Issue 17 – Sokolov
- Dimitrovgrad, June 16 2039
The place was really clean for a bar, Seagrove thought, as he entered the establishment with Blackwood. The cozy wooden walls were decorated with old, faded photos of men in a motley collection of uniforms, long since dead. Blackwood caught him staring at the pictures.
“Some things never change.”
Looking around the bar, Seagrove had to agree. He passed a couple of Bulgarian paramilitaries wearing Tihina colors and sat with Blackwood down at an ancient-looking plain wooden table, a network of scars and etches on its surface reflecting the place’s colorful history. The man across the table didn’t even look up, fully focused on peeling the red apple with his old pocket knife. His nondescript military uniform, albeit patched on several places, was kept meticulously clean, the sidearm lying on the table in front of him well-oiled and ready to use. His stern face did not express any emotions.
“Commander Sokolov.”
The man continued to ignore him, his focus solely on the piece of fruit in his hand, as if it was the most important thing in the entire universe. After a brief pause, Blackwood continued.
“We’d like to hire your services.”
Again, no reaction.
“We pay cash.”
The man carefully slicked a piece of his now fully peeled apple and started chewing on it, finally looking Blackwood in the eyes.
“And just what do you need me and Finist for?”
“Finist?” Seagrove asked.
“My tank.”
“We heard that you are the man to talk to when it comes to business in Istanbul. And that you hate Clayburn.”
Sokolov gave Blackwood a long, appraising look before he finally nodded.
“Come in the evening. We will discuss the details.”
Blackwood nodded, ready to leave, but Seagrove frowned, unimpressed by what he perceived as aloof behavior.
“I have to ask. Why Finist? Why name a tank after a fairy tale? Isn’t that a bit childish?”
Sokolov’s face immediately hardened, his eyes narrowed.
“You are young. Let me give you a piece of advice. For free. Never mock anyone’s culture. It is the key to every man’s...” he struggled for a short while to find the right expression. “True self.”
“Even fairy tales?”
“Especially fairy tales”, Sokolov concluded, waving his hand dismissively, once again fully focused on his apple.
