Firestorm: Book III of the Wildfire Saga by Marcus Richardson Page B

  He sighed.   If only I’d been assigned Paris.   At least I would have had a chance at understanding what people are saying.
    Vasily spotted an attractive woman across the street as she talked with an old man in a sharp suit.   He pointed at her.   "Fancy."
    The driver turned, took in the pair and flashed a smile at Vasily.   He rattled off something and put the snug little car in gear.   Vasily nodded his thanks and stifled a sneeze.   Cursed doctors and their vaccines…
    Vasily sat in the back of the cab and watched as the gray stone buildings blurred around him.   The driver weaved in and out of traffic, honking his horn when needed to avoid pedestrians and other cars.   More than once, he closed his eyes as a pedestrian stepped out onto the street and narrowly avoided a trip to the hospital.   The driver continued talking to Vasily, but he understood little to nothing.   He nodded along and tried to smile at what he thought were the appropriate times.   As he grunted agreement at the man’s inane rambling, Vasily marveled at the large stone structures and classic architecture of downtown London.   The city seemed to sprawl on forever.  
    Is there no end to this place?
    At last, the cab driver pulled up to the curb of a street filled with shops—department stores, dressmakers, tailors—all displaying their wares in well-lit windows.   Vasily stared in open-mouthed wonder at the frank display of luxury.   Such wealth was largely unknown back in Kursk, with the exception of the local mafia lords.  
    He reluctantly tore his eyes from the happy shoppers outside and thumbed through a stack of British currency.   He examined the numbers on the driver’s fare meter.   Hoping he picked the right brightly-colored bill, Vasily handed the driver his money.  
    The man looked between the money in his hand and Vasily with a furrowed brow.   He shook his head and tried to hand the money back.   Vasily insisted and refused to take it back.
    “Keep it,” he said in Russian.   “I feel generous tonight!”
    The driver tried again to refuse—a bit half-heartedly—but in the end he relented.   Vasily watched as he removed a few of bills before pocketing the rest and handing over the change.
    Even through the language barrier, Vasily understood what the man was trying to do.   He smiled—for the first time in his life Vasily was able to be financially generous and enjoyed raising a hand to signal the driver to keep the change.   A wide smile spread across the driver’s face.   He motioned for Vasily to exit the cab and seemed content to wait.
    Vasily shook his head.   “I don’t know how long I’ll be…”
    The driver looked at him askance, the language barrier palpable.   At length the man nodded.   He pointed at his watch, then pointed at the cab, and finally pointed at the curb.   Vasily watched in silence.   Then he pointed at Vasily.
    He wants to know if he should wait for me!   Vasily smiled and nodded.   He glanced at his own watch and adjusted for London time.   I shouldn’t be out late tonight.   I want to make a good impression tomorrow, so that means a good night’s sleep.   An hour for shopping and another for dinner…that should do. He pointed at his own watch, held up two fingers and arched an eyebrow.
    The cab driver nodded and flipped the switch on his fare meter.   A yellow light changed to blinking red on the meter.   Vasily exited the vehicle and coughed again.   He shuddered and hurried forward, eager to get inside the warmth of the building.   He continued to cough and sneeze inside the first store, trying not to wince as people took notice.
    These British are scared of the flu?   They sit here in the lap of luxury with more resources and bounty than I've ever seen in my entire life and they fear a little sickness?   These weaklings would never survive back home .   Vasily caught a man staring at him.   The taller man nodded stiffly and shuffled past,