VASSILY PEERED at the farmhouse through a pair of binoculars.
“A hit! No, he is moving. Definitely a miss.”
Duke Nichego looked up from the rifle scope. “The sound of your breathing is standing on my nerves, Vassily. It is like small pig with his little nose in the dirt, making herk, herk, herk all day long.”
Vassily put down the binoculars. “Should I stop breathing? Next time you ask for vacation bodyguard I will stay in Kamchatka. At home the small women who beat me to death do not steal my car.”
Nichego slapped Vassily on the shoulder. “Because that small woman is your wife! Why would she steal her own car?”
He bent his head down to the rifle scope.
“The room is empty. Quick, Vassily! Look for Angelika!”
“I cannot see her. The street cleaners are in her room and must have taken her.”
Nichego shifted the telescopic sight over the windows of the house. He gasped and stopped moving the rifle.
“Look at that ...”
Two windows to the left, a tall wardrobe stood open to the window. Candlelight glowed over rows upon rows of socks in a variety of colors and patterns, all folded neatly with the perfection of a master. A teenage girl stepped into view and closed the wardrobe. She turned like a ballerina, her hair a fan of gold, skin as pale as Ivory soap and smiling teeth like ... well, like Ivory, too.
“The face of God is upon us,” whispered Nichego.
“Duke, we must find Angelika and the kidnapper. Those socks can wait.”
“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve touched as much as a shoe horn? Do you, Vassily? It’s been days. With one attack, we can kill two doves in their bushes. Now help me execute the street cleaners and steal their socks!”
Vassily nodded, and joined Duke Nichego in firing his rifle at the windows of the farmhouse.