The Soul Stealer. Alex Archer

      Annja frowned. “Really?”

      He gestured at his pocket. “Do you mind? I will prove that I am no threat to you.”

      “Go slow,” Annja said. “If I think you’re pulling a gun–”

      “No gun. Just a note,” he said.

      Annja watched as he fished a slip of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it and gingerly handed it to her. She took it and glanced down quickly at the words written on it.

      Annja, welcome to Magadan. Please follow Gregor.

      He will bring you to me.

      Regards,

       Bob

      Annja looked back up. “Gregor?”

      The man smiled. “Da.”

      Annja smiled. “Nice to meet you.”

       2

      Annja followed Gregor out of the alley and back into the open air of the city. He turned and wiped his brow with a smile. “Robert told me you might not be an easy woman to track down. He did not say anything about you not being easy to take down, however.”

      “You got the two-for-one deal,” Annja said. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

      Gregor stiffened. “You did not…hurt me.”

      “Of course,” Annja replied quickly.

      “You always react this way to people who are behind you?” Gregor asked.

      Annja grinned. “Past experience has taught me it’s better to go on the attack than wait for an ambush.”

      “You must have some sort of peculiar background for that to be your normal method of behavior.”

      “Nothing about my life has ever been normal,” Annja said. “Now, where’s Biker Bob?”

      Gregor nodded. “He waits for us nearby. A libation establishment that he prefers to occupy during his awake time.”

      “Never heard a bar called that before.” Annja smiled again. “Lead the way. I’ll follow you this time.”

      “Perhaps that would be best,” Gregor said. He walked ahead of Annja, navigating the twisting streets and the throngs of people who bustled here and there. Horns sounded as the afternoon turned into early evening and commuters rushed from factories and offices to head home.

      “This place gets busy in the evening, huh?” Annja noted.

      “This city is not a wonderful place to be at night. Most people go home quickly to their families and dream of a time when they might leave.”

      “How depressing.”

      Gregor stopped and looked at her. “Have you not noticed how sad this city is? How sad its inhabitants are, as well?”

      “It’s kind of hard not to notice,” Annja said.

      “What’s the problem? The weather?”

      Gregor shook his head. “This is the gateway to hell.”

      “That’s a bit extreme. Even some of the grungiest places on Earth have something to look forward to,” Annja said.

      Gregor shook his head and gestured at the concrete high-rises that surrounded them. “It is not my name for this place, but rather the people who lived here who called it that. There was a time when this truly was the gateway to hell. Millions of people came here first before journeying to the slave camps outside of the city to mine for gold under the Stalin regime. They say three million died in the mines at Kolyma.”

      “This was where the mine workers first came?”

      “ Da. Criminals, intellectuals, the poor—under Stalin, it did not matter what you were. If you were perceived as a threat, then you were shipped here to mine for gold. They used the railway to herd workers here first before dropping them off the face of the planet and into the very depths of hell itself.”

      “Amazing.” Annja sighed. “Good thing we don’t have Stalin to worry about any longer.”

      “The scars of those times will take a very long while to heal,” Gregor said. “My grandparents died in the mines. It is for me a very painful topic. One that is very close to my heart.”

      “Maybe they should have destroyed the city when the mines shut down,” Annja said.

      Gregor shook his head. “The mines are not shut down. They are under private companies now. The goal is the same—to provide wealth for the Russian government and the investors of the mine.”

      “But they don’t use slave labor anymore, do they?”

      Gregor shrugged. “Depends on your definition of slave labor, I would suppose. Some would argue that the wages paid to the workers are not much better than what the original laborers received.”

      A light drizzle fell from the sky, spattering Annja’s face as she saw the lines around Gregor’s eyes deepen. He sniffed the air and shook his head. “Death on the wind is never washed away, no matter how many times God cries.”

      Annja said nothing, but felt a cold breeze whip along the sidewalk. Gregor tugged her arm. “I apologize. Sometimes, I reminisce too much. You have a meeting to attend and I am supposed to make sure you arrive there intact.”

      “Intact?” Annja asked, alarmed.

      Gregor frowned. “In one piece? Is that better?”

      “Either one works. I’m just curious as to why you chose those words instead of saying something, I don’t know, less dangerous sounding.”

      Gregor smiled. “Robert told me something about you. He said trouble seems attracted to you. It was his wish I guide you along so that trouble this time keeps its distance.”

      “Damned thoughtful of him,” Annja said. “Now, where’s the bar?”

      Gregor led her down the street, passing a Mercedes dealership. Gregor nodded at it. “Russian mafiya likes flashy cars. They have the money to buy, so the dealerships come to supply them with their wants.”

      “Are there a lot of gangsters around?”

      Gregor sniffed. “Russia is run by gangsters now. Some of them wear suits, some wear army uniforms. All of them are dangerous men.”

      “Lovely,” Annja muttered.

      At the next block, Gregor turned right and the streets narrowed. Farther on, Annja could make out a blinking neon sign in red Cyrillic letters. Gregor nodded. “That is the place.”

      When they stepped inside, the heat and the smell of alcohol hit her at the same time. Smoke hung in the air, belched out by a hundred cheap cigarettes all bucking for room in the crowded joint.

      Gregor nudged Annja ahead. “Robert waits in the back,” he said.

      Annja shouldered her way through the rough crowd. Some of them looked like greased pompadour playboys while others had the look of hunted men and women, all trying to scratch out some type of existence in a place that seemed to reek of death and haunting memories.

      Annja spied a couple of Naugahyde booths in back and headed for them.

      “Annja Creed!”

      Rising out of one of the booths like a tall, rail-thin weed, Robert Gulliver rushed to hug Annja. To Annja it felt as if she were hugging herself, so lean was Biker Bob’s body. Still, she knew that despite his lack of weight, he was lithe and sinewy, with a great deal of strength from all the cycling he did.

      “Nice to see you, Bob,” she said.

      He hurried them back to the booth. Annja noticed that Gregor did not sit with them but lounged near the bar where anyone who wanted to get to the booth section would have to