“Maya—”
Yezhov cut himself off, realizing what room this was and what havoc a disturbance would cause. Flanked by the two junior officers, he stood absolutely motionless, staring at the bats and at Nick, Elizaveta, and Mayakovsky.
By the light of the torch, Nick could now see the room. All around—in every corner, every niche, every crevice, and all across the ceiling—were brown, hanging bats. So thick were they that their furry bodies appeared as one giant hide stuck pulsating to the cavern's walls and roof.
The bats became aware of a foreign presence and, aroused from their sleep, became disturbed. Hanging upside down by their claws, the bats began to roll their heads, their eyes glittering in the light. Huge pointed ears poked outward and leathery wings unwrapped and twitched nervously. Their anger growing at the intruders, one of the bats squealed a sad cry. Another answered. The ceiling began to move in waves like the sea. The walls began to throb with angry life. One of the bats let loose its hold. It took flight in a screaming frenzy. Another followed. Like flying, shrieking gargoyles, they flapped madly about the cavern.
Screaming to Elizaveta, Mayakovsky broke the stand-off: “Block the opening?”
At the same instant, his hand in his robe, he shot from his pocket without removing the gun. Startled as much by the bats as by the gunshot, Yezhov's eyes opened in paralyzed terror. The bullet struck him crudely in the shoulder. He fell to the side, one of the men grabbing the torch from him. Mayakovsky fired again. This time the bullet struck its target in the neck and Yezhov collapsed.
The roof dropped before another shot could be fired, and the mass of furious bats fell and took flight in a screaming rage. Diving, spinning, the blinding blizzard of bats filled the cavern so densely that it was impossible to see. A deathly scream from Yezhov pierced the atmosphere.
Around him, on top of him, Nick sensed the bats. He ducked, covered his head, and then felt his guano-covered feet slipping out from under him. Mayakovsky was gone, having disappeared somewhere in the black cloud of flying creatures. Barring the entry, Elizaveta stood like a martyr, her arms flung outward. Like bees around honey, bats swarmed to her, trying desperately to get out their usual exit.
Then, in a great swell, the bats located the other entry. The message spread and all at once, rising and surging, tens of thousands of bats dove toward it. Above the deafening roar the two junior officers screamed as their tunnel filled like a flooded sewer with bats. Caught in the deluge, they could not run fast enough and were washed away as the entire nesting room funneled out the opening, over Yezhov's body, and into the caves of Kiev.
Nick raised his head. In the blackness above him he could hear the last of the bats beating their wings. A sullen cry broke from one side of the room, answered by another. Nick guessed there to be no more than two dozen left in the entire chamber.
There was a squeak just to his right and before he could duck something fuzzy skimmed the left side of his face. He jerked his hand up, but it was already gone.
He felt a swoosh of cool air on the back of his neck, slapped into the darkness, and struck nothing. Then he sensed a handful of bats diving and swooping disturbingly close. He threw his head down and covered himself with his hands. The air rose and fell. Something sharp scraped his knuckles.
Then it was over. He heard the last of the bats flutter off to the left, out the opening, and into the caves beyond. The bats were gone and Nick lifted his head. Though reassuring silence surrounded him, he could see nothing. He dared not move for fear of falling.
“Elizaveta!” called Nick. “Mayakovsky!” They had to be here, had to be somewhere in the room.
There was a deep cough from below. “Yes…” came Mayakovsky's choked response.
The old woman did not respond.
“Elizaveta?” shouted Nick into the black void.
At first there was nothing. Then, a feeble voice. “I… I—”
“Where are you?” demanded Nick.
“Here… here,” she managed to say. “I'm… fine.”
Nick quickly took a match from his pocket and lit it, the small flame a bright yellow. He groped for the candle, and when that was burning, the nesting chamber filled with a soft light. Above him, cradled in the opening, was Elizaveta. Taking several deep breaths, she had her hand on her chest and struggled to sit up.
“Oi…” she said painfully. But then a smile of relief emerged on her pudgy face. “The men… they're gone.”
Below Nick, Mayakovsky stood and wiped the mire from his long, black cassock. Clearing his throat, he coughed deep and hard. Across the room he spotted Yezhov's body, several bats hovering about.
A faint grin emerging on his face, he looked up at Nick and smiled. “Are you all right?”
The candle in one hand, Nick picked up the carry-on bag with the other, and came to his feet. He brushed off his Soviet-bloc clothing and sighed.
“Me?” said Nick, more calm than he would have thought possible. “I'm okay, but I've got a plane to catch.”
XXXIV
Vienna's airport sparkled.
It shimmered with color. Not to be found were the faded yellows of old tsarist buildings or the deep reds of the Revolutionary banners, but glistening blues, greens, pinks, oranges, and endless hues in between. Even purely functional benches jumped with life and vibrancy.
Diversity. There were different colored people, too: Europeans with rosy, white skin; blacks with rich, dark skin; and Asians representing every Oriental country. And like the people who wore it, clothing came in every shade and shape imaginable. Short skirts, long skirts, plaids, checks, light business suits, white pants, silk ties. But very few kerchiefs. Some of the people roared with laughter, others cried. Still others talked so loudly that their conversations could be totally overheard. Yet they didn't care, it didn't matter if others knew what they both said and thought.
The airport was filled with stores, tiny and large.
Spotlights beamed down on such varied merchandise that it would have taken days just to look at every item. The store clerks were polite and friendly, too; they didn't shout, they didn't bite. And there were food stands, cafes, and restaurants dotting the halls, the aroma of their delicacies—meats and fresh fruits and fresh vegetables—pleasantly scenting the air. The people that served the food did not wear white hats and white robes, nor was the service rude and slow.
Wearing the dark Polish suit and the reddish shoes from Moscow's Lenin Shoe and Boot Factory, Nick sat in a white room so neat and clean that he knew beyond a doubt that he was in Austria. Seated in a padded chair with chrome legs, he felt out of place, rather like a Russian at the exhibit. On his lap was the carry-on bag. In the bag were the documents. Nick nervously played with the carry-on's zipper, twiddling it in his fingers, anxiously pulling it back and forth.
At the large desk in front of Nick was a neatly uniformed Austrian customs official, his suit coat and pants navy blue, his freshly laundered shirt a perfect white, his dark hair and well-trimmed mustache speckled handsomely with gray. The man's hands were soft and white, and he sat meticulously thumbing through Nick's Soviet passport. Perplexed by the whole affair, the Austrian was not certain what to do with Nick.
Ripping the bag's zipper open in a nervous twitch, Nick said, “Really, I'm not a Soviet citizen.”
“Oh?” The very formal official was quite cautious. “But all your papers here are in order. There doesn't seem to be any problem. If you're not Soviet, then may I ask just what country do you belong to?”
“The United States.” Nick was thrilled that the Austrian treated him so indifferently and that there was no special treatment for foreigners. “I guarantee you, I'm as American as…as Levis jeans.” Nick couldn't restrain a ridiculous grin.
The official failed to see the humor. “Oh, really, is that a fact?” He obviously doubted Nick. “Is…is there perhaps something else?” he said, courteously.
Nick laughed out loud. “No, honestly, there isn't. I'm not defecting. I swe
ar on Lenin's mausoleum that I am not defecting. Look,” he said, opening his mouth. “This is American dental work. No gold. Believe me, I'm not Sov. Just call the American embassy. They'll know all about me.” He searched the room. “If you've got a newspaper besides Pravda there's probably an article in it about me.”
The Austrian was not impressed with Nick's behavior. He returned to the Soviet passport, examining each page with great care. When he had gone through it thoroughly, he examined the cover. Then he took a silver pen from his coat pocket and, in small, neat writing, recorded the passport's number.
The official raised his head. “If your name is not Vadim Berzinch and you are not from the Soviet city of Minsk, then just what is your name?”
“Nick Miller,” he said, emphatically. “I promise I'm Nick Miller. Please, just call the U.S. Embassy. They'll know me. They'll claim me.”
The man groomed his mustache with his little finger. From his desk he took a sheet encased in plastic and, running his eyes down the list, found the number.
He picked up the phone, saying, “You'd better hope they claim you, otherwise… otherwise we may have to put you on the next jet back to Moscow.”
Nick's body began to quiver. He tried to stifle it. He bit his lip, covered his mouth. But he couldn't hold back. Nick bent over, his head touching his knees, and the laughter burst out of him. He laughed until he cried, tears coming to his eyes and dropping onto his Soviet-bloc clothes. He laughed and cried with joy and relief. Mayakovsky and Elizaveta had fled and were now hiding somewhere in the caves of Kiev. Olga. Olga was dead. But at least he still had the memory of her. That part lived and would live, and that would have to be enough. He had the documents with him, too, right in the silly carry-on bag. Christ, he'd made it out of the Soviet Union, papers and all. And after he'd explained to American officials what had happened and how he'd gotten out of the U.S.S.R., he'd get things underway. Yes, he'd make certain the documents got to the right place and got the proper coverage in the media. He'd make certain even if it took years.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
R.D. Zimmerman is the Lambda Award-winning and Edgar-nominated author of numerous mysteries. He has studied, worked, and traveled extensively in Russia. Under the pen name of Robert Alexander, he is the author of The New York Times bestseller, The Kitchen Boy, and other novels, including his latest, When Dad Came Back As My Dog. For more info: www.robertalexanderbooks.com
Other Books
Title Page Copyright Page
Dedication
The Cross and the Sickle Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
About the Author
The Cross and The Sickle Page 27