“Respect? You break your promise and call it respect?” I glared into the small pig’s eyes drowning in puddles of flesh. He smelled, actually. He carried the smell of sick in the folds of his flesh. My anger flared, cold anger. “You really don’t get it, Oleg. I’m not getting out of this car until I’ve spoken to Meredith Viles.”
Oleg carefully placed his burning cigarette in the Lada’s tiny plastic ashtray, already overflowing with butts, and leaned his massive bulk toward me, his damp, sour breath wafting in my face. He grabbed my left wrist in his heavy hand and squeezed it to the point of pain.
“What are you doing?” I yelled, trying to yank my hand away.
His grasp tightened. With his other hand, he bent my wrist back as far is it could go. Stripes of searing pain shot up my arm. “A surgeon cannot perform operation with broken wrist. Maybe you know this.” He added more pressure. The pain was intense. I could feel the bone start to crack.
“Stop! Let go!”
He loosened his grip. There was a slight sheen of sweat on his upper lip and a snakey glint in his eyes.
I wrangled my wrist out of his hold and started rubbing the tender joint. “They’re going to hear about this back at Langley,” I said. It was a pitiful remark, but the best I could come up with. With my good hand, I rummaged angrily in my leather purse and dropped the things he’d asked for unceremoniously on the car floor. Then I stuffed the bulging manila envelope into my purse.
In a voice slick with authority, Oleg said, “You will have no more contact with CIA until you are in Washington, D.C. You will have no knowledge of Oleg the driver or Meredith Viles of Tiffany Co. And, of course, you will know nothing about our work in Mirny.”
“Fuck you,” I said.
A tiny smile of satisfaction hovered at the corner of his mouth. “Go now. Plane to Novosibirsk departs in twenty minutes.”
“No worries, Oleg. I like to cut it close. Before I go, I have a couple of questions you better answer very quickly and very honestly if you want me on that plane. First, what’s going to happen to the canisters?”
“You weren’t told?”
“I want to hear it from you. Specifics, please. What’s going to happen to them?”
“They’ll be removed.”
“Duboff and Karp?”
A short inhale, a rapid blink. “They will be watched.”
“And Mikhail Tarasov? What about him?”
Oleg looked utterly blank, maybe a little frightened.
“The clock is ticking, Oleg. Say something.”
“He should have been more careful.”
I balked at the way he said it. It sounded so final. “Is he dead?”
“No one knows.”
“But you assume?”
“Yes.”
My mouth went dry. “How long have you assumed this?”
“Hmm. Some days, weeks…?”
“Exactly how many days and weeks?” Good god, had they believed he was dead all along?
The tip of Oleg’s cigarette glowed red as he pulled a long drag into his lungs, buying himself time. “This I am not so sure about.”
“Yeah. I bet you aren’t.” I got out of the car.
A uniformed man at the security gate shoved his hands roughly into my duffel bag. He wasn’t going to find anything there but clothes. A television on the wall blared the morning news. Truths, half-truths, lies. Bleary travelers yawned at the newscaster, and went on with their business unperturbed. We’re sitting on top of a tinderbox. Chemical, biologic, nuclear—how close to Armageddon we all are.
I moved sideways a few feet to the next uniformed man, who flipped through the pages of my fake passport, glanced down at the photo, up at my face, down at the photo.
“How did you enjoy your stay in Mirny?”
“It was delightful.”
“Sightseeing?”
“Yes.”
“Did you purchase any diamonds?”
“No.”
“Most tourists come for the inexpensive diamond jewelry.”
I fake-smiled. “Next time.”
He snapped the passport closed, handed it back to me. “Have a safe trip, Ms. Phipps.”
I gathered up my baggage and proceeded to the gate—not hard to locate as there were only four in the airport, and three were vacant. A scattering of passengers were waiting for the Novosibirsk flight to board. Everyone looked tired, disgruntled. There were, as yet, no children or babies among them, so chances were good we would all be able to sleep on the plane.
I hadn’t been waiting long when an announcement came over the loudspeaker: departure was delayed by thirty minutes. Mechanical trouble. I shrugged. What was an extra thirty minutes when I was going to be in transit for twenty-two hours? Still, I wanted to get out of there soon. There was nothing to distract me in the terminal, not even a newspaper stand. I was left with nothing but my own turbulent thoughts.
Vera would be so disappointed when I arrived home empty-handed. What would I tell her? Some story, I supposed, which she wouldn’t entirely believe. The lie would cast a shadow between us, which nothing but total honesty could displace. But that would never happen, as I was sworn to secrecy and would uphold my oath, though the CIA hardly deserved my loyalty, having so little of its own.
I pictured Meredith Viles—her flashing diamond ring and strangely skeletal face. Meredith Viles trafficked in deception for a living. And I’d believed everything she’d said. How many times had she lied to me, starting with the very first night?
Had the promised family reunion on the banks of the Tatta River ever been a real thing? Maybe not.
Was the CIA really going to investigate Misha’s connection to Death Valley? Unlikely.
Travelers on the delayed Novosibirsk flight were scattered around the terminal in various stages of boredom or fatigue. Nearby, a fat man dozed sitting up, softly snoring, his multiple chins pooling on his chest. I felt heavy and rooted like him, mired down in circumstances out of my control. I wondered how much Lena knew. Would Meredith tell her about Misha’s foray into journalism? Somehow, I doubted it.
Right now, I was the only person in the world with a hankering to know what Misha had been doing at that abandoned gulag camp. The only person willing to follow the trail of breadcrumbs he left. Didn’t that make me responsible in some way? But what could I do?
How futile everything seemed. Saldana, Misha, Lena, Katarina Melnikova. Who were they anyway—these people for whom I’d traveled so far and risked so much? I’d had such high hopes, been so suckered by the dream of a happy extended family. But common DNA was never meant to stretch this far.
I’d never be sure of anything now. Never know what really happened to Misha, or whether Vera’s lost mother really was living in a Siberian village at the age of eighty-nine. I’d never stop wondering about them, my mysterious Russian family, never really be clear of it. And Vera’s heart would break. Again.
So why had I surrendered my passport and accepted the unwanted airline tickets? Why was I letting Meredith Viles call the shots, when she’d glibly deceived me so many times, and now was shipping me home like unwanted baggage, against my stated desires? Through a proxy, no less.
If I got on that plane, I’d live to regret it—of that I was sure.
What if I didn’t?
What if I went back to Mirny and kept looking for my cousin? There was a chance I’d find him, and if I did, I might still get to Katarina Melnikova’s home. Because, even though I didn’t know the name of her village, Misha would. In solving one problem, I’d solve two.
And even if my search was fruitless, as it likely would be, I’d at least be able to return to the States with no regrets, having done everything I possibly could to make things come out right for Vera and myself. Then, whenever I recalled this whole debacle in the future, I’d at least have some pride and peace of mind.
I stood up and shouldered my luggage, made my way out of the gate area, more crowded now than it had been earlier. The official who�
�d checked my passport looked up as I passed. “Change your mind, Ms. Phipps?” he said archly.
I wished I were in America, where no one remembered your name. “Yes, as a matter of fact, you got me thinking…I really do need a pair of diamond studs.”
A TAXI TOOK me back to Ilmira’s apartment, its wipers flapping in the first weak drizzle of rain. The key to the apartment was still under the mat. Ilmira’s bed was unmade, her purse gone. She was probably out shopping on this Saturday morning, or off to visit friends.
I would have to explain why I was back. Gosh, I’m so relieved: it was a false alarm. My mother recovered completely! Another wearying lie.
I fried an egg, made tea and toast. I still hadn’t quite caught up with what I’d done, but I did feel better, freer, more like myself. Taking my breakfast into the living room, I switched on the TV. Die Hard was playing on one of the stations. The dubbing was atrocious, but Bruce Willis’s all-American face was comforting. Even the assault rifles splaying bullets into bad guys, and the roof of the Nakatomi Building exploding into flames had a welcome familiarity. Eventually, almost everyone was dead, an eerie quiet enveloped the charred skyscraper, and a different kind of sound reached my ears. Dim, rhythmic. What was Bruce up to now? But the sound wasn’t coming from the TV. I lowered the volume—it was coming from the back of the apartment. I followed it into Misha’s bedroom, then to the balcony. When I opened the casement window onto the wet morning, the sound grew loud, vivid, piercing. An old woman’s anguished keening. Deep and ancient, like the sound of suffering itself.
A terrible dread enveloped me. I walked slowly out of the apartment and down the stairs. A small group was gathered outside Tanya and Bohdan’s door. Medics were carrying a stretcher out of their flat. There was a body on it, covered by a sheet. I pressed myself against the wall of the corridor to let them pass. Next to me, a balding, middle-aged man was squeezing his eyes closed; his heavy lips mumbled a prayer. A tall, official-looking woman emerged from the apartment, followed by medics carrying another stretcher.
“What happened?” I asked urgently as the woman passed.
“Two murders. A single bullet to each head.”
The body on the second stretcher was smaller than the first. A strand of black hair escaped the covering sheet.
I turned to the balding man. “When?”
“Don’t know. The old woman found them,” he said.
I quietly returned to Ilmira’s apartment.
The wail of Tanya’s mother followed me up the stairs, and rang in my ears long after I shut the door.
I was numb with shock. What had Oleg said? They will be watched.
I’d let the lie pass without comment, without even noticing. What a fool I was not to have guessed. Of course they’d be assassinated. Of course. There was blood on my hands now. I was dirty with spy work. With collateral damage and all the other euphemisms. Were the murders necessary? Possibly. But a life was a life, and doctors didn’t take lives, even to save others. At least that’s what I’d always told myself.
Ilmira burst into the apartment, hair dampened from rain that was falling steadily now. Her eyes grew round when she saw me leaning against the kitchen counter. Raising her hands to the sides of her face in stiff-fingered horror, she cried, “You can’t be here! You have to get out right now!” She rushed to the rain-streaked window and glanced down to the street. “Did anyone see you come in?”
“I take it you know what happened,” I said.
“Everyone does! The neighbors are all talking about it.” Her face was livid. “What madness made you come back?”
“I didn’t know.”
“What?” She slumped down at the table. “I took you in, treated you like a friend. And all the time, you were…you were…”
“It wasn’t me, Ilmira. I didn’t do it, I swear.”
“Do you think I’m just a stupid Russian that you can lie to my face?”
“I’m not lying—”
“I know you are! Do you want to know what someone was saying about you just now? That they saw you on the balcony, holding a heavy rope in your arms. Why did you have a rope on the balcony, Natalie? Why?”
I shook my head in horrified disbelief. How quickly things came undone.
Ilmira continued breathlessly, “How long do you think it will be before the police come here, to this apartment? Until they question me? And I’ll tell them everything—I promise I will! I’ll tell everything I know about Dr. Natalie March, and how she lied to me.”
The blood drained from my head so fast I thought I might pass out. I was as good as dead if I were caught. But I couldn’t succumb to panic. First, I had to deal with Ilmira, who, at any moment, might pick up the phone and turn me in. There was no point in denying what she was saying. The evidence was too strong, even if it was wrong. I had to get her on my side somehow, make her want to cover for me.
“Ilmira, wait, please calm down. I have something to tell you. I promise, if you’ll just listen…”
She made a violent hand gesture halfway between fuck you and hurry up.
“Yes, I broke in to their apartment,” I said, trying to appear calm. “I thought Tanya and Bohdan might be involved in Misha’s disappearance, and I was looking for clues, evidence, anything that might help me find him. I climbed down from his balcony to theirs. I did that. But when I didn’t find anything, I left. That’s it, Ilmira. I swear. I had nothing to do with the murders, absolutely nothing.”
I suspected that the last part, the absolutely nothing, painted me as a liar and wished I hadn’t said it. But there was nothing to do but wait to see how much, if any, of my story she believed.
Her eyes glimmered darkly. “You didn’t say anything about leaving Mirny last night. Then, this morning, I wake up and you’re gone. Why so sudden, Natalie? Why today?”
“But I didn’t go, did I? I came back! I wouldn’t be here if I were guilty, would I?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I was about to get on the plane when I got a message from the hospital saying my mother was fine. It was a false alarm. So I came back. I didn’t know about the murders, Ilmira. I swear to you. I had no idea.”
She looked away. I sensed that she wanted to believe me, but after the shock of the murders, she wouldn’t easily surrender what she thought she knew.
“It could have been anyone,” I continued urgently. “It could have been…whoever took Misha. It’s frightening, I know, to think there might be someone out there. But it wasn’t me, Ilmira. I swear it wasn’t me.”
She swallowed, her throat visibly constricting.
“We’ve only known each other a little while. But you do know me, Ilmira. I’m not a total stranger. Think for a moment, please. You must know in your heart I’m not capable of murder. That I could never in a million years do anything as horrible as that.”
She flicked a tear from the side of her face. She was silent for a few moments. Finally, she said, “You’re right. I don’t believe you’re the killer. I believe you didn’t do it, but…”
“But what?”
She stared at me with bald accusation. “I think you know who did.”
“I don’t,” I said quickly, too quickly. I could feel the lie emblazoning itself on my face, in the muscles I couldn’t control.
She saw the truth and immediately turned away. “Leave now. Just go.”
“I didn’t want it to happen,” I said, the words tumbling out of my mouth. “I didn’t know it was going to happen. There was nothing I could do to stop it. I’m not…” What was I trying to say?
She whirled around, her face contorted. “I’m connected to you, don’t you see? As soon as they start putting the pieces together…”
“What pieces? Someone saw me standing on the balcony. So what? It doesn’t prove anything!”
“They’ll know you could have gotten in that way. It makes you an obvious suspect!”
“But I wasn’t the one in the flat late last night or this morning or
whenever the murders took place. The real killer got in some other way. He left traces—he must have. A jimmied door, a broken window. Something. And he might have been seen as well. All the evidence isn’t in yet, Ilmira. It won’t necessarily point to me.”
She emitted a low moan. “Oh god. This is so fucked up.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “No one knows I was in their apartment the other night, do they? No, just you and me and them. And they’re dead. So there’s nothing connecting me to them. Other than standing on the balcony, which isn’t evidence of anything. And since I left early this morning…you could say I left then, as I did…and the murders probably took place later…”
“Oh, how you grasp at straws, trying to convince yourself that things aren’t so bad! Do you really think Tanya and Bohdan didn’t tell the world about their American visitor? Of course they did! They probably bragged to everyone they saw. Said you invited them to your penthouse apartment in Washington, and promised to take them to dinner at the White House, and made up a hundred other lies.” Her voice rose to a wail. “Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter if there’s evidence against you. It’s just the fact that you were here! The police, the neighbors…they’ll all suspect me of working with you or taking money from you. I’ll be brought in for questioning. My name will go on a list. I’ll never be trusted again!”
I felt sick to my stomach. “I’m so sorry, Ilmira. I would do anything to make this up to you. What can I do? There must be something—”
“You can leave right now. That’s what you can do for me. Just get out of here.”
“Yes, I can do that.” I nodded in dumb obedience. I ought to go right away, before someone came in and saw me there, before the police started their questioning. I looked up, expecting to see terror and rage on Ilmira’s face. Instead, there was grief. She had trusted me, shared her secrets, and now she was more alone and burdened than before.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t want it to be this way.”
She shrugged off the apology with an icy taunt. “Where are your friends now, Natalie? Your murdering friends.”
FINDING KATARINA M. Page 16