“YOU WILL SHOOT from a distance of one hundred meters, and no less,” Konstantin said.
Anthony nodded.
“If you are shooting from the side, look for the crease of the ear. If you are shooting from the front, look between the eyes. The key is to visualize. Once you note the markers I mentioned, you must visualize the target inside and get it right. A mammoth brain is not a tough target to hit, but it becomes one once you bring angles into the equation. The size of the animal in comparison to a hunter already has an element of angle, but this is exacerbated by distance as well.”
“I have shot elephants before.”
Vladimir interrupted. “Where? How?”
“There are game parks no one knows about. High security. But the elephants are not really wild … they are raised in captivity, and then released. It is not much of a challenge.”
There were two Anthonys. One, Vladimir knew well—the immaculately dressed, restrained, loving man who dealt with his extraordinary wealth with ease. Vladimir had not been born or grown up among the ultra-rich, by any means—but he and Anthony had been together now for over a decade. In that time, he had gotten to know their society well. There was no single, monolithic “type” among them, but there were generalizations you could make. They were all highly isolated—surrounded by financial managers, personal assistants, bodyguards, and servants of all types, forming a human fortress that made access to them nearly impossible. They were cynical about the world. This made sense: the only people who managed to storm the citadel they had built around themselves were sycophants, charities looking for money, or entrepreneurs of a thousand stripes trying to get backing for some half-cocked idea.
And they hated one another—none of them thought any of the others brought any value to the planet, though they fooled themselves, quite often, into thinking they themselves did.
Anthony was, to some degree, all of those things—except that he did not fool himself into thinking he was of any use to the world. He had been born into unspeakable wealth, but seemed perfectly aware of what the world outside the foamy, scented bath of privilege looked like. He anonymously gave enormous sums to causes he believed in, without believing he was the one making a difference—he knew it was those “actually doing the work” as he called them, who were deserving of praise. And he was not cynical about the world: he was engaged with it. He was realistic, and decent.
Or so Vladimir, over a decade of intimacy, had thought. But who was this other man—the one listening to Konstantin with a superior smirk on his face? Who was this man who was so arrogant he was certain he knew more than Konstantin—a man who had likely grown up here, in this place—did?
“A lung or heart shot on a mammoth is not a kill shot. They are very emotional animals and deserve a quick death. Do you understand that? It must be done correctly.”
“I understand. Have you ever killed a mammoth, Konstantin?”
They were on foot, the four of them—Vladimir, Konstantin, Anthony, and Dr. Aslanov. Only Konstantin and Anthony were armed. In the silence following the question, the grass hissed at their boots.
“If you are asking have I ever hunted a mammoth—no, I have not. Nobody has, in this era.”
“Have you hunted an elephant?”
“No. I do not have the wealth necessary to do such a thing.”
Vladimir knew Konstantin had left the rest of that unsaid—and I would not do such a thing if I had the wealth.
“I have. I know how to shoot them. I only wish you had allowed me my own rifle.”
Vladimir saw a glance pass between Dr. Aslanov and Konstantin. Frustration, in Konstantin’s eyes. A warning, in Dr. Aslanov’s.
“We have our regulations here,” Dr. Aslanov said. “But I hope you find our rifles sufficient. They are of good caliber, and will be up to the task. And you were able to test-fire yours.”
“Yes. It’s a good rifle. And the rounds are good: super penetrators that will punch through the skull of just about anything.”
He said it as if he were praising a sports car’s engine, or the design of a yacht. Even the voice of this Anthony was different—the tone distant, condescending.
He should have seen it. He had glimpsed this Anthony: a shadow across the face of the man he loved, looking at the trophy photos on his secure phone. A look in the eyes, when Vladimir asked how a hunting trip had gone. Vladimir had dismissed it as a quirk—a false note in Anthony’s personality—brought out by a strange, dark hobby he didn’t share or comprehend. He hadn’t understood, until yesterday, what it really was: some kind of split in the man. He had thought he was living with a man he understood almost fully, who had—as everyone does—a few things they hide from others.
Now he saw it differently: this was like a second person. He had been living with half of Anthony. What was truly terrifying was the thought that maybe the half he loved—that generous, decent person—was made possible only by this other half. By a man who took joy in killing. Or that the man he loved was even less than half—was nothing more than what was left over from this Anthony.
Or that was how it seemed, when Anthony was in this mode. A stranger to Vladimir.
He should not have come on this hunting trip. Anthony should not have invited him to come. To see him like this. It could destroy them.
Anthony turned to him. “Are you doing all right, Dima?”
“Yes, bwana.”
Vladimir didn’t have to look at Anthony’s face to know it had reddened.
Vladimir understood, then, why he was here. He loved Anthony—the other part of him. Anthony had thought Vladimir might come to love the rest of him, too. He had been hoping it was possible.
It was not.
“How far is he?” Anthony asked.
“Impossible to be sure. There is a spring, several hours’ walk from here. It forms a pool. He was there when I rode out this morning. He may be there still, or he may have moved on. But there is plenty of forage here, so I don’t think he will wander far from good water. We’ll leave before dawn tomorrow. If he returns, we can set up downwind from him, and take him.”