Institute of Molecular Genetics, Moscow, Russia

Nikolai Vavilov D.Sc., Nobel laureate for “Advancements in Genetic Editing,” paced the hallway before the elevators. Further down the hall, a glass-paneled door led into the soundproofed conference room. The email which summoned him there specified he was to meet a prospective patron. An elevator dinged, and the head of the facility stepped through the opening doors. Nicolai closed the distance and spoke in an angry voice. “Administrator Popov, I recognize the man in the conference room. He is Pavlo Mogilevich, a notorious Ukrainian criminal. You cannot be serious about this meeting!”

“Nikolai, my friend,” Popov’s voice soothed. “I understand your concern, but my concern is for the entire facility.” He waved at the walls with the cracked and peeling paint. “The government grants are gone. Without outside funding, we will soon have to close. If you wish to continue your work with the human genome...” The administrator waved at the closed conference room door and the man seated within.

Vavilov’s shoulders sagged. He’d been a fool to hope he’d remain above this perversion of science. For this, he’d spent ten years earning his post-graduate degree. Nikolai hung his head. “What does he want?”

The director lowered his voice. “He seeks a perfect woman.”

Dejected, Nikolai shook his head.

Popov patted his arm. “Come, Nikolai, we will do our best. Mogilevich may be a criminal, but he is a wealthy criminal.”

Mogilevich, flanked by two bodyguards, sat facing the door. To the casual viewer, the man projected an aura of indifferent confidence. He knew what he was and cared nothing for anyone’s concerns.

When Nikolai and his director took their seats, a bead sweat formed on the criminal’s brow. Was it embarrassment or a breach in the man’s confidence?

The administrator gestured to Nikolai. “This is Academician Nikolai Vavilov. He is our preeminent expert in human genetics. Please tell him your requirements.”

While the administrator spoke, Nikolai studied their guest. Mogilevich appeared to be a young man, perhaps in his middle twenties. Far younger than Nikolai’s own fifty-six years.

The gangster smiled, although not without a small amount of embarrassment. This slight weakness formed a crack in his otherwise aloof appearance. From an inside coat pocket, Pavlo produced a many-times folded sheet of lined paper. He laid it on the table but kept a hand on it. His surprisingly intelligent eyes studied Nikolai. “Can you truly create a woman to my specifications?”

“There are certain practical limits,” Nikolai qualified. Underneath the table, Popov kicked his ankle. The scientist covered his surprise with a cough. “But I may be able to come very close.” Next to Nikolai, Popov nodded.

“Good, I want you to create the perfect woman.” Pavlo pushed the sheet of paper to the scientist.

As he reached for the paper, Nikolai cringed inside. What will top the list, huge breasts, or an unquenchable thirst for semen?

Someone, probably Mogilevich, had edited the page many times. It had also seen occasional use as a drink coaster. Altogether there were about a dozen entries. A quick read confirmed one of Nikolai’s predictions. At least that trait wouldn’t lead to back problems. His attention kept returning to the first requirement. Of all the items, this would be most impossible. There wasn’t such a gene. The other items ... well, Nikolai lay the list down.

Across the table, Mogilevich’s eyes burned. “Can you do it?”

Nikolai took a breath and considered his reply. Although impossible, that first item intrigued him. “Many of your requirements, for example, the physical attributes, are attainable. Some of the others will require discussion and study. However, your desired primary characteristic, loyalty, is a problem. You see, there is no loyalty gene.”

Twenty-four years later - Kyiv, Ukraine:

Yevgeny Timofeyev forced himself to remain indifferent while the bodyguard searched him for weapons. The bodyguard, or byk, “bull” in Ukrainian, took pains to make the pat-down as unpleasant as possible. While Ukraine and Russia had once been part of the Soviet Union, its peoples did not get along. Disappointed at the lack of response from his Russian “comrade,” the byk gestured, and Yevgeny entered the warehouse.

The doorway led into a large open room that may once have held office cubicles. Along the far wall, near the left corner, a large and physically imposing man sat behind one of the few remaining intact desks. From his appearance, the man could only be Pavlo Mogilevich, the Pakhan, head of the Solntsevskaia Bratva, the most powerful crime syndicate in this part of the world. Next to Mogilevich stood a slight, balding man. Yevgeny recognized him as the sovietnik, the counselor, or advisor to the Pakhan. Across the desk from the Pakhan, stood a man with clenched fists. Scattered around the entry area sat a dozen or so men on as many mismatched office chairs. Yevgeny couldn’t tell if they were guards or fellow petitioners to the Pakhan.

As the entry door shut, everyone in the room turned to examine the newcomer. The Pakhan gestured to his sovietnik, who scurried over to greet the latest arrival.

Yevgeny spoke first. “Ya Yevhen Tymofeiev, vy povynni chekaty mene.“ I am Yevgeny Timofeyev. You should be expecting me.”

“Tak. Do you have the information?”

From an inside coat pocket, Yevgeny produced a large envelope and handed it to the advisor. He followed it with a second envelope containing a stack of Ukrainian hryvnia banknotes. “I dislike waiting,” nodding towards the men ahead of him.

The sovietnik stared at the envelope before pursing his lips and nodding. “I will tell Don Mogilevich,” and turned away.

“Wait,” Yevgeny asked, and the shorter man turned back. “What is ‘Don?’”

“The Pakhan prefers to be called ‘Don Mogilevich by his business associates. It is his way of honoring an ancestor.”

“Ah, thank you. Is there anything else I should know?” Just then, an angry shout came from the man currently standing before Mogilevich.

The sovietnik replied, “Yes, do not argue with the don.” The advisor turned and, in his haste, almost tripped returning to his master’s side.

Yevgeny took a chair that gave him a view of the entrance and the developing argument. Opposite the Pakhan and his advisor, the tall, well-dressed man waved his arms to emphasize some point.

A picture of calm, The Pakhan shook his head and issued a single word, “Nikoly!“ Never!

The tall man stabbed an accusing finger and said something that sounded both Polish and insulting. He slammed his open palms against the desk. Pavlo stared the man down and pointed towards the door. “Leave now!”

Straightening, the man took two steps back, gathered himself, and strode to the door. His face remained flat, masking any remaining anger. On his way out, he tried to slam the door, but the mechanical door closer prevented it. Yevgeny turned back to the desk to see the sovietnik and his master in an animated discussion. Whatever the decision, Mogilevich made it quickly. His advisor gestured to two of the men waiting, and they left as a group. So, Yevgeny nodded, at least some of the men were guards.

Behind the desk, Pavlo stood, he fixed his eyes on Yevgeny and gestured. “Come.”

Yevgeny stood before the desk while the Don opened his large envelope. The smaller envelope containing the tip sat unopened on the desktop. While he browsed through the spec sheets, Pavlo waved towards the unopened envelope. “Is this all you feel my counselor is worth?”

“The bribe was to me jump ahead of any queue. I am certain the loyalty of your advisor would cost much more.”

This earned Yevgeny a brief chuckle before the Don glanced up and met his eyes. “What is the price of your loyalty?”

“My pardon, Don Mogilevich, I am selling arms, not loyalty. Unless, of course, you wish to be my exclusive customer.”

From outside the building came the sound of a gunshot, then a flurry of gunfire. Behind Yevgeny, the chairs fell back as the waiting men stood and produced handguns from inside their coats.

The sovietnik dashed inside, blood streaming down the side of his face. Close behind came only one of the two guards. The men inside sought what cover they could find.

Pavlo flipped the desk forward and crouched behind it.

Yevgeny felt very exposed without a weapon.

The wounded advisor made it to the desk before collapsing. Shouts rang out from outside, and the front door burst open. A stream of men poured in, one of them the tall man who had argued with Pavlo.

Pavlo glanced at Yevgeny. “Choose,” he said.

Yevgeny jumped behind the desk and crouched. Next to him, Pavlo produced a large framed automatic pistol. He gestured towards his former advisor, “Take his weapon.”

Splinters flew from the floor as Yevgeny reached for the sovietnik’s body. He found the pistol and aimed from around the side of the desk. Crack! He fired, and one of the attackers fell, clutching a leg.

With each of Mogilevich’s shots, an attacker fell.

Once someone killed the tall man, the attackers ceased their advance.

With a cry, a wave of Pavlo’s bodyguards streamed in from a rear door and routed the remaining men. Two of the bodyguards stopped at the desk and helped Pavlo to his feet. They fell back towards the rear door, and Yevgeny followed.

Three days later, he received an invitation to supper at the Don’s Kyiv residence.

The simple, private supper consisted of deruny, salo, and horilka. Potato pancakes, sliced pork fat on rye bread, and Ukrainian vodka. The Don seemed in good spirits and waved away Yevgeny’s attempt to discuss business, saying only “Later.” After their meal, they retired to a large billiard room where they took seats near the fireplace. Pavlo poured more horilka. “Now,” he said, “We shall have some entertainment.”

Unsure what to expect, Yevgeny sipped the barbaric Ukrainian vodka and tried to relax.

Exotic, hypnotic music began to play. A woman stepped into the room wearing a traditional Egyptian bedlah and began to dance.

A man viewing this could say he watched a beautiful woman perform an Arabic belly dance. He would be correct, but at the same time, wrong. That night, Yevgeny watched a goddess dance, and through her dance, she stole his soul.

Within minutes, Yevgeny knew he had to have her. Never had he seen a woman as beautiful, or captivating. Firelight glinted in her eyes, and her dark red hair glowed. Every movement seemed to highlight another part of her perfect form.

“Will you have more horilka, Yevgeny?” Pavlo asked.

Yevgeny’s attention, however, lay on the woman. Her waist-length hair hung in lush, gleaming curls, and each twitch of her hips made his heart pound harder. A sudden slap on his arm shocked him back to awareness. Embarrassed, he turned to his host. “My apologies, Don Mogilevich, but I’ve never seen such a woman.”

“Few have.” Gesturing with his empty glass, he said, “That, my friend, is the perfect woman.”

“I agree. She is breathtaking, but what makes her the perfect woman?” If the woman overheard their conversation, she gave no sign.

“Unlike other beautiful women, my Natali is loyal and obedient.”

Yevgeny smiled a worldly smile. “No woman is completely obedient or loyal. Beautiful women are even less so.”

Pavlo clapped his hands, and Natali stopped dancing. “Natali,” Pavlo gestured, and she ran to him and fell to her knees. “This man,” Pavlo gestured to Yevgeny, “desires you.”

This close, her pale green eyes appeared to glow. Their intensity froze Yevgeny in place. He felt she could read his every thought. After her study, she turned back to Pavlo. “Mii pane, tsei moskalskyi kozak nikoly ne pokatayetsia na tvoyii Natali.“ My lord, this moskal cossack, will never ride your Natali.

So, she recognized my Moscow accented Ukrainian, calls me arrogant and a troublemaker. He smiled at her cleverness and, after a moment, decided to take a risk and speak to her directly. “What makes you so perfect?”

After receiving a nod of permission from her lord, Natali stood and turned to face Yevgeny. She extended one leg and cocked her hip. The gossamer fabric of her bedlah parted enough to display not only her charms but also a small tattoo on her upper thigh, the outline of a Persian oil lamp.

The sight of the tattoo and her nudity made him gasp. This beautiful woman, a dzhinn? What the Westerners called genies, the dzhinn were genetic constructs designed to fulfill their owner’s needs.

According to the publicly available lore, some dzhinn resembled humans. Others mimicked fantastical creatures. Different owners had different requirements. Most genetic labs force-grew their dzhinn. It allowed them to spot defects sooner and bring their products to market faster. The downside was short life spans and intellectual deficiencies.

Pavlo’s Natali was one of the rarest dzhinn, a fully custom design. He only needed one look into her intelligent eyes.

“Did you see?” Pavlo asked.

“I did. Tell me, are there others like her?” Yevgeny found it difficult to tear his eyes away from the dzhinn.

“My Natali is unique, but I have great hopes for our daughters.”

“Daughters?” Natali was fertile? What might a daughter be worth?

“All quite young.” Meaning too young to be sold or bartered for.

After Pavlo tired of taunting Yevgeny with his perfect woman, he dismissed Natali. The business discussions began in earnest. The Ukrainian mob boss wanted access to the Russian made arms that Yevgeny could provide.

Months passed, arms made their way into Kyiv and from there to the west. With the successful shipments, Pavlo and Yevgeny became close allies. He became a frequent visitor to Pavlo’s Kyiv residence, the same house where Natali lived.

Their dealings had gone well, and a munificent Pavlo invited Yevgeny to supper. Instead of the formal dining room they always used, Yevgeny followed his host to a table in the kitchen. There, wearing a string of pearls and a little black dress, Natali served them borsch with sour cream and freshly baked pirozhki.

After their meal, Natali asked if they might play durak, and Pavlo smiled. “Do you know how to play Yevgeny?”

“I do,” Yevgeny nodded.

Natali dashed to a cupboard and returned with a deck of cards.

During the first two hands, it became apparent Natali could easily outplay both men. She played a vicious game against Yevgeny, stacking attacks whenever possible. Yet the dzhinn always lost to Pavlo. Oh, she’d stage valiant defenses and make her lord work for each victory. Once again, Yevgeny found himself impressed with the dzhinn’s cleverness and even more envious of Pavlo.

A buzzing signaled an incoming phone call, and one of the bodyguards stepped into the room. “My apologies, Don Pavlo, but there is a problem.”

Pavlo laid his cards face down and stood. “Pardon me,” he said and stepped to the doorway.

Across from Yevgeny, Natali’s eyes tracked Don Pavlo’s every move. It seemed even this small measure of separation caused her some discomfort.

“Why so sad, lisichka?” Yevgeny used Pavlo’s term of endearment, little fox.

“I do not feel whole without Pavlo.”

“What a strange thing. I’ve never known any woman who felt such for a man.”

Green eyes that sparkled with hidden delights met his. “But I am not just any woman.”

Yevgeny leaned forward. “No, you are unique, and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.” When Natalya didn’t reply, he continued. “Is it true you cannot desire another man.”

“It is true. I ... I am bonded to Pavlo. He is my world.”

“Where did Pavlo find you?”

While the Don raged at some unfortunate underling, Natali told Yevgeny what she knew of her origin. How a much younger Pavlo met with a great Russian genetic researcher and presented him with a laundry list of characteristics. After much discussion, a large sum of money changed hands, and the design work began. It took three failed pregnancies before her host mother could carry a fetus to term. “After that, I grew up in Pavlo’s household. His wife raised me with their children. On my fifteenth birthday, I became his kokhanka.

Later, after Yevgeny left Pavlo’s residence, he considered the Ukrainian word “kokhanka.” Besides meaning paramour or mistress, it also meant toy or doll.

On his next trip to Moscow, Yevgeny sought out the great Russian genetic researcher. He located the man in a tenement on the third floor of the old Tsentralnyi Universalnyi Magazin building. The former Tsum department store remained in good condition, although the many escalators no longer functioned.

He rapped on the wooden door. A few moments later, it opened, and an old man, thin with age, stared out.

“Gospodin, Nikolai Vavilov?” Yevgeny asked with a smile.

Vavilov’s eyes widened when he heard his name. “Da?”

“My name is Yevgeny Timofeyev. I wish to discuss your work for Pavlo Mogilevich.”

Wide-eyed, the old man shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I have nothing to tell you.” He backed up and swung the door shut.

Ready for it, Yevgeny blocked the closing door with his foot and shoved against the wooden panel. The door flew open, throwing the old man back.

After he secured the small apartment, Yevgeny sat Vavilov at his table. From inside a leather satchel, he produced a bottle of vodka, several stacks of currency, and a hammer. “The money is yours if you tell me what I want to know. The hammer is if you do not. I’ll drink the vodka in either case.

“But, Don Pavlo...”

“Don Pavlo is not here.” Yevgeny placed two tumblers of the table and poured two fingers of vodka into each glass. He smiled as warmly as possible. “Nikolai Ivanovich, take the money, tell me your tale, and drink vodka with me. If you fear Pavlo Mogilevich, Vladivostok would be a fine place for you in the future.”

With a shaking hand, Nikolai reached for a glass and downed the vodka. “What do you know of genetics?”

They had consumed two-thirds of the vodka. Either the alcohol, pride, or a combination of both had long since loosened Nikolai’s tongue. “Tell me, Yevgeny, have you seen Natali move?”

“I have seen her dance if that is what you mean?”

“Wait here. I have something to show you.” Nikolai stood and turned on unsteady legs. One hand reached out to the wall for stability before he staggered out of the kitchen.