Institute of Molecular Genetics, Moscow, Russia
Nikolai Vavilov D.Sc., Nobel laureate for "Advancements in Genetic Editing" waited by the elevators. Down the hall, a glass paneled door led into the soundproofed conference room. The email which summoned him here specified he was to meet a prospective patron. An elevator dinged, and the head of the facility stepped through the opening doors. Nicolai closed the distance and spoke on a low voice. "Administrator Popov, I recognize the man in the conference room. He is Pavlo Mogilevich, a common Ukrainian criminal, you cannot be serious about this meeting!"
"Nikolai, my friend," Popov kept his voice soothing. "I understand
your
concern, but
my
concern is for the continued existence of this entire facility." He waved at the walls with the cracked and peeling paint. "The government grants are gone. Without outside funding, we will soon have to close. If you wish to continue your work with the human genome...." The administrator waved at the closed conference room door and the man seated within.
For this meeting he spent ten years earning his post graduate degree. Would the
Nobel Assembly at the Karolinska Institute award a prize for a perversion of medical science? Nikolai hung his head in defeat. "Very well."
"Come, let us do our best, Mogilevich may be a criminal, but he is a wealthy criminal."
They entered the conference room to find their prospective patron seated on the opposite side of the table. That he sat facing the door did not go unnoticed. Of course, a beast like this man would also have an animal's cunning.
After taking their seats, Popov gestured to Nikolai. "This is Academician Nikolai Vavilov, he is our preeminent expert in human genetics. Please tell him of your requirements."
While the administrator spoke, Nikolai studied their guest. Mogilevich appeared to be a young man, perhaps in his middle twenties. Far younger than Nikolai's own fifty-six years.
The gangster smiled, although not without a small amount of embarrassment, and this slight weakness allowed a small crack to appear in his tough appearance. From an inside coat pocket, Pavlo produced several folded sheets of lined paper. He laid them on the table but kept a hand on top of the stack. His intelligent eyes studied Nikolai. "Can you truly create a woman to my specifications?"
"There are certain practical limits," Nikolai qualified. Underneath the table, Popov kicked his ankle. He covered his surprise with a cough. "But I may be able to come very close." Next to Nikolai, Popov nodded.
"Good, I want you to create the perfect woman." Pavlo slid the folded sheets of paper across.
As he reached for the papers, Nikolai cringed. What will top the list, huge breasts or an unquenchable thirst for semen?
The pages appeared to have seen use as beverage coasters. The first requirement remained as originally written, many of the other had seen multiple edits. He scanned the list to categorize the possible from the insane. The first item took him by surprise as did the next dozen. Almost against his will he found the project intriguing. After reviewing the list, he spread the papers out on the table and looked at his new patron. "Many of your requirements, for example, the physical attributes are attainable. Some of the others will require discussion and study. However, your desired primary characteristic, that of loyalty, is a problem. You see, there is no loyalty gene."
Twenty-four years later - Kyiv, Ukraine:
Yevgeny Timofeyev forced himself to remain indifferent while the bodyguard searched him for weapons. The bodyguard, or
byk,
"bull" in Ukrainian, took pains to make the search as unpleasant as possible. While Ukraine and Russia had once been part of the Soviet Union, its peoples did not always get along. Disappointed at the lack of response from his Russian "comrade," the
byk
gestured, and Yevgeny entered the warehouse.
The doorway led into a large open room that may once have held office cubicles. Along the far wall, near the left corner, a large man sat behind one of the few remaining intact desks. From his appearance, the man could only be Pavlo Mogilevich, the
Pakhan
, head of the
Solntsevskaia Bratva
, the most powerful crime syndicate in this part of the world. Next to Mogilevich stood a slight, balding man. Yevgeny recognized him as the
sovietnik
, the counselor or advisor to the Pakhan. Across the desk from the Pakhan, stood a tall thin man. Scattered around the entry area sat a dozen or so mismatched office chairs. Other men, probably also here to speak with the Pakhan, occupied many of the chairs.
At Yevgeny's entrance, everyone in the room turned to examine the newcomer. The Pakhan gestured to his sovietnik who scurried over to greet the latest arrival.
"
Ya Yevhen Tymofeiev, vy povynni chekaty mene
." I am Yevgeny Timofeyev, you should be expecting me." Yevgeny prided himself on his fluent Ukrainian.
"
Tak
. Do you have the information?"
From an inside coat pocket, Yevgeny produced a large envelope and handed it to the advisor. He followed it with a second envelope containing a stack of Ukrainian hryvnia banknotes. "I dislike waiting," nodding towards the men ahead of him.
Weighing the envelope, the sovietnik nodded. "I will speak to the Don," and turned away.
"Wait," Yevgeny asked, and the shorter man turned back. "Who is 'The Don?'"
"The Pakhan prefers to be called 'Don Mogilevich, or Don Pavlo by those he considers family. It is his way of honoring an ancestor."
"Ah, thank you. Is there anything else I should know?" Just then, an angry shout came from the man currently standing before Don Mogilevich.
The sovietnik replied, "Yes, do not argue with the Don." The advisor turned and, in his haste, almost tripped returning to his master's side.
Yevgeny took a chair that gave him a view of the entrance and that of the developing argument. Opposite the Pakhan and his advisor, the tall, well-dressed man waved his arms to emphasize some point.
The Don shook his head and issued a single word, "
Nemaie!
" No!
The tall man pointed a finger and said something that sounded Polish and insulting. He slammed his palms against the desk. Pavlo stared unflinching at the man and pointed towards the door. "Leave now!"
Straightening, the man took two steps back, gathered himself and strode to the door. His face remained flat, masking any remaining anger. On his way out, he tried to slam the door, but the mechanical door closer prevented it. Yevgeny turned back to the desk to see the sovietnik and his master in deep discussion. Whatever the decision, Mogilevich made it quickly. His advisor gestured to two of the men apparently waiting, and they left as a group. So, Yevgeny nodded, were all these men guards?
Behind the desk, Pavlo stood, he fixed his eyes on Yevgeny and gestured. "Come."
Yevgeny stood before the desk while the Don opened his large envelope. The smaller envelope containing the tip sat unopened on the desk. While he browsed through the spec sheets, Pavlo waved towards the unopened envelope. "Is this all you feel my counselor is worth?"
"I paid what I felt appropriate to jump ahead of the queue. I am certain the loyalty of your advisor would cost much more."
This earned Yevgeny a brief chuckle before the Don glanced up and met his eyes. "What is the price of yours?"
"My pardon, Don Mogilevich, I am selling arms, not loyalty. Unless, of course, you wish to be my exclusive customer."
From outside the building came the sound of a gunshot, then a flurry of gunfire. Behind Yevgeny, the chairs fell back as the waiting men stood and produced handguns from inside their coats. The sovietnik dashed inside, blood streaming down the side of his face. Close behind, came only one of the two guards. The men inside sought what cover they could find. Pavlo stood and flipped the desk forward and crouched behind it. Yevgeny felt very exposed and naked without a weapon.
The wounded advisor made it to the desk before collapsing. Shouts rang out from outside, and the front door burst open. A stream of men poured in; one of them clearly the tall man who had argued with Pavlo. Pavlo glanced at Yevgeny. "Choose," he said. Yevgeny jumped behind the desk and crouched. Next to him, Pavlo produced a large bore automatic pistol. He gestured towards his former advisor, "Take his weapon."
Splinters flew from the floor as Yevgeny reached for the sovietnik's body. He found the pistol and took aim from around the side of the desk. Crack! He fired and one of the attackers fell clutching a leg. Mogilevich fired from his side as well. Someone killed the tall man, and the attacking men ceased their advance. With a cry, a wave of Pavlo's bodyguards streamed in from a rear door and routed the remaining attackers. Two of the bodyguards stopped at the desk and helped Pavlo to his feet. They fell back towards the rear door, and Yevgeny followed.
Three days later, he received an invitation to supper at the Don's Kyiv residence.
The simple, private supper consisted of
deruny
,
salo
, and
horilka
. Potato pancakes, sliced pork fat on rye bread, and Ukrainian vodka
.
The Don seemed in good spirits, and waved away Yevgeny's attempt to discuss business, saying only "Later." After their meal, they retired to a large billiard room where they took seats near the fireplace. Pavlo poured more horilka. "Now," he said, "we shall have some entertainment."
Unsure what to expect, Yevgeny sipped the barbaric Ukrainian vodka and tried to relax.
Exotic, hypnotic music began to play. A woman stepped into the room wearing a traditional Egyptian bedlah and began to dance.
A man seeing this could say he watched a beautiful woman perform an Arabic belly dance. He would be correct, but at the same time, wrong. That night, Yevgeny watched a goddess dance, and through her dance, she stole his soul.
Within minutes, Yevgeny knew he had to have her. Never had he seen a woman as beautiful. Firelight glinted in her eyes and her dark red hair glowed. Every movement seemed to highlight another part of her perfect form.
