The Initiates

The Initiates

By Kamil Ali

Published by eTreasures Publishing, LLC at Smashwords

ISBN 978-1-937809-45-4

*****

Copyright 2013 Kamil Ali

All Rights Reserved.

Cover Artist: Christie Caughie

No part of this book may be reproduced, except for review purposes, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any format or by any means without express written consent from the publisher. This book in electronic format may not be re-sold or re-distributed in any manner without express written permission from the publisher.

Print version when published available at eTreasures Publishing, LLC.

Visit Author Website at www.kamiltheauthor.com

This book is entirely fiction and bears no resemblance to anyone alive or dead, in content or cover art. Any instances are purely coincidental. This book is based solely on the author’s vivid imagination.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter One: The Raid

Everyone stay where you are! Russian Military Captain, Boris Makarov, had a hard time hearing his own voice above the din of the Latvian bar. He raised his service revolver and fired a shot into the air in an attempt to demand attention. Everyone stay where you are!

This time he heard his words echo over the hush that descended upon the bar. He stood just inside the door, peering through the smoky haze. The Latvian bar was a stinky dump, just like every other bar in the neighborhood slum.

Freeze or be shot!

His authoritative command hung in the air as he scanned the establishment, sweeping every corner with unblinking eyes. He covered his nose with his hand and stifled a cough. The clamor ceased in the packed ramshackle bar with unpainted wooden walls and brown stained ceiling. By his quick calculation, he had nearly eighty people to intimidate, noting the four chairs to each of the twenty square tables. Cobwebs hung like filthy drapes over the patrons who stopped milling around and dove into armless rickety chairs, each one trying to blend in with the crowd in hopes of remaining inconspicuous.

Take your position, boys. His oversized Adam’s apple moved up and down his long thin neck as he barked out orders to the four soldiers beside him. In the silence, the thunderous echo of their boots on the wooden floor delivered an ominous message throughout the bar. He enjoyed the sound of their measured march and the precision of their movements. Each man took his position, one at each corner of the room, with his pistol drawn.

After his men had taken their places, Makarov began his slow march toward the bar’s counter. His nostrils flared under pressure to find oxygen and he resisted the urge to cough, sensing that all eyes followed him in his starched and ironed gray military outfit. The three shiny stars pinned to his collar, denoted his rank. He strutted in his uniform as he used his tunic sleeve to buff the three glittering medals pinned to his puffed up chest. Medals he’d earned for valor.

Reaching the bar counter, he turned, unhurried, to cast a foreboding gaze on the terrified patrons. He knew his lean frame and long, bony face exuded rigidity and cold-heartedness. He’d developed the skill to use these traits in military training to convey cruel intentions.

We have information that members of an underground movement named Aemilius have frequented this bar. He delivered his usual lie as he scanned the capacity-filled bar for any suspicious reaction. His eyes came to rest on a patron seated in the right back corner. A soldier stood behind the man.

You over there—what’s your name? Makarov’s gaze drifted from the man’s face to the table.

Please, sir. The man stood up on shaky legs. My name is Maksimillian.

Makarov noted the dark-stained patterns of spilled liquids and pen-knife-etched initials carved into the pinewood table top, which resembled all the others in the tavern. A round wooden ashtray, with overflowed gray ash surrounding it, stood in the center of the table next to a bottle of vodka with a red and white label.

A Russian name, of course. Makarov scrutinized the man and his three cronies, each with a thumb-sized glass of vodka in front of him.

Maksimillian and his friends had the top three buttons of their blue factory overalls undone. Body heat warmed the bar, creating sticky sweat and pungent body odor.

I bet everyone in this room has a Russian name like you, Mr. Maksimillian. Makarov’s gaze roved around the bar and came back to rest once again on the man he singled out. Where were you born, Maksimillian? He knew the answer before the frightened man responded.

I don’t know, sir. Maksimillian’s slouched shoulders raised and dropped. His head hung low with his chin on his chest.

Of course you don’t. Makarov sneered at the response. I knew your answer before you opened your mouth, even though I’m not psychic.

His briefing at home office before his posting to Riga disclosed that poorer Latvians didn’t keep birth records. They could neither read nor write, so written documents had no meaning for them. They drifted around the country, seeking laborious and unskilled jobs that provided meager income, barely sufficient to eke out a living.

Religious denominations in nineteenth century Latvia, such as Lutheran, Catholicism and the Orthodox Church of Latvia, sustained the faith of the destitute, to endure their hardship. Makarov’s superiors charged him with the responsibility of identifying and arresting the elusive members of a subversive movement called Aemilius, which the churches collectively supported and sheltered. He suspected the poorer class created Aemilius to unite them and plan a revolt, with the blessing of the religious bodies.

How old are you, Maksimillian? Makarov moved to the next question from his military issued Manual of Interrogation.

I don’t know, sir. Maksimillian used his shoulders to crank out his barely audible voice once more.

No matter where I go, I get the same answers. Makarov tapped on his holster and gritted his teeth. Are there no more Latvians living in Latvia?

The Kremlin allowed him to use necessary force when interrogating Latvians to gain information on Aemilius. However, he had orders to avoid intimidating Russian citizens living in Latvia and protect members of Aemilius and their families, once identified. The administration needed them alive for interrogation and cooperation.

The brief from his superior mentioned that Aemilius had gained popularity with the churches for the common goal of removing the Russian presence from Latvia. The religious zealots feared the Politburo would eradicate all religions, as they’d done in Russia.

What a pitiable sight. Makarov’s thoughts returned to the present. You call yourself a man? He kept a steady gaze on Maksimillian who fixated on his grime-coated hands. You are a coward, hiding behind a Russian name. His voice bordered on scorn as his gaze followed Maksimillian’s.

The man cupped his trembling left fist with his right hand. A shaking cigarette burned between the index and middle fingers of his right hand. His sweat-coated, bald head reflected several lamplights.

Makarov remained silent, creating center-stage discomfort for Maksimillian. Perspiration rolled down the unfortunate man’s lowered head and into his eyes to combine with the rising smoke from the cigarette. His rapid blinking caused tears to flow and drip off the tip of his nose. Makarov rested his hand on the butt of his holstered pistol, squinted and waited for the pain to hit from the ever-shortening cigarette. He made a throaty sound of pleasure when Maksimillian flinched, gasped and stopped breathing as the burning tobacco reached his nicotine coated, brownish yellow fingers.

Makarov stifled a smile when the other man stiffened, yet remained motionless. His amusement turned to disappointment when the subject of his entertainment shortened his ordeal, by squeezing his fingers on the cigarette to extinguish the fire. Maksimillian’s body shuddered for a few seconds, before the fiery tip fell to the floor.

Makarov reflected on his command to freeze or be shot when he entered the bar. His underlying message implied that the slightest of movement, even a simple movement to put a cigarette in an ashtray could result in death. Maksimillian’s compliance saved his life.

Has anyone heard of Aemilius? Makarov lost interest in Maksimillian and cast his attention to the rest of the bar. Do we have any members of Aemilius in this bar? He boomed as his gaze moved from one patron to another. Now is the time to stand up and be recognized, for your own good.

He pointed at a customer who sat with his friends at the left back corner of the bar. You there! Makarov made eye contact with the patron. State your name, date and place of birth.

Who, me? The patron touched his hand to his chest and turned to glance at the soldier standing behind him.

Makarov nodded to the soldier, who yanked the man to his feet, by clutching his long black locks and pulling him up.

Yes, I’m speaking to you! Makarov glanced at his victim’s friends before returning his attention to his target, who hung from the soldier’s tight grip by his tangled damp hair.

Tears formed at the corners of the patron’s eyes, rolled down his cheeks and dripped onto his dingy, sleeveless vest. He grimaced, with his arms flailing around in front of him. His pleated oversized black pants stayed on his hips with the help of a half-inch thick rope. The rope’s long ends hung in front of his unbuttoned crotch and swayed with his body movement.

My name is Vladislav, sir. The man’s high-pitched voice suggested pain. I don’t know my date or place of birth. I’m illiterate, sir. I work as a bricklayer for the cemetery. I build concrete tombs.

So you build homes for the dead, Mr. Vladislav. We may need your services tonight. He made a sweeping gesture. A few of your fellow patrons may not make it home to their families tonight, unless I receive answers to my questions. Reaching into his breast pocket, he took out a cigar, rolled it a few times between his thumb and forefinger before biting the butt end off and spitting it out among the other debris on the dirty bar floor.

Taking his time, he allowed his threat to sink in. He struck a match on the barrel of the gun in his holster and brought the flame to the tip of his cigar. He puffed several times, causing dark blue smoke to fill the air and lay suspended around his head. He never once took his gaze off the swaying Vladislav.

Please, sir, I can make many tombs in a short time, if you need my services. Vladislav broke the heavy silence.

You spineless little runt. Makarov snatched the cigar from his mouth and used the thumb of the same hand to pound the medals on his tunic, as he pushed out his chest. Cowards evoke the highest level of contempt in me. There is nothing I hate more than a miserable wretch who sells out his own people for a little pain and to save his own skin.

The sound of his emotional deep-breathing filled the soundless void. He nodded to his soldier. Vladislav half turned, not knowing what Makarov’s command meant to the soldier. The butt of the soldier’s pistol slammed with lightning speed and a thunderous crunch, splitting the hapless man’s lips and breaking his nose. The force of the blow sent Vladislav into a slumping heap onto the floor. Blood squirted from his injuries. The wounded man’s whimpers gave Makarov a degree of satisfaction.

He sneered and shook his head, when Vladislav curled his body into a fetal shape on the dirty floor. Makarov puffed his cigar and kept his attention on Vladislav, who coughed, spraying blood from his windpipe. A tooth slid out of his mouth and came to rest in the center of a pool of bloody drool on the floor.

Makarov gave an approving nod to his soldier, who wiped his hand on his dark gray cotton pant leg, leaving behind strands of damp hair ripped from Vladislav’s scalp.

How about you over there? Makarov used his cigar to point to the patron on the left front corner of the bar. His soldier stood ready behind his quarry. What is your name, date and place of birth and where do you work?

My name is Dimitri, sir. Dimitri made no attempt to stand. I don’t know my parents, so I don’t know when and where I was born. I cannot read or write. I’m unemployed and beg for a living on the streets of Riga.

Mr. Dimitri, what do you have to tell me about this stupid little boys’ club you call Aemilius? He ignored Dimitri’s rehearsed declaration.

I do not know of this group to which you refer, sir. Dimitri remained seated with his elbows on the table. He spoke in an even tone as he locked eyes with Makarov.

Sensing uncharacteristic defiance, he flushed for an instant with rare discomfort then sucked on his cigar for a few moments, trying to regain his composure. Are you going to risk your life for a movement that is too spineless and gutless to stand up and help you? He let a stream of smoke out through his nostrils and increased his volume. Where is this protector group you support? Why aren’t they defending you now when you need them the most? Why do they become extinct whenever there is Russian presence? He leaned back against the bar, clamped the cigar between his teeth and rested his elbows on the counter behind him. Do you want to know why? I’ll tell you why. An organization made up of cowards bears the stamp of its constituents and functions in the same capacity.

As I said, sir, I know of no such organization. Dimitri’s tone and volume matched Makarov’s. You Russians are chasing your tails. Why don’t you mind your own business and stay in your country, instead of sticking your nose into our affairs. Who gave you the right to intimidate and disturb the honest, hard working people of Latvia?

Mr. Dimitri, I commend you for your act of bravado, regardless of whether you are brave or stupid. His lowered voice sounded loud in the hush that remained after Dimitri’s outburst of emotions. Makarov took the cigar out of his mouth. Too bad, you will not live long enough for us to find out.

A shot rang out and Dimitri’s body slumped forward. His head hit the table with a thump. A pool of blood spread on the table, pulsing out of his nose, mouth and the bullet hole in the back of his head. His eyes stared in death and his body twitched with muscular spasms. The icy-eyed soldier raised the gun and extended his arms. He held the butt with both hands and waved the smoking gun over the crowded bar. No one moved a muscle.

Dimitri caused his own death for being insolent to an officer of the Russian Military. Makarov used his cigar butt to touch the three stars on his collar, as he addressed the crowd. Respect demands you stand while being addressed by the Officer in Command!

He nodded to his soldier who clicked his heels and brought the gun back to his chest, still holding it with both hands.

Now it’s your turn to make matters right. Makarov glared at the customer who occupied the seat in front of the fourth soldier, at the right front corner of the bar. The man grew pale under public scrutiny. Choose your destiny, Mr. Russian Citizen with no date or place of birth. He bellowed his sarcasm at his new object of intimidation.

The man’s fat jowls quivered as he tried to get up from his seat. As he did, his legs failed to support his rotund body. Placing a hand on his chair’s backrest and the other on the table, he struggled to push himself up and take some burden off his lower limbs. His sweaty palms slipped on the wooden surfaces with each attempt.

Overindulged in Russian hospitality, I see. Makarov’s maintained his stoic countenance to mask his amusement at the man’s struggles against gravity.

The buttons of the patron’s dirty green-cotton shirt strained to remain in their holes over his distended belly. Sweat beaded the stubble on his lower jaw.

Makarov grew bored with the big man’s efforts and beckoned for his soldiers to come to him. The soldiers’ boots stamped against the wooden floor as they complied.

Scan the bar for signs of dissidence. He waved his soldiers to step away from his side and walk through the crowded tables. Scrutinize every face for traces of defiance. The soldiers advanced toward the crowd with guns ready.

He needed a drink. He turned and walked over to the inside of the bar and poured himself a shot of vodka. As he prepared to drink, he discovered the bartender hiding under the counter in a small cavity. The back of the man’s white shirt and head defined his body in the tiny darkened space.

Well, well, what have we here? Makarov drank the vodka in one gulp. The liquid burned his throat on its way to his stomach. He put the glass on the counter and dropped his cigar stub into it. Setting a hand on the edge of the counter, he bent his upper body to address the bartender. You can hardly fit your oversized carcass into that cramped space. He pulled his gun from the holster and clicked the safety catch off. I’m sure Vladislav can build you bigger and better accommodations, Mr. Cowardly Bartender.

Makarov touched the tip of the barrel to the back of bartender’s shaking and sweat-soaked bald head. Do you have any last words for your family? He prodded with the gun’s barrel.

Please do not shoot me, comrade. The bartender’s pleading voice increased in volume when he half turned his head. I have a wife and two children who need me.

Your children don’t need your shining example of spinelessness. Your wife will now be free to seek a real man for your children to idolize.

I beg you to give me a chance, sir. The bartender’s body shook with sobs. Please spare my life for the sake of my children.

Show some gratitude to someone who has the best interest of your family at heart. Drowned by the sounds of chaos in the bar, Makarov’s raised voice was barely audible. Unlike your obvious unappreciative response to my kindness, your family will thank me for it.

He squeezed the trigger. The bartender’s body remained wedged in its position as Makarov watched the blood wash out of the bullet hole in the man’s skull and spread on the back of his white shirt. The sound of the shot brought silence to the bar. He straightened and glanced at the crowd. All eyes stared at him from bodies frozen in motion.

Now that I have your undivided attention once more, I must ask a question. Makarov seized the moment to exploit the fear created by the gunshot. Has anyone heard of an individual named The One? He swept the crowd with a squinted gaze, while reflecting on his last visit to home office when he’d overheard his superior officer on the phone speaking of The One.

He remembered sitting on the other side of his commander’s desk when the phone call came in. He had strained his ears and leaned slightly forward when his commander turned his back to