Nick
The house is quiet.
I make the first call at one-seventeen in the morning.
Anatoly Ivanov picks up on the second ring because he's a lawyer who bills four figures an hour and men who bill that kind of money don't sleep through calls from men like me.
"Stepan?" he asks.
"Gone. An hour ago."
A pause. A lamp clicking on, a woman's voice in the background, the creak of a man getting out of bed.
"I'm sorry, Nikolai."
"Thank you. I need the will executed as written. Filed before nine tomorrow morning. Trust transfers, property holdings, business accounts. All of it. I don't want Viktor's lawyers near a courthouse before mine."
"Understood." A drawer opening. Pen on paper. "What about the board?"
"I'll call them at seven. Not before. I want ink on paper before Viktor starts making his own calls."
"The funeral?"
"Orthodox. Full rite. I'm calling Father Konstantin next."
"Nikolai." Ivanov's voice drops. Not the lawyer now. The voice of a man who has known my family for twenty years. "Yourfather was very clear in his instructions. The will is ironclad. Viktor can contest it, but he'll lose, and he'll lose publicly. If he's smart, he won't even try."
"He isn't smart. He's patient. That's what concerns me."
"Fair enough." More scratching. "I'll have my team at the courthouse when the doors open. Confirmation by nine-fifteen."
I hang up.
Father Konstantin is eighty-one years old and has been the spiritual advisor to the Zhirinovsky family since before I was born. He answers his phone the way all very old priests answer their phones, slowly, with a greeting that sounds as resigned as it does hopeful.
"It's Nikolai, Father." I cover the break in my voice by clearing my throat.
"Ah." A long breath. "Stepan."
"Yes."
He is quiet for a moment. I hear him praying under his breath, the words soft and practiced, and I let him finish because my father would have wanted it.
"When?" he asks.
"Around an hour ago."
"The Lord receives him." Another breath. "The vigil. You will want it done properly."
"Everything properly, Father. The washing. The vigil. The parastas. Full liturgy. I want his body prepared by someone from the church, the casket open for three days before burial."
"Of course." His voice steadies. This is work he knows. "I will come to the house tomorrow to begin. The washing should be done before the body is moved. Traditionally, the women of the family—"
"There are no women of the family, Father. My mother is gone. There's Lucia, his nurse. She cared for him well."
"Then Lucia and I will prepare him. Can you have candles? Beeswax, if possible. And the icon, the one your mother kept."
"It's in the cabinet in the front hall. I'll have Lucia stay."
