Bookshelf Battle

Moscow, Russian Federation
President Anatoly Popov may have been in his late fifties, but he projected an outward persona of phony youth. His head was shaved bald, but prominent on his face was a Van Dyke beard that had been died a black so deep and rich that it seemed out of place in such close proximity to the crow’s feet around his eyes. His frame was lean and muscular. His suit? The best his ill-gotten gains could buy.
In his private box that overlooked the Moscow Opera House, the president sat next to his mistress, a raven-haired beauty twenty-five years his junior. Together, they watched as an obese woman in a Viking helmet took to the stage and broke out into song. Her voice was elegant, like that of a songbird trapped in human form.
“Mother Russia! Mother Russia! You just got the 1980s action TV show last week. Jan Michael Vincent is…”
RING!
The proverbial fat lady stopped. She coughed to clear her throat, then started again. “Ahem. Jan Michael Vincent is…”
RING!
No, no one would have ever dared to mention to the president that his date for the evening was most definitely not Mrs. Popovich, nor would they ever rebuke the most powerful man in the nation for allowing his cell phone to disrupt such a rousing rendition of Mother Russia.
While most people would have felt embarrassed while fumbling for their phone’s off button, Popov simply raised his pointer finger, which brought the entire production to a halt. The fat lady, her supporting cast, and even the audience went dead silent as the president answered his phone.
“Privet.”
“Mr. President,” came Carmichael’s voice on the other end of the line. “We have mission success.”
“Wonderful,” the president said. “Official story?”
“Gas leak.”
Popov laughed.
“Not entirely false, Mr. President,” Carmichael said. “The traitor leaked much gas on his way out.”
“Ha,” Popov said. “Very well. Bring Ivan to Gadooba.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry?”
“I did not stutter,” Popov said.
“But Mr. President,” Carmichael said. “Ivan is so big already.”
“He must get bigger,” Popov said.
“Sir,” Carmichael said. “It’s just that…”
“I do not give orders twice,” Popov said.
“Understood.”
Popov hanged up his phone. He waved his hand, a sign for the show to go on.
The fat lady picked up where she left off. “Jan Michael Vincent is the best! Anyone who disagrees is a freak!”

Chapter 13
Carmichael stood over Kuznetsof’s shoulder and peered at the mass of banking records that were laid out across the coffee table.
“Here,” the defector said as he circled a dollar amount in red pen – $101,034.38. “You can see this same exact figure in American dollars is wired on a series of dates, supposedly stock dividends from vast holdings in K and D Corporation, but if you look closely, you’ll notice that on every one of these dates, one of President Popov’s critics died under mysterious circumstances.”
“That’s uncanny,” Carmichael said. “And what does the K and D Corporation do?”
“Other than launder the cash of Popov and his oligarch friends, absolutely nothing,” Kuznetsof replied. “Moving on, if we turn to…”
Once again, Kuznetsof farted. This time, the fart lasted several seconds. When it was over, the interviewee clutched his stomach. “Mr. Carmichael, I…something is wrong. Perhaps…”
Carmichael strolled to the mini bar. He poked around inside until he pulled out a nip sized bottle. He poured it into a plastic cup, then returned to his subject. “Something amiss, Mr. Kuznetsof?”
Kuznetsof’s face turned white and clammy. His hair grew thick with sweat. “I am sorry. I am not well. Perhaps we can reschedule?”
“Oh, pish posh,” Carmichael said, leaning into his British accent. “You’ve already spent so much time selling out the man who made you, why give up now over a little flatulence?”
Pbbht! The farts raged on as Kuznetsof keeled over, falling off the couch and onto the floor.
Carmichael laughed. He sipped the remainder of his drink, then tossed the empty cup at Kuznetsof’s head. Eerily, the reporter swapped his British accent for a Russian one. “Chertovski mudak! I knew you were a lousy excuse for a Russian citizen when you accepted Scottish swill when perfectly good vodka was available!”
Kuznetsof flipped over on his back. He panicked and began to hyperventilate. “What is this? What have you done?”
Carmichael reached into his pocket and pulled out an over the counter bottle that could have been purchased at any pharmacy. “Mighty Lax. For that deep-down bowel relief.”
Kuznetsof shouted loudly, as if he were trying to rattle the heavens. “Damn you, Popov! Is there no place on earth where your tentacles can’t grasp?!”
“It would seem not, comrade,” Carmichael said. “I can tell you I have cashed many of those $101,034.38 checks you spoke of, but this time, it will be so much sweeter.”
Kuznetsof let out a series of machine gun style toots. “And why is that?”
“Because, my new friend,” Carmichael said. “You are a hypocrite.”
The defector snickered. “That’s rich….coming from the likes of you.”
Carmichael clicked his tongue in the negative. “Tsk, tsk, you don’t think so?”
Kuznetsof coughed…and coughed…and coughed….then released a wet fart that soiled his underwear. “I know I am not.”
“Tell me, Dmitri,” Carmichael said. “What rank did you hold in the Russian Army when you served in the 1980s in Afghanistan?”
Kuznetsof let out a squeaker. “Pah…pah…private.”
“And after then General Popov took notice of you?” Carmichael asked.
“Ca…ca…Captain.”
A powerful stench filled the room. Carmichael waved the scent away from his nose. “And when Popov became the Minister of Defense?”
“Oh,” Kuznetsof said as he held his stomach. “That smell. It is making me even more sick.”
Carmichael leaned over the defector. “Don’t change the subject!”
“I was…oh…oh God….BLEAH!”
Without warning, Kuznetsof projectile vomited directly into his torturer’s face. Carmichael stepped back, pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed away at the sticky green goo. “You disgust me.”
Kuznetsof expelled a sigh of relief. “Likewise.”
Once Carmichael cleaned his face, he began again. “It isn’t just your puke that disgusts me, it’s what you are doing.”
“What I am doing?” Kuznetsof asked.
“You benefitted from Popov’s rise to power just as much as the next man in his inner circle,” Carmichael said. “Each time Popov moved up, he brought you with him and you reaped the rewards. The money, the power, the women you never told your wife about…”
“Fuck you, pig!” Kuznetsof said. “May your mother be fucked to death by a syphilitic goat with priapism!”
“Charming,” Carmichael said. “The bottom line, Dmitri, is you were compensated handsomely for your role in our supreme leader’s reign and now…what? You’ve just become a sad, old man looking to buy his way into heaven with a confession that our enemies will use to club our country to death with.”
“If there’s even a country left when Popov is done with it,” Kuznetsof said as he evacuated his bowels. “Excuse me.”
“Get up,” Carmichael said.
“I’m fine right here,” Kuznetsof replied.
“You’re obviously not,” Carmichael said.
“I need to rest,” Kuznetsof said. “Who trained you? Your English is impeccable. You had me convinced you were a fancy London fop.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” Carmichael said. “Go to the bathroom, Dmitiri.”
Kuznetsof shook his head. “No.”
“Get on the toilet,” Carmichael said.
“Never!” Kuznetsof said. “I will never shit in that toilet!”
“You are a proud man, Dmitri,” Carmichael said. “You don’t want to shit all over this nice hotel rug.”
“I don’t care,” Kuznetsof said. “I will shit all over this rug and I will enjoy every moment of it!”
“No, you won’t,” Carmichael said. “You don’t want the cleaning ladies laughing at the old man who made his doodies all over the place. You’re too proud for that. Come along now. It’s time to meet Ivan.”
The defector closed his eyes. “No. I don’t want to meet Ivan! Please, don’t make me. Please, I beg of you.”
When Kuznetsof finally opened his eyes, he found himself staring down the barrel of a semi-automatic Makarov pistol. Carmichael cocked the hammer. “To the toilet. Now!”
Kuznetsof nodded. He rose to his feet and trudged to the bathroom. Carmichael followed, revolted by the brown trail that trickled out of his captive’s pants leg.
The bathroom was clean. Immaculate. Enormous. It had a glass shower that could easily fit two people, a jacuzzi and an ivory white toilet with a pearl handle.
“Sit,” Carmichael said.
“Da,” Kuznetsof replied. He dropped his pants and did as he was told.
A few seconds passed until the defector’s gas echoed throughout the bowl.
Carmichael used his free hand to pinch his nostrils shut. “Any last requests?”
“Yes,” Kuznetsof said. “Sing with me.”
“Oh,” Carmichael said. “No…I don’t know.”
“We are both Russians,” Kuznetsof said. “We both disagree when it comes to how best to protect Mother Russia, but there’s no doubt that we both love her.”
Carmichael looked down. “I’d rather…”
Kuznetsof reached out, took his captor’s hand and squeezed it. “Please. Be my comrade in this moment.”
Carmichael grinned. “Very well.”
A moment passed. The duo began to sing. “Mother Russia! Mother Russia! Where you start chain smoking at the age of five! Where you should shut up and just be glad that you’re alive! Where fat, middle-aged American losers wants to make your daughters their mail-order wives!”
The duo’s voices grew louder and livelier. “Mother Russia! Mother Russia! All capitalist pigs should rot in hell and die! Over their graves their whorish mothers will cry! And if you stop by Chernobyl, your asshole will grow an eye!”
The men laughed and cried and sang several more verses of Mother Russia until the pipe underneath the toilet rumbled.
“Dosvedanya,” Kuznetsof said. “Perhaps in another life we could have been friends.”
“Perhaps in this life, for a very brief moment, we were?” Carmichael asked.
The pipe rumbled again.
“No,” Kuznetsof said. “I hate you for doing this to me. I pray that all of your children will be so ugly that it will be impossible to distinguish their faces from the rotten, distended anus of a pack mule.”
Carmichael nodded. “I understand. Goodbye, Dmitri.”
“Goodbye,” Kuznetsof said. “Whoever you are.”
The fake Brit exited the bathroom. There, on the bowl, Kuznetsof proceeded to hum the tune to Mother Russia until… “RAAARG!”
The toilet exploded into thousands of tiny little shards. The defector’s body was consumed, grounded, mashed, and liquefied by hundreds of sharp teeth.
Out in the sitting room, Carmichael calmly collected the documents and loaded them into the briefcase. When he was finished, he snapped to attention and waited until the massive head of a 17-foot great white shark pounded through the wall. The creature then slid into the room on a blast of toilet water before it came to a full stop at Carmichael’s feet.
Carmichael tossed the briefcase into the shark’s mouth. The shark, in turn, swallowed the evidence of countless international misdeeds with a single gulp.
“Good boy,” Carmichael said as he patted the shark’s head.
The Russian agent pulled out his cellphone, dialed a number, then held the mobile device up to his ear. “Dragunovich? Da. It is done. Ivan is ready for pick up.”

Bang, bang, bang! Down one level in room 604, Dragunovich wrestled a rusty lug nut off of a pipe attached to the toilet in his suite’s bathroom. It should be noted that the burly man did so only after he cut a section out of the wall that exposed the pipe entirely.
“Bah!” Dragunovich said. He lifted his bulk off the floor. His once white dress shirt had become rancid with grime. “Where is device?”
Inside the sitting room, Vasiliev was decked out in a fluffy white robe, his hair slicked back after having taken a long, hot shower. He strummed a guitar. “Oh yeah, baby! I am funky American rock and star! Ladies, shake your tatushkas while I boogie down!”
The wannabe star’s partner’s shouts carried out of the bathroom. “Viktor! Bring me device!”
Vasiliev ignored Dragunovich’s command, opting instead to hop up on a table. He tickled the strings of his guitar furiously. “And now, a song I wrote all by myself! Show me…your tatushkas! Your big fake American tatushkas! Show me…your tatushkas! Your big fake American tatushkas!”
Oddly enough, the Russian had picked up some skills in his day. He shredded that axe and licked the end of his instrument as he performed for no one. “We’re going to bring…death to the West! But not before I see those big silicone breasts…so show me…your…tatushkas! Ow! Yes, baby! Dyn-o-mite!”
The show ended ever so abruptly when a roll of toilet paper collided with Vasiliev’s head. The rocker turned around to find a furious Dragunovich staring him down.
“Sergei!” Vasiliev said. “I am taking requests!”
“You will be requesting my foot out of your ass if you don’t make with the device,” Dragunovich said.
Vasiliev sighed. “Very well. And now, it is time for spoiled American rock star to trash hotel room with guitar in a rude and childish manner!”
The rocker jumped down to the floor. He raised the guitar high over his head and wacked it down on the table, over and over until the guitar cracked open.
Dragunovich was mortified. He rushed over just in time to catch the device he had been looking for. It was a long cannister, close in shape to a cardboard wrapping paper tube, except that it was black and made out of metal. The ends were closed off by caps and an attached strap made it easy to carry.
“This is more precious than your life!” Dragunovich said as he shook the tube.
Vasiliev smiled as he tossed the broken husk of what used to be a guitar away. “Come, comrade, let us make our motherland proud!”
Dragunovich nodded. The pair entered the bathroom.
“Wowee zowee, Sergei,” Vasiliev said as he took the tube from his partner and set it down ever so gently on the tile floor. He whistled as he surveyed the damage done to the wall. “You have really fucked this place up. I don’t think we are getting our deposit back.”
“Shut up, imbecile,” Dragunovich said as he attached the wrench to the lug nut. “Be useful, for once in your life.”
Vasiliev joined his partner and grabbed the wrench. Together, they counted to three, then turned, turned, turned until…voila! The nut was off and a spout was exposed. They dropped the wrench.
Dragunovich wiped the sweat from his brow. “Prime the specimen.”
Vasiliev picked up the tube. He flipped a switch and a small, touchscreen panel opened. He punched in a few digits, which caused a whoosh sound.
“Specimen is primed,” Vasiliev said.
Dragunovich removed one cap from the tube, then connected the device to the open spout. He hovered his finger over a blinking red button on the panel that read, “EXECUTE.”
“Hold on, comrade,” Vasiliev said.
“This is no time for cold feet, Viktor,” Dragunovich said.
“No one is having cold feet,” Vasiliev said. “It’s just that…don’t you think this solemn occasion must be memorialized with our most patriotic song?”
Dragunovich nodded. He put his arm around his partner and he began to sing. “Mother Russia! Mother Russia! You are so cold you freeze off my nuts! All the women have hairy butts! And the entire world wants to make you its putz!”
A tear rolled down Vasiliev’s cheek as he joined in. “Mother Russia! Mother Russia! You just got the 1980s action TV show Airwolf last week! Jan Michael Vincent is the best! Anyone who disagrees is a freak!”
The pair brought it home in unison. “Mother Russia! Mother Russia! The land where we sacrifice for the greater good! Don’t worry, you’re not missing much! Toilet paper isn’t even that good…”

Chapter 11
An hour later, Kuznetsof was joined in his room by Roland Carmichael, a dashing, young, handsome reporter for The London Sentinel.
“My word,” Carmichael said in a British accent as he reviewed a document that had been marked with a bold, red CLASSIFIED stamp. “I must say, Mr. Kuznetsof, when you contacted me, I feared perhaps you were simply a disgruntled employee, a man with a grudge who wanted to vent about how he’d been mistreated but you certainly are the real deal…and you’ve brought the goods.”
“I would not waste your time,” Kuznetsof said as he sipped a brandy. “I have spent many years in the service of my country. Past presidents have come and gone. Some good. Some bad, but none have been as bad as Popov.”
Carmichael looked up from the document. “Our publication has never shied away from writing stern editorials against President Popov’s draconian policies but here, you’ve provided concrete, undeniable evidence that he personally ordered the extrajudicial murders of countless critics and dissidents.”
Kuznetsof moved his hand around and around, watching the brown liquid in his glass swirl about. “Much lip service is paid to the so-called freedoms of the new Russia but in truth, there is very little difference from the Soviet Union of old.”
The reporter pulled out a notepad. “You will, of course, personally corroborate these documents?”
“Yes,” Kuznetsof said. “I was in the room on many occasions when the president ordered these illegal executions.”
Carmichael straightened his tie. “I’ll be honest, sir, the end result of this story will be a Pulitzer for me, but I am quite concerned for you. When this all goes public, your life will be…”
“Forfeit,” Kuznetsof said. “I know.”
“I just want to make sure you understand,” Carmichael said. “I have no association with the British government. I can’t offer you any protections nor can I guarantee your safety.”
“I understand,” Kuznetsof replied. “I have wanted to come forward for many years but I feared for my family. My son has been studying in the United States for quite some time and when my wife passed last year, I realized there was nothing holding me back from performing a higher duty – not the one I owe to my homeland but the one I owe to all of humanity.”
Carmichael wrote that statement down. “That’s very noble.”
Kuznetsof polished off his brandy and stood. “Pardon me,” he said as he headed for the room’s mini-bar. “I need a refill on my liquid courage.”
Carmichael pulled out a silver flask out of an inner pocket in his suit coat. “Will you do me the honor? As it just so happens, we journalists also find ourselves in need of a wee nip of liquid courage from time to time.”
Kuznetsoff smiled and sat back down on the plush, white sofa. He held out his glass while the young man reached across the coffee table and poured.
“Scotch straight from Glasgow,” Carmichael said as he returned the flask to his pocket. “It doesn’t get any better than that.”
The defector sniffed the aroma of the liquid in his glass, then sipped. He swirled the liquor around in his mouth for a bit, enjoying the taste before finally swallowing. “I suppose it doesn’t.”
“Now then,” Carmichael said as he flipped through the pages of another classified document. “Was the military ever involved?”
Kuznetsof fumbled through his briefcase and pulled out a document. He flipped through the pages before he set it down on the coffee table and pointed. “General Meknikov’s signature. He is, what you might call, the president’s bag man. He was involved in many of the assassinations, although Popov was very clever.”
“How so?” Carmichael asked.
Kuznetsof burped. He made a fist and lightly pounded his chest. “Pardon me. Popov does not trust any of his top men and accordingly, makes use of many hit squads that operate independently of one another. Many are not even in the employ of the government but rather, are compensated through a complex system involving shell corporations and payments exchanged through drop offs and middlemen.”
“It sounds like the president covered his tracks well,” Carmichael surmised as he poured through a ream of banking records. “Perhaps too well?”
“To a casual observer, it looks like…” Kuznetsof grimaced. He clenched his teeth and grunted but it was of little use. A loud, baritone fart escaped his cheeks. “Oh my…”
Carmichael’s eyes widened in surprise. Seconds later, the smell of rotten sulfur wafted up his nose. He lifted his tie and used it to cover his nostrils.
“Bozhe moi!” Kuznetsof said. “I apologize, comrade. I am so sorry. I don’t know what…perhaps my nerves are shot. The past few days have been grueling and…”
The reporter waved off his interviewee’s lamentations. “It’s quite alright, good chap. Happens to the best of us. Please, continue.”

Chapter 10
London, United Kingdom
Dmitri Kuznetsof was far past the point of no return. It had been three days since he’d walked away from his desk at the Kremlin, where he had long served as a personal assistant to Russian President Anatoly Popov. Chained to his hand was a black leather briefcase filled with confidential documents he had been trusted to file – trust that, as it turns out, had been misplaced.
Beads of sweat formed on the defector’s brow as he waited for a clerk at the front desk of the luxurious Swankforth International to process his reservation.
“Here you are, sir,” the clerk said as he handed over a plastic key card. “Room 704. Will you need any help with your luggage?”
Kuznetsof clutched the handle of his briefcase tightly. “No, I’ve got it,” he said, his accent indicating his nationality. “Thank you.”
The traitor moved swiftly through the lobby, found the elevator, and made his way to the seventh floor. Several minutes passed. The clerk processed a number of incoming guests until he found himself staring up at the grim faces of two bulky, brooding men wearing neatly pressed suits and dark sunglasses. One man carried a guitar case. The other carried a large suitcase.
“Yes,” the clerk said as he reviewed each man’s identification. “Misters Dragunovich and Vasiliev. Thank you for choosing the Swankforth International. We know you had your choice of hotels and…”
Dragunovich cut through the sales pitch. “Room 604 please.”
“I’m sorry?” the clerk asked.
Vasiliev coughed into his hand. He avoided eye contact with the clerk as he spoke in a voice that had been destroyed by years of smoking. “We are, how you say, uh…funny poofter men who are acting like ladies, yes?”
The clerk’s face turned red. “I don’t follow.”
Dragunovich leaned over the counter. His voice was equally rough, not from smoking but from various difficult life experiences too numerous too mention. “I apologize. My friend’s English…is not so good. We are homosexual dandies and many years ago we shared a passionate night of lovemaking in your room 604.”
“I see,” the clerk replied.
“We found that room to be very romantic,” Dragunovich said. “For us, it has much sentimental value. On that evening we spent together, we rubbed our bodies down with scented lotions and then we each took many turns inserting our penushkas into our butushkas.”
The clerk tapped away on his keyboard. “Right…let me just check on the status of that room.”
“We wore leather costumes and beat each other with riding crops,” Dragunovich said. “And then when we finally expelled all of our bodily juices, we collapsed on the bed in a spent, manly heap and fed each other expensive chocolates with liquid centers until the sun rose.”
“Uh huh,” the clerk said as he looked at his monitor.
Vasiliev piped up once more. “It was taking of breath.”
Dragunovich corrected his counterpart. “Breathtaking.”
“Exactly,” Vasiliev said. “What he said.”
The clerk handed Dragunovich a plastic key card. “You’re in luck. That room is available. Will there be anything else?”
“Nyet,” Dragunovich said.