father to his two children. (To say nothing of having failed to even think about making the hajj, liking beer and other alcoholic beverages altogether too much, and indulging in such unspeakable perversions with other men that Imam Hafiz would swallow his beard and die of shame if he heard about them). You deserve to die, possibly, probably—for God is Great and he knows exactly what you’re thinking—which is probably why he has seen fit to inflict this destiny upon you, seeing you strapped into a business-class seat in an elderly Antonov that rattles and groans as it caroms between clouds like a pinball in the guts of the ultimate high-score game.
The Antonov’s cabin is musty and smells of boiled cabbage despite the best efforts of the wheezing air-conditioning pack. Here, up front in business class, the seats are tidy and come with faded antimacassars bearing Aeroflot’s livery: But behind your uneasy shoulders sways a curtain, and on the other side of the curtain you swear there is an old lady, headscarf knotted tightly under her chin, clutching a cage full of live chickens. The fowl, being beasts of the air, know exactly what’s in store for them—they squawk and cackle like nuns at a wife-swapping party.
The plane drops sickeningly, then stabilizes. There’s a crackle from the intercom, then something terse and glottal in Russian. Your phone translates the word from the cockpit: “impact in ten minutes.” You’re almost certain you can hear the chink of vodka glasses from up front. (The stewardesses haven’t shown themselves in hours; they’re probably crashed out in the galley, anaesthetized on cheap Afghani heroin.) You yank your seat belt tight, adjust the knot of your tie, and begin to pray. Save me, you think: Just let me walk away from this landing, and I’ll give up