Page 103 of Kingmakers, Graduation

We have to drive because there’s too much snow on the ground for the bikes.

It doesn’t improve Jasper’s mood to sit in a car with me for over an hour, driving out to a trucking depot in the Mozhaysky District. I put onmy favorite song and he deliberately switches to the next one right when it gets to the best part. I spend the ride fantasizing how I could shut Jasper in a crate and nail it shut and ship it to Mongolia by the slowest route possible.

Zigor is already waiting when we pull up to the low, cement buildings, teeming with trucks pulling in and out, and forklifts unloading the cargo.

“Privet druzhbani!” Zigor cries, coming over to slap us both on the back. He smacks me so hard that I stumble forward. I have to restrain myself from popping him in the nose.

“Is the truck en route?” Jasper asks.

“Nice to see you too,” Zigor says, in English for my benefit.

Jasper ignores this, waiting silently for Zigor to answer his question.

“Da, da,”Zigor assures him. “Everything is good. The driver call me—he comes in ten minutes.”

Zigor refuses to use any names for his mules or provide more details than absolutely necessary. He knows that if we had our own connections to the suppliers in Thailand, we wouldn’t need him at all.

Even if Zigor is an idiot, his father is no fool. Lev Zakharov has flawlessly navigated the complexities of switching trucks and altering manifests so the origins of the shipments are less suspicious to the border guards. He pays out all the bribes along the route and seems to have designed several ingenious systems for hiding the drugs from anyone who hasn’t been paid off. So far I’ve witnessed sliding double walls in the shipping containers and false roofs and floors in the trucks.

These measures are necessary because the bribes we pay are already ruinous. We shell out thousands at each checkpoint, including here at the depot.

Jasper has cash on hand for that purpose. He leaves me alone with Zigor while he goes to make our “donation” to the depot master.

Zigor looks me over, smirking.

He’s on the wrong side of thirty, big and soft-shouldered. He has an unfortunate coif, thinning with suspicious blond streaks, reminding me of every time they try to give Bruce Willis hair in a movie.

“Is better when Adrik sends you,” he says. “Next time, maybe no need for Jasper at all.”

I throw him a filthy look.

“Nobody sent me,” I lie. “I’m here to get what I need.”

“Why you need so many different things?” Zigor asks. “Keep it simple. I get you goodgeroinmuch easier—you make more money too.”

“Not interested.”

Opioids are the one drug I won’t touch, and I’m not interested in selling them either. I want willing customers, not slaves.

Tweedledum and Tweedledee stand on either side of Zigor, hands clasped over their crotches, staring at me from behind the lenses of their Matrix-style sunglasses.

“Don’t you get sick of those two gargoyles breathing down your neck?” I say to Zigor.

“Nyet.” Zigor shrugs. “They carry all my things for me. What not to like?”

I shift impatiently, checking the time on my phone. Jasper better not be dawdling in the depot office so he can avoid Zigor’s jokes.

“How much longer till the driver gets here?” I ask.

I want to get back to the lab.

“Ten minutes.”

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

In response, Zigor pulls out a toothpick and starts picking his teeth. He does this with maximum smacking and clicking sounds, leering at me the whole time.

“Where you get those pants?” he says. “I like.”

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