Chapter 10
November 24th, 2015
Auckland
Taking his children shopping had been one of his worst ideas ever. No threat, no blandishment had been enough of a deterrent to keep Kurt and Kostya from permanently pinching each other arms the minute his father turned his head around. The boys were rebellious and nothing would return them back to their sweet natures. Kurt was upset because Constantin had not tagged along with them has he had promised he would and Kostya was upset because his brother was upset and it was his duty to be upset.
'How do you tell babies that their father is with the doctor for a blood test?' thought Guntram as he forced a smile of appeasement to their-obviously shocked at his children's behavior- personal shopper. 'Yeah, don't tell me celebrities' kids are better than mine.'
Kostya, sick of being treated like a doll while the seller was measuring jerseys against his frame, decided to plant his butt on the floor and brood from there. His brother, on the other hand, took advantage of the momentary look of disapproval Guntram glanced at the toddler, to walk towards a large, floor to ceiling, mahogany rack.
“Kurt, enough!” Guntram finally lost his patience when he saw his eldest son's intention of climbing the tempting ladder made of racks filled with designer toys and clothes.
Dima nearly chuckled at the harsh tone and the shock written on the little boy's face as Kostya jumped back to his feet. 'Now we know why the Serbs fear him.' “I think they're hungry,” he suggested and offered an elegant exit for Guntram. “It's almost midday.”
“You're right. Call the driver,” Guntram ordered in a dry tone and Dima found himself rushing for the door.
“I'm sorry to leave you like this, Miss...” Guntram forgot the name of the personal shopper but he didn't care at all because his nerves were getting the best of him.
“Please don't worry, Vicomte,” the lady said. “It's too much for them. I understand it, sir.”
“Thank you very much,” said Guntram. “Please send everything you deem necessary to the loft.”
Guntram walked quickly to the exit, holding his boys by the hand and the hard expression in his face, made the boys rethink any kind of retaliation they might have concocted in the few instants all the ladies were busy waving goodbye to his father. They demurely stood by his side as the black car stopped in front of them. For the first time in their life, they didn't jump to overtake the chauffeur.
The driver told him that Constantin was waiting for them at a restaurant and Guntram was glad that despite his latest health problems, Constantin was still planning everything in advance. That eased his nerves a bit because he knew there was something very wrong with his friend, and he only focused on a “preventive tirade” to keep the boys in check at the two Michelin stars restaurant he was taking them. For the past three or four months Constantin's cough had been becoming worse and Guntram didn't believe any longer that it was an ill cured pneumonia has Constantin had told him a month ago.
Happy to see their father again and certain that he would never do something so stupid as going shopping clothes, the boys jumped out of the car and once more, they looked like the picture perfect of good manners while they followed Guntram to the table.
“Did the doctor say anything to you?” Guntram asked, concerned at the yellowish skin tone Constantin had that morning.
“Nothing. The usual,” Constantin lied. “New pills.” He focused all his attention on the boys and they began to tell him about their wasted morning at the store.
Blocked, Guntram didn't know what else to say. He took the menu and began to read it though he knew exactly what he was going to order for he and the children. Once more, a sense of unease bit his soul and he felt an irrational fear each time Constantin lightly coughed.
'This has been going on for too long to be a cold,' he thought but said nothing. 'He's being like that since summer and this time he isn't running away each week to see a boyfriend but a doctor. I'm sure of that. Dima knows something but he tells me nothing.'
The maître returned and took their orders and Constantin continued to evade the questioning he felt looming over his head. His Guntram didn't need to have any more worries assaulting him every night when he thought that he was sound asleep.
The food smelled fantastically but Constantin couldn't feel the taste any longer. It bothered him but he kept it well hidden and made a comment or two about the marvelous combination of spices of his second dish. At least, with the new pills, swallowing wasn't so hard any more.
The maître returned and discreetly handed a visit card to Guntram. The fleeting hard look that passed through the young man's eyes as he flipped the card over and slid it under his dish didn't go unnoticed to Constantin and he simply asked: “Lintorff?”
“Altair,” Guntram growled and nearly stood up from his chair to meet him at the bar but Altair was already standing in front of the table.
“Did you trade me for this?” Altair asked furiously as he glanced at Constantin.
The noise of two chairs being dragged against the floor forced Constantin to slightly rise a finger towards his three men, already looking like they could have the sheik for desert. He forced his back to relax against the damascene chair and Guntram quickly checked if the Russian's cutlery was away from his immediate reach. He forced himself to calm down as he knew Constantin would never do anything in public or in front of the children.
“Are you going to make a scene?” Guntram asked Altair. “Wait until we go to a more private place.”
Dima had his eyes fixed on Altair while his fellow bodyguards carefully watched Altair's aid stand a few meters behind him, quiet like a mouse.
“Answer the phone or read your e-mails and I wouldn't be in this position,” Altair growled and Guntram's bottled anger nearly flared to the surface.
“We have nothing to tell to each other.”
“We will talk. Now.” Altair didn't bother to hear Guntram's response and walked towards a private room, followed by his aide and the flushed maître.
“Excuse me,” Guntram threw his napkin to the chair and crossed the room, to be followed by Dima. He heard Constantin ask for the desert carte and hoped he would have the good sense of stuffing the boys for good to keep them peaceful.
“Do you need your goon with you?” Altair asked the moment Guntram entered the modern looking room, with a table set for two with Dima towering at his side.
“Is he going to take notes?” Guntram asked as he pointed at the miserable looking aide. “I'm surprised you didn't bring your lawyers with you.”
“Tell Mr. Klatschko to leave us as we don't need mobsters around.” Altair said haughtily and Guntram knew his former lover was doomed.
“I can't believe you're with someone with a reputation like Repin's.” Altair added and Guntram closed his eyes because he had just signed his own execution order.
“Dima, please, if you don't mind,” Guntram asked quietly. “Let me sort this out.”
The Chechen stared at Guntram in a way that reminded him of Goran on a bad day for the longest instant; Guntram swallowed nervously but remained poised until the man and the aide left the room and closed the door behind them.
“That has been the dumbest thing you have ever done in your life, Altair.” Guntram said solemnly as he moved the chair and sat on it. “Telling their names is... suicidal.”
“I know people who would like to get rid of them. That trash outlived their use.” Altair said heatedly.
“Your second mistake is to consider him as a mere mobster. Come down from your high horse before you fall, Altair,” Guntram sighed to hide his exasperation. “There's nothing to speak about between us. Everything has been already said.” He added calmly.
“My wife passed away three weeks ago.” Altair touched Guntram's elbow slightly. “There's nothing stopping us now.”
Guntram blinked a few times as he processed the news. Faintly he offered his condolences, hoping to win time over but his brain refused to cooperate.
“We can go wherever you want.” Altair said. “Away from this scum. You don't need them. Are you going to let your children grow next to criminals? You told me he was a businessman!”
Guntram took a deep breath in and let the air escape through his lips slowly. There was no way he could say the words in a diplomatic way.
“I do love you and I'm sorry for the stupid things I said.” Altair added, nervous by the silence. Guntram seemed to be so distant and cold to him.
“I did love you,” Guntram said softly, “but we left it clear. It's over, Altair. There's no future for us.”
“How can you say that?” Altair felt struck by a lightening. He had never expected such a brutal refusal from Guntram. He sat in front of his lover and his eyes frantically looked for any signs of deception. “You love me. I saw it.”
“I loved you,” Guntram pronounced the final “d” carefully. “In the past but I will not make the same mistake again. I made my choice and I will stand by it. I'm sorry to have hurt you, Altair.”
“You truly want to live with that piece of trash?”
“I have formed a family with him. I won't renounce to it.” Guntram said slow and sadly. “Please understand it.”
“What's to be understood? You're... out of your mind if you want to do that. That man's a criminal!”
“He's been good for me. There were ups and downs between us, but he's been good for me. Please, go away now. For your own sake, go away and forget that you met me. I'll do my best to get him off your back.”
“Forget that I met you? That's impossible! I love you!”
Guntram felt a pang of pain in his chest and grimaced.
Altair saw the gesture and it incensed him. “Does my love disgust you?” he asked but Guntram, still fighting with himself to control the pain didn't hear him.
“Go away, Altair,” he whispered as something inside him stabbed him with a burning dagger. The last he wanted was to have another cardiac episode in front of Altair or his children. He would go home, or better straight to the hospital and there, he could have his black out; not in the middle of a restaurant and much less in front of his boys.
“You're a whore, Crusader,” Altair barked at Guntram.
“What did you call me?” 'He can't know about the Order. They will kill him faster than Constantin!' He looked at him fearfully and nausea overpowered him. Dizzy, he heard the next words through a cloud of pain.
“What you are, Crusader. We know who Lintorff is.”
The pain became so acute that it rendered his left side useless. Staggering, Guntram rose to his feet and clutched the top of the chair to keep himself standing.
“Don't go where you can't be, Altair. Keep it to yourself if you want to see another day,” he growled and Altair looked back at him disoriented. “Don't wake up the wrath of God because we will scorch your lands to the ground.”
“Are you threatening me?” Altair couldn't believe Guntram would do such a thing. Not the sweet, shy man he knew. “Nothing can touch us.”
Guntram snorted and took a deep breath to get his strength back and leave the room with his head high. He crossed the main saloon and didn't stop at his table. He walked to the entrance, knowing that something was wrong with his heart and didn't want to waste any more time.
The doorman hurried himself to open the door for him and one of the Chechens ran towards him. “Get the car and tell Mr. Re... I mean, Mr. Arseniev to take the children with him. I need to go to the doctor.”
The man made a sign and the support car immediately stopped in front of them. Half carrying Guntram, the Chechen helped him inside the car and closed the door behind shouting to the driver to drive Guntram to the hospital.
* * *
Constantin was worried sick. He had been waiting for more than seven hours and the nurses would only serve him more coffee and cookies every hour. The private waiting room where he had been confined seemed to shrink with each passing minute.
“Was he conscious?” he asked Dima for the hundredth time.
“Primov says yes. He walked to the reception and fainted right there. Lots of doctors came from nowhere and took him inside. He knows nothing more, boss.” Dima repeated the story as his man had told him.
“Good.”
Hesitant, Dima didn't know if he should bring up the other question; the Arab. Time was essential in these cases and they were running out of it. The brat sheik would be away by now and they had missed a golden opportunity to shut up a loud mouth.
“Boss, there's something I saw,” he finally said. “The Arab knows who we are.”
Constantin fixed his dark eyes on the Chechen and rose an eyebrow. Dima didn't know if he was upset because the Arab knew; or because it had taken him so long to tell.
“The boy said nothing. In fact he told him to be quiet. He knows about the crusaders too. He called the boy one.” Dima slurred the last words.
“Who?”
“The Americans, I guess.” Dima gulped. “They're not to be trusted and they pee on themselves each time they see an Arab. That Obama,” he mumbled.
“Solve the problem, Dima.”
“We'll take the wives away first.” Dima suggested. “We work better that way.”
Constantin thought for a long minute. That would create a huge security hole in his structure but he didn't see any other way. Wives were always a nuisance but to start a war with them around was worse. His men would revolt on him if he did.
“Don't do it here. In his own land and throw the trash right in front of the American Embassy.” Constantin said. “Make it a message for Uncle Sam.”
“That'll need some preparation, boss.”
“Get all your men and use your contacts within the Russian Army. We also want revenge for our planes down. I'm staying here till Guntram recovers. Take the boys back to the island. They will be safer there.”
Dima only nodded and quickly dashed away, secretly glad that his superior had taken things so well. He would only have to pack and baby sit the children for a few days. He sincerely hoped the boy would not die but he had long stopped believing that putting children's teeth in mouse holes would give them nice and strong teeth.
Dima stopped in his tracks and turned around when he was at the door. “Boss, what if...?” he asked hesitantly. Boss hated to speak about his illness but he had left everything in order now, so he knew what was coming to him.
“Take the children along with the nanny to Galina's and tell her I'm taking care of a little business.”
“She's not the motherly type,” Dima protested softly.
“Then I trust you will speak with my son Constantin and tell him to take care of his brothers, or with Sophia. They're Repin and will stay as such. Understood?”
“Yes, boss.”
“Everything has been taken care of, my friend. You know the safe box combination.”
Dima frowned at the words but said nothing. “I'll take care of them with my life. I give you my word, boss.”
“You owe me nothing, my friend.”
“I'll do it because it's my duty, boss. If something happens, I won't stop until I shed that man's blood. I swear it, Boss.”
“Take care of your family now, Dima,” Constantin's voice was raspy and tired from the long talk and Dima cast his eyes down. “Get them to safety and I'll take care of myself. Return in a few days.”
“Boss, you're not well. Maybe we should stay.”
“No, I'm not.” Constantin finally admitted the truth. “But the world won't stop for me. Let me go in my own terms. A bullet is a thousand times better than this.”
Dima nodded and shook Constantin's hand. He hated every decision Repin had made but he would have never done it in any other way. 'Let the boy live a little longer, please.'
Constantin smirked and moved his head towards the door, dismissing Dima as he did when the other man was a young soldier. Dima smirked back and walked away.
Time passed by morosely and the minutes got longer as the night fell over the city. A nurse entered in the room and said that the doctors would see him soon and left before Constantin could utter a single question.
Constantin's heart was filled with hatred as he blamed Altair of Guntram's heart decompensation. In the old times, that man would have been dead the moment Guntram had looked at him. How did he dare to burst his way into his own life? If anything happened to Guntram, he would set the score with that second rate sheik and this time, his revenge would know no limits. Not even Lintorff had dared to go that far.
“Mr Arseniev?” a young doctor stood in front of Constantin and shook his shoulder. “Dr. Johnson would like to have a word with you.”
Judging by the sombre face from the young intern, Constantin braced himself for very bad news and followed the doctor through several white, labyrinthine corridors. The small office, sterile and aseptic like the bald man, still dressed in his surgical fatigues, had only one chair and the doctor asked Constantin to sit down.
“Is he dead?” Constantin asked bluntly to save himself of a long compassionate tirade.
“Oh, no.” The doctor was taken aback by the cold way the man had asked the question. “He's in critical condition but stable.”
Constantin nodded as he processed the news and Dr. Johnson, despite twenty-four years in the profession, gulped like a young intern. The man was unsettling and after seven hours in the operating room, he was exhausted.
“He suffered a massive heart attack and we have placed him on the top of the transplant list. We don't have much time to get a new organ. Unfortunately, Mr. de Lisle isn't compatible with any of the organs at our disposal at the time being. We will keep him in the intensive care unit in hemodynamic and respiratory support for as long as his vital signs don't deteriorate beyond what is compatible with a heart transplant.”
“How long does he have?”
“It's hard to tell. Two weeks, maybe a month. It all depends on the availability of a suitable organ. He's young, non smoker, no comorbidities, doesn't drink and I'm very confident of the results of a transplant for him. In his case the success rate is over 85%.”
“But at the moment, he's unable to survive on his own.” Constantin hated when doctors posed as cheerleaders and looked on the bright side of life when there was a corpse in front of them. Their attitude was designed to make him feel like a moronic child.
“Yes, but we are hopeful.” The doctor tried again to give some hopes to the man.
“Did he suffer any brain damage?”
“None that we are aware of but he's sedated and will remain like that. Removing the sedation at this time isn't recommended. I'll take you to see him now.”
“All right,” Constantin agreed. 'I won't see him again.' “When will we have news?”
“We will keep you informed, but this is out of our hands, really. Once we get the right donor for him, the procedure might take over twelve hours and I'll be performing it. The first 48 hours are critical but if he survives them, then he'll be able to lead a normal life after a few months.”
“Can we not use a LVAD in Guntram's case?” Constantin asked.
“No, we already considered that option and it was ruled out.” Dr. Johnson asserted. “Dr. Mc. Carthy agrees with me.”
“He was already in the Texas Heart Institute and that option was discussed.” Constantin insisted.
“A heart pump is not going to work in this case.” Dr. Johnson said clearly. “We already spoke with Dr. Fazier back in Texas. He recommended to use the SynCardia which is a temporary artificial heart to improve his chances for a transplant, but his condition is too deteriorated to consider this option at this time.”
“I understand,” Constantin pronounced the words with great difficulty. “Then I should make provisions for his children,” he added softly. “Will you keep me informed?”
“Yes, of course.” The doctor rose from his chair.
“Guntram signed a power of attorney to me. He also left a living will and he's against any artificial means to extend his life. Please ask for the forms you need me to sign and I'll set up an account for his care.” Constantin said slowly.
“Yes, I understand your situation. Dr. Bell spoke with me about your case.”
“I can assume this could take months and maybe I will not be here to... help. Better to organize everything now.”
“That will be the most sensible thing to do.” The doctor nodded. 'Poor kids.'
“I don't know if I should bring the boys to see him. I don't want their last image of his father to be this.” Constantin said. “It might well be.”
“You can speak with a counsellor. It will help you to sort things out.” 'Stage four patient's melancholy.'
Constantin shook the doctor's hand and followed him once more across the many corridors and “personnel only” elevators. They stopped at a small room and a nurse gave Constantin a green paper robe, hat and overshoes to wear before he would be admitted through three sets of steel doors.
His heart nearly stopped when he saw the covered by cables form laying in the bed. The noise of the monitors frayed Constantin's nerves and he swore to himself to do everything in his hand to avoid such a fate; clinging between life and death as one lay defenseless.
A bullet was a thousand times better. Nobody would convince him otherwise.
“Some patients tell they can hear people,” a very young nurse told Constantin as her hand slightly pushed him towards Guntram. “It does help.”
The few steps Constantin took towards the bed were heavy, as if he were crossing the Sinai. His hand hesitantly took the inert fingers that were not surrounded by cables and lines and caressed them. Something inside him screamed that this was the last time he would see his angel alive and Constantin closed his eyes to force the tears back. Shedding his sorrow in front of these people was obscene; it was his to keep and treasure.
The sound of soft footsteps made by plastic clogs going away gave Constantin pause. He lent his body over Guntram's and kissed him on the forehead.
“I never wanted this for you,” the man whispered. “I'll do my best so you get better but there's not much hope of that. You don't need to worry about our babies. I'll look after them.”
Constantin didn't know what else to say. He didn't believe in anything beyond his ability to survive. Talking to someone who was already crossing the Styx was nonsense.
“I loved you with all my heart and I'll accept whichever decision you make, angel. Whether you stay and fight or go away, I'll love you.” His lips briefly touched his lover's forehead again and Constantin closed his eyes, only wanting to remove the present image from his mind. He wanted to remember Guntram as the vivid, imaginative, intelligent lover he had known over the years.
Constantin walked away.
