“Hello Vladimir,” a voice said, interrupting his daydream.

“Igor.”

He hesitated before saluting the young man; he would rather have shoved his hand into a steaming pile of cow shit. As quickly as he could, he swung his hand up and back; if he hadn’t, he would have been too tempted to strike the boy. Igor had caused a great deal of trouble for him during his stay in Siberia.

As the son of one of the highest ranking generals in the military, he made a formidable enemy, but, in Vladimir’s eyes, he was also the poorest excuse for a soldier that he had ever seen. He lacked the basic coordination and physical fitness that any good warrior must have; he was bereft, too, of the killer instinct and survival mentality that marked a great one like himself.

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