Kir Kozlov stared out over his snow-covered acres of Siberian tundra, stretching endlessly from below the balcony on which he stood. The wolf moon was hunting the sky, but warily, hiding behind the expanse of cloud that had burdened the day since early morning. It was very late, but he could not sleep. The tension – no, it was anger that had been his companion this week – had urged him seek the cold as solace. It wasn’t working. Now he was just angry and cold.

It’s always cold in this damned place, he thought.

He went back through the French doors that had tempted him with vague promises only moments before, and closed them behind him. The room was warmer by comparison, but never warm enough. Even though they had invented the radiator, Russians could never perfect it, stubbornly sticking with steel while the Americans had forged ahead with cast iron which simply worked better. Crick, crick, crick, crick went the steel radiator at the base of the far wall, newly inspired.

“Bah,” he called out in frustration to the room, empty but for a few sticks of furniture. The walls, however, were covered by scores of diamond-encrusted picture frames, each a masterpiece of Russian folk art immortalizing his family’s long and glorious history. And there it was: the raw nerve that the cold had no hope of salving. Diamonds! His diamond mine – the only reason anyone would live in this pit of endless, nine-month winters – was drying up as quickly as his fortune and influence were. Yes, there were new, deeper excavations but, to date, no new diamonds. Over half the population had moved away from his diamond mining town, but the cold… the cold had not gone anywhere. A very poor trade-off in Kir Kozlov’s thin book.

He sat down at his writing desk along the wall and buried his face in his hands. He had been over and over this, but could see no way out. He reluctantly turned his head to the right and let out a sob as he gazed once more at the bare wooden plaque bearing his family crest, sitting askew on the graying, cracked plaster wall. The crest was red and shaped like a shield, onto which was a hand-painted image of a white goat, sitting on a throne, staring out at the horizon. In Russia, family crests were very important, and Kir was hell-bent on overcoming his. But maybe, he thought, that was never going to happen.

Now, as Kir Kozlov was sitting in his study, late at night, feeling badly about his family goat, a government flunky named Sergei Kerensky was sleeping like a baby, miles away in his bed in the town of Polyarny, whose official population was zero. This was an odd statistic, since Sergei himself lived there, as did his wife and two children. There were also three other families in the town, all of whom, like Sergei Kerensky’s family, were on the payroll of the administrative center in Udachny, six miles away. And there was a church. An Orthodox church with a priest. Surely, whoever was in charge of the census would at least count the priest among the living. On the other hand, the good citizens of Polyarny were never bothered by such things as property taxes, so their absence from the government’s rolls did come with welcome benefits. The fifteen townspeople and one priest happily did nothing to disturb the sign at the edge of town which read: Население 0.

Sergei Kerensky owed his continued employment to the oligarch (albeit, the minor oligarch), Kir Kozlov, and it was just yesterday in Udachny, on business for Kir Kozlov, that Sergei Kerensky met the man who would change all of their lives: Jesus Mohammed Marx. What a meeting it had been! Jesus Mohammed Marx spoke Russian like a saint (even though he was clearly from someplace else) and had a name that made one pay attention. He was tall and thin and dark, and wrapped a black cape around himself like it was the Russian flag. He wore a black top hat under which his black, penetrating eyes peered out like rifle sights. But what captivated everyone in the office in Udachny that afternoon was his bright, white smile that destroyed the image of darkness he otherwise projected. He had swept into the small meeting room off the front lobby with a Russian Wolfhound at his side and said through his smile:

“I am Jesus Mohammed Marx,” then laid down a bright, white business card with the words: “JESUS MOHAMMED MARX, Patron,” printed in the center of it in black.

Sergei Kerensky had found it a little odd that when JMM spoke, the lips of the Russian Wolfhound seemed to move, but it was a small thing and surely must be explained by the two of them having spent too much time together.

“This is Mumu,” said JMM, gesturing to the Russian Wolfhound who was now sitting with his head above the small, rectangular meeting table. Mumu’s lips moved in time.

JMM unfurled his great cape revealing a black, leather portfolio he had been carrying, which he now placed on the table. He then sat down and took off his top hat which he laid next to his portfolio. One hand absently went up to make sure his longish, black, oily hair was still at the top of his head where he had left it. Then he slowly looked at each person now sitting across the table from him, each patiently waiting for something to happen. With a slight clearing of his throat, JMM informed Sergei Kerensky and his three female assistants that he was on a special mission to bring prosperity to all the inhabitants of the Mirninsky District. All that was required of them, he explained, was that they follow his directions to the letter. Sergei Kerensky wondered briefly at such a promise, but slowly developed the theory that this must be some kind of special program run by the Ministry of Economic Development of the Russian Federation to help important people like Kir Kozlov in their hour of need. Or else this was the FSB (still better known by the locals as the KGB) on some unfathomable mission. In either case, it was best not to question what was going on.

“We will do everything in our power to do exactly as you instruct,” Sergei Kerensky said to the dark, happy man and his lippy dog. Sergei Kerensky’s three assistants all nodded in unison.

“How do we begin?” asked Sergei Kerensky.

JMM opened his portfolio and pulled out a single piece of yellow paper which he pushed across the table to Sergei Kerensky.

“On this piece of paper,” JMM said through his bright smile, “you will find complete instructions on how to convert your employer’s diamond mine into something infinitely more useful. It is all straightforward.”

Sergei Kerensky stared at the piece of paper which held three, single-lined bullet points.

“In exchange for what we are asking you to produce, we will give you gold.”

With that, JMM withdrew a small cloth bag which had three ruble signs stenciled in black on its side (like this: ₽₽₽) and tossed it across the table. It landed in front of Sergei Kerensky with a thud worthy of the world’s most overrated metal. Sergei Kerensky undid the drawstrings of the bag and shook out three, shiny, unevenly shaped gold nuggets which were certainly worth, he thought, half a million rubles or more.

“Gold, we have much of,” said the man in black. “It is for you, my friend Sergei Kerensky, for your boss, for these three fine ladies, and for anyone else you care to favor. Just produce what we ask of you.”

Sergei Kerensky stared at the thin, darkish man sitting across from him; at the head of the Russian Wolfhound named Mumu, resting on the table; and at the white business card in front of both of them.

“Of course, we will do this for you,” Sergei Kerensky said, used to doing things that were often loosely glued to reality.

“It is not for us that you do this, Sergei Kerensky,” JMM replied mysteriously, but it was Mumu’s eyebrows which arched at the saying. “Begin tomorrow, and we will see you again in a week.”

“Very well,” said Sergei Kerensky, standing and offering his hand to the stranger across the table. JMM just looked at the hand hanging in space and tilted his head back and forth as though he were guiding a set of steel balls through the maze of his mind. Mumu nudged the tall man with his long, dark snout.

“Very well,” JMM said, ignoring the hand. He then stood, picked up his portfolio, placed his hat atop his head, re-wrapped himself in his cape with a flourish, and turned to leave the room. Mumu the Russian Wolfhound led the way.

Sergei Kerensky lowered his hand, the strange relationship left unconsummated. He watched the receding figures of Jesus Mohammed Marx and Mumu. Best not to look at the teeth of a horse you have been given, he thought. Such a smile.

But that was all yesterday. Today, or rather, right now while it was still dark and wintry, Sergei Kerensky slept in his bed.

Dong… dong… dong….

The old bell, high in the church tower, rolled back and forth like a fishing trawler in an arctic swell, welcoming the three o’clock hour. Sergei Kerensky stirred, and became aware that the tip of his nose was cold.

Rut tat tat tat.

The bedroom window valiantly gripped its frame, resisting the moaning, Siberian winter wind which was determined to find a way in.

Crick, crick, crick, crick.

The radiator fought heroically against its steel handicap.

Beside him, Sergei Kerensky could hear the slow, even breathing of his wife. The warmth of her body drew him closer to her.

All our problems are solved, he thought hazily. Tomorrow will be a wonderful day.

His boss’ smiling face spontaneously bloomed across the canopy of his mind, and Sergei Kerensky tumbled back to sleep, the cold tip of his nose no longer a conscious concern.