Azrael by William L. Deandrea Read Free Book Online Page B

and follow-up interrogations, months or even years later, were frequently profitable.
    Borzov decided to let it go. He was an old man now. He looked down at his body, as well as he could see it without his eyeglasses. The skin that had once been red with health and covered heavy muscles was now white with grayish spots, hanging in folds where it didn’t cling like a thin coat of paint to tendons and bones, covering them but failing to hide them.
    And the bones moved so slowly now. It took the heat of the sauna to free them, melt them enough to get him through another day. He had thought of having another sauna installed in his headquarters, so that he could refresh himself at midday, but he had decided against it, settling for a simple shower stall. He had always set an example of Marxist austerity to his men. And he had never acknowledged a need of any sort, other than the needs of the State. A personal need was a weakness, and a man in Borzov’s position dared show no weakness. What power Borzov had, and he had a considerable amount, had been bought with fear. But power is just one by-product of fear. The other is hatred. Borzov had survived since the days of Stalin by never letting anyone forget the power long enough to give vent to the hatred. Chairmen came and went, cold war chased détente in an endless circle. Borzov stayed. Quiet but strong. Ever ready to serve the State.
    A buzzer rasped. It was time to leave the sauna. The general wrapped a towel around his middle and stepped out onto the tile floor. The Finns would now rush out into the snow and roll naked in it while other madmen beat them with boughs. General Borzov found a lukewarm shower cold enough. All he wanted was something to wash the sweat from him. He wanted to keep as much of the warmth in him as he could.
    Even in the days of the muscles, Dmitri Borzov’s full height hadn’t been impressive, but every morning he put on his uniform (and if Borzov was clothed at all, it was his uniform he was wearing), stood before the mirror and drew himself up to it. His spine protested, but yielded to the muscles that were left. The day it didn’t would be the day he retired.
    The black Chaika limousine was waiting in front of the building. The driver stood at attention near the rear door as exhaust fumes, cloud-white in the chill of Moscow’s early autumn, billowed around her legs. She saluted and held the door open.
    Borzov shook off a helping hand and got in. Normally, he would lean back and think. Many officials justified the need for a limousine by saying they worked on their papers in transit. Borzov had never asked for a limousine, and he carried no papers home with him. There was altogether too much committed to paper to please him. The Americans, the British, and those who worked for them could read what was written on papers. He worked during his morning ride, but he worked in the one place in the world he was sure the security was all in order—his own mind.
    He would repair to the comfort of it in a moment, but first he had to speak to the driver.
    “Your name, Comrade Sergeant,” he said.
    “Maria Malnikova, C-comrade General.”
    “Are you nervous?” he demanded.
    He had noted, not from interest but because he noticed everything, that while the sergeant was not an attractive woman, she had thick, lustrous yellow hair. She was needlessly pushing it down with one hand.
    “Keep your hands on the wheel,” he told her crossly, “and don’t be nervous.”
    “I-I’m not, Comrade General.”
    “Nonsense, your voice is trembling. They have told you all about Borzov the ogre, and you are afraid.” He didn’t give her a chance to deny it. “You shouldn’t be. It is not natural for you. Nervous women do not rise to your rank so young. How old are you?
    “Twenty-eight, Comrade General.”
    “Have you driven for me before?”
    “No, Comrade General. I have replaced Sergeant Brumel, who is to become an officer. To keep the rotation