The Thin Wall: A POW/MIA Truth Novel

by R. Cyril West

“She is at the spa in Romania.”

  “Ah, the spa is a relaxing place this time of year . . .” Dal pulled off his gloves, finger by finger. “May she be blessed with good health. To this day she is the loveliest woman I have ever seen in a wedding gown. Now then, Andres, let’s stop pretending we like each other. We have business to discuss. I have a busy schedule to keep.” He nodded at Gurko to proceed.

  Stepping forward, the stocky sergeant placed the duffel bag on the table and unzipped it, revealing forty bricks of heroin. “Direct from Turkey,” Gurko said. “Made by the hardworking peasants of the Afyon-Karahisar Province.”

  “We have kept our part of the arrangement,” Dal injected, lighting a cigarette. “With more drugs to come. How about you?”

  Lugosi reached into the briefcase, pulled out a brown manila folder, and dropped the file onto the table. “As promised, here are the documents──also known as the Devil Dog dossier.”

  The KGB had been in pursuit of the sensitive documents for nearly two years. The CIA, too. The paper trail was proof that a grave injustice had been committed against the Americans. The pages, nearly two-hundred of them, identified nine United States Marines who had been captured in Vietnam, and detailed how they were interrogated by Soviet GRU agents, and then smuggled out of Indochina. The Kremlin, of course, denied accusations from U.S. senators that the Soviets were embedded with the Viet Cong, sending them weapons, helping them detain prisoners, conducting interrogations. They are lies, the Soviet foreign minister told the press. We are not involved in the American conflict.

  Only a handful in Moscow knew the truth: that the POW’s had been secretly extracted from North Vietnam, taken to an airport in Laos, flown to Prague, and ultimately sent to Siberia via the railroad. The files identified everyone who had been involved in the scandal since June 1966, when the first Marine was captured. The dossier should have been destroyed long ago, but the carelessness of the progressive Czechoslovak Communist Party and its blatant defiance of Premier Brezhnev ensured their existence in a Prague vault, where secrets thrived.

  “Recovering the dossier is impressive work,” Dal said with harsh eyes. He flipped through the pages of information on the POWs: names, ranks, abduction dates, internment areas. All shamelessly documented with official government seals and signatures.

  Lugosi said, “The documents show that the Devil Dog Marines were sent to labor camps, where Soviet Army doctors performed mind control experiments on them.”

  “Research,” Dal corrected him. “Scientific investigation in the name of the people. For the good of all.”

  “The people? No. This is a serious violation of the Geneva Convention. Maybe I should’ve demanded more than a bag full of schmeck.”

  Lugosi’s cocky attitude annoyed Dal. “Speaking of which, where is he? Where is the American POW? There is no deal without him.”

  “Relax, comrade.” Lugosi snapped his fingers. “We negotiated for his release in the nick of time. Moments before your army crossed the border.”

  A minute later, a guard escorted a shirtless carrot top in fatigue trousers into the pool room. The Marine──Dal knew his name was Russell Edward Johnston, from Houston──had a scraggly beard and his ribs protruded grotesquely from his skin. Memories of the Holocaust returned to Dal’s mind; the American’s skeletal condition reminded him of the Jews he had helped to liberate in Terezín.

  “And yet, you have abused him,” Dal said with disappointment, looking at the POW’s black eye and the cigarette burns on his arm. “Considering everything he has been through in recent months, why?”

  “Entertainment.” Lugosi grinned. “Hollywood style. You know, like in the American movies. John Wayne. Steve McQueen. Humphrey Bogart. My party guests had never seen a man beaten in real life. Hell, he is only a Yankee. Do you want the bastard or not?”

  Dal was furious. Then again, what did he expect from the foolhardy Lugosi? “The Kremlin will be pleased by your effort,” he lied, biting his lip.

  Eight of the nine Marines were officially accounted for. Their bodies had been disposed of in unmarked graves across Siberia. Only Gunnery Sergeant Johnston remained alive. He was the last of the cohort, living proof of the abductions. After a final scan, Dal handed the dossier to Gurko.

  “I have read the dossier,” Lugosi said. “It’s damming evidence.”

  “Oh?”

  “Johnston was captured last year in Vietnam.”

  “Tell me. What do you know?”

  “Like many American prisoners, the Viet Cong kept him in a bamboo cage, moving him from camp to camp, hiding him from his rescuers. Then came you Soviets. The interrogations. The long trip by foot to Laos. After he arrived in Prague, with orders to send him to Moscow, the army instead imprisoned him in the D Complex south of the city.”

  “Impressive. You have done your homework.”

  “International kidnapping is big money these days. United States Marines demand top dollar. Where can I get more?”

  “I have no idea,” Dal said, annoyed with Lugosi’s sarcasm. “I am only the KGB bone collector. What do I know of kidnappings?”

  In fact, Dal knew that thousands of American servicemen were taken from German prisoner-of-war camps after World War II and sent to the Soviet Union. Many of them with Russian, Ukrainian, and Jewish names were still alive in the Gulags. There were also military personnel captured from Korea. But none of this was any of Lugosi’s business.

  A guard moved near Gurko and peeked at the heroin inside the duffel bag before pacing along the pool.

  Lugosi said, “You should be careful in Moravia. The secret police have been asking questions. Once you leave the château, I consider our business done. I won’t bail you out of any trouble.”

  Dal’s eyebrows shot up. “I am in a very dangerous profession, comrade. Heartbreaking, at times. Four of my closest colleagues have been assassinated in recent years. They were seasoned veterans. And all of them good family men. It was unfortunate for their careers to have ended so tragically. Anyway, I assure you, we will be careful to avoid the secret police.” Dal looked directly into Lugosi’s eyes. “Careful even in our dealings with a miniscule crime boss like you.” As though reaching coolly in his jacket for a cigarette, he pulled the Makarov pistol from the holster and pumped a bullet into Lugosi’s heart. It had been years since he killed and was amazed at how easy it was to pull the trigger. But firing at close range made the job messy and blood splattered on his hand, staining his wedding ring.

  . . . the next moments were a blur.

  A guard near the door fumbled with his handgun when the Ukrainian soldiers stormed inside the pool room. The rapid gunfire caught the daydreaming thugs by surprise and the soldiers gunned them down in a matter of seconds. Their bodies were thrown into the pool, along with the Silesian groundskeeper, who had been forced to his knees and shot execution style.

  “Put the American POW in the troop carrier,” Dal said. “We must leave. This place will soon be swarming with the police and with government investigators. Nevertheless I need ten minutes. I must snap some photos of the rose garden. I have spoken fondly of the flowers over the years. It will make my wife happy to see how they have flourished.”

  By 1:00 p.m., Lugosi’s assassination was little more than a footnote in Moravian history. They were on the highway, heading west. Dal had paid a heavy bribe to the local police chief, asking for time, time to make the kill, time to disappear before the police cars showed up. He glanced out the window as they drove through a town, and then worked diligently to pick the specks of dried blood from beneath his fingernails.

  Yet even with the day’s success and with the clean getaway, he felt troubled. The groundskeeper’s execution, he thought with a pang of regret. Had it been necessary? His wife would disapprove. Violence turned her stomach. It was why he kept secrets from the woman. But the groundskeeper’s death was inescapable. He had witnessed the shootings; he had overheard the conversation concerning the POW; and he would have reported on
them.

  Dal embraced his decision to terminate the man. He learned long ago that masking his emotions only led to pent-up grief, which ultimately opened the door to hesitation and second-guessing──both toxins of his profession. Unlike most of his colleagues at the Lubyanka, he never pretended that killing innocent civilians was an acceptable practice; rather, it was a necessary evil, a harsh reality of his dangerous line of work. He believed it was important to distinguish the difference between acceptable and necessary. One word was a term used by savages, the other by professionals. He grieved inwardly, and within the hour had moved on, never thinking of the groundskeeper’s death again.

  Poor Czechoslovakia.

  It had been a day of national tragedy. At last report, over 100,000 foreign soldiers occupied the country, with more troops pouring in. At least very few Czechs had been killed, Ayna thought, remaining hopeful for a peaceful outcome. She slipped off her clogs and put them in the bedroom closet. Most of the townspeople in Mersk were glued to their radios. A few, like Evzen, leaned out the window every half-hour and shouted to people on the street, “The hospital in Frantisek reports four dead today” and “The Academy of Sciences is occupied.”

  While her mother and Jiri slept, Ayna picked up a transistor radio from the dresser and tuned the dial, searching for her favorite music station. She needed music. Music would calm her down. During the day, she listened mostly to rock & roll, to Czech bands, and sometimes to British bands. She loved feeling the steady bang of drums, and electric guitars, and voices shouting out against oppression. The energetic pulse of a rock band was thrilling and often freed her mind from undue stress. At night, however, before going to sleep, she preferred the soothing sounds of classical music. The classics touched her soul.

  But where was the music tonight?

  Gone. Just like that . . . gone! She only found news on the radio. Grim. Depressing. Awful news. The music had been stolen from the people with the rage of a Russian grenade. An angry DJ was yelling into a microphone, more protests in the cities, more shootings on the streets, more arrests in the government halls.

  She switched off the radio and buried it in a drawer.

  She shuddered. Reports of students clashing with soldiers in Prague ushered back memories of her grade school years. That time long ago when she had fallen asleep with a wad of chewing gum in her mouth, only to wake up in horror and discover her bangs were in a sticky mess. Rather than using olive oil to thin away the gum, her mother grabbed scissors and simply lopped off the bangs.

  Then came the taunting. You look like a boy, and You’re the ugliest girl in Mersk, and Gypsy.

  Even at twenty-eight-years-old, it was impossible to escape the cruel voices of her childhood, the years of political indoctrination when she pretended to read and love Karl Marx. The blonde schoolgirls had ridiculed her for many things: her Muslim roots, her Asian-looking black hair, her Persian-looking thick eyebrows.

  Ayna stood at the bedroom mirror and undid her ponytail, letting the hair fall over her face. What has happened to you? She leaned into her pale reflection. Her eyes were puffy and when she looked again, she saw dark rings. After going into the bathroom and washing her face with a warm washcloth, she felt a little better.

  Nearly 24 hours had elapsed since the midnight invasion and she was unable to pull herself together. She let out a breath. Her grief ran deep, beyond the threat of Russian tanks or fearing for Jiri’s safety. It was also the house. Its stillness. The subtle creaking of wood that reminded her how she longed for something more, something always out of reach. In fact her life felt incomplete. She was lonely in the hilly countryside. More than anything, she wanted to be around modern people. People who went to trendy cafés and appreciated the arts. People who read literature that did not glorify the socialist state.

  Was it asking too much?

  Probably.

  She owned five Italian marionettes: a king, a queen, a court jester, and two peasants. The wooden characters had been crafted in the 18th century by an artist in Milan. They were a gift from her grandfather, the famed Bohemian manipulator who had built the local marionette theatre during his lifetime. If she sold them, she could afford a few months in Prague. Until the invasion put things on hold, she had been planning to do just that, taking Jiri to bunk with a friend who lived near the opera house. No one in particular would care if she left town.

  She heard an outcry on the street and went to the open window. Several men were stumbling from the café, the cheapest place to buy a beer on a Tuesday night. They were arguing again, unable to decide who was worse, the Germans or the Russians? It was the angriest they had sounded since the Warsaw Pact tanks crossed the border.

  “Keep quiet,” she hollered. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”

  “Join us,” the jeweler shouted back. “Brothers. Sisters. Join us. This protest is for our freedom.”

  The men were mad at the local communists for raising their taxes. They were irate at the politicians in Prague for collectivizing the farms. They called the generals cowards for hiding in the barracks. Eventually a scuffle broke out and someone tossed a chair through the café’s window.

  “Now you’ve done it,” she said. The commotion prompted lights to turn on inside homes along the street. “You’ve woken up the entire village.”

  Faces gazed up to her bedroom window with hungry eyes, undressing her for god knows what, the millionth time?

  “We’re raising an army,” the butcher said. “We’re going to fight the Russians.”

  The banker shook his finger. “You should be protesting, young woman, not sleeping. How can you close your eyes at a time like this?”

  The men stood arm in arm, many of them disenchanted communists, ashamed they had been duped by the false promises of the 1950s, shouting, “Death to the Soviets” and “Long live Czechoslovakia.”

  She paused, considering the invitation to join them, the absurdity of it all. Their courageous words were meaningless. Love for country? They meant well, but were drunk to the reality: the Russians had machine guns, the people had pitchforks.

  Ayna slipped on a sleeping gown and climbed into bed. She pulled a patchwork blanket over her shoulders and rested her head on the pillow. Close your eyes and forget the hatred. You’re safe here. The bedroom was her sanctuary: grandmother’s rocking chair, the feather pillows, the Italian marionettes, a prized Rogeri cello, the sheet music scattered across the floor.

  She was imagining her fingers on the long neck of her cello, working the First String Quartet From My Life, when she dreamed of the handsome face of her ex-fiancé Peter Lanik. Peter had been a paratrooper in the army. His rebellious panache and love for the arts always lit up her face. Once, she had been told, he defied the army sergeants by jumping from an airplane while reading poetry and drinking wine from a canteen. He got ninety days in a military prison for that. His sudden death in a car accident last year had sent her into a tailspin.

  She rolled into the pillow and closed her eyes. She pictured dancing with Peter in a grassy field and imagined romantic music, The Swan Lake Ballet. She missed him.

  Before falling asleep, with the last of the patriotic drunks fading into the shadow of the night, a solitary voice cried out, “If the Russians come to Mersk, we will kill them.”

  The GAZ truck weaved in and out of traffic, slowing for a disabled tank and the congestion near Stranecka Zhor. “How many have you assassinated?” Gurko asked, steering in the rain.

  “With the death of Andres Lugosi,” Dal replied after some reflection, “three.”

  “Three? I might’ve guessed many, many more.”

  “I have never had much need for killing.” Dal gazed blankly out the passenger window. A whirl of smoke blasted from the tank’s engine. “Of course, the body count was high during the Great Patriotic War. Since then, I have been content with letting other men pull the trigger. How about you?”

  “In the army’s interrogation unit, I must admit to dozens,” Gurko confessed,
acne scars stretching across his grinning face. “Dozens killed.”

  “May your ghosts haunt you. I, on the other hand, have a clear conscience.”

  Gurko snorted. “You have received the Gold Star for an act of heroism at Stalingrad . . . the Order of Aleksandr Nevskiy for courage in defense of the Motherland . . . yet you downplay your achievements and choose to play the part of the commonplace man.”

  “It’s true,” Dal said. “Had things turned out differently for me, I could have lived my life as a peasant farmer. Perfectly content with my role in society.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Bah.” Dal dismissed the sergeant’s comments with a wave of his hand. “Drive, comrade. You make me nervous when your eyes are not on the road.”

  Now that he had recovered the Devil Dog dossier, Dal planned to protect it for a minimum of four weeks──long enough for a purge at the Lubyanka and for agents to eliminate those closest to the heart of the crime. Until the dossier could be returned to Moscow, the documents were safe in his possession.

  “The KGB has a remarkable fascination with safeguarding some of its most outlandish secrets,” Dal said. “For example, did you know we have Hitler’s teeth stored away in a concrete vault?”

  “His teeth?”

  “And part of his skull where the bullet pierced. It’s true. I have seen the Führer’s charred remains in person. They were found outside his command bunker, along with Eva Braun’s, then quietly flown to Moscow.”

  “I have heard this rumor.”

  “It’s no rumor.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Ah, we KGB romantics hold onto our accomplishments as though they are sacred trophies, so we can boast amongst our comrades, ‘Look, here is more proof of Soviet superiority.’”

  “You question our superiority?”

  “No. I am only making conversation, comrade.”

  “Good. You had me concerned for a moment.”

  Dal knew how KGB egos worked. Devil Dog would become a showpiece. A privileged few would flaunt the documents as proof of what the Soviet Union was capable of accomplishing against the imperialists. He dismissed this type of bravado. Once he handed the dossier over to agents in Prague, it would cease to be of any interest to him.