Cruel Compassion: A dystopian thriller with a hint of romance (Insurrection Series Book 1)

by A. E. King

  “You’ve got the only wire, so pick up as much as you can.”

  I cringe. He doesn’t have a wire in case she requires more than money from him. I refuse to let that happen, even though I have no idea how to stop it.

  “We won’t leave empty-handed.” His expression is unreadable, but his promise is unmistakable. He will get this information for me no matter the cost.

  My stomach turns. This is an impossible mission. Dimitri needs to get information from Yana for my father while I attempt to get information from Sergei for the Myatezhniki, and somehow, hide it from my father. Our plan feels flimsy.

  I reach for Dima’s hand and give it an encouraging squeeze. Please let her be reasonable. An image of me sitting on a couch reading a magazine while Dima is in the bedroom with an unknown seductress makes my stomach turn. Haven’t we worked our way through other challenges? We’ll find a way through this one.

  The door to the stairwell hangs open on its hinges, and stray dogs run out as we approach. I have to hold a glove over my mouth and nose because the stench of urine and cigarette smoke is so strong.

  I walk toward the lift, and Dima points to the stairs. “That probably hasn’t worked in this century. We’ll walk.”

  At each floor, I make out the sound of voices through the thin walls. At one point, I hear something vaguely familiar.

  “Is that a television?” I ask, recalling the device I haven’t seen since childhood.

  In the darkness, I think I see triumph in Dima’s eyes. “Yes, the farther we get from Moscow, the more often you see entire buildings that didn’t upgrade to the Peredacha. New broadcasting to television is illegal. So whatever they’re watching is so old, they’ve likely seen it hundreds of times.”

  So many conversations unrecorded and unnoticed. Did these residents lobby the cheapskate owner for the new technology then but praise him for his foresight now?

  Occasionally there is a flickering yellow light. But mostly the stairwell is dark, dreary, and smelly. I’m disgusted that our people live like this.

  Four flights up, Dima squeezes my hand and says, “This is it. You can talk with her. But if by the end of the visit no information has come, I’ll have to step in.” He’s sympathetic and contrite. I nod, swallowing everything I want to say but can’t.

  Dima knocks on the door and pushes me back out of view. I hear clicks of various locks moving on the other side.

  The woman who answers is beautiful. She’s slender with dark hair, a defined jaw, and brown eyes with flecks of gold. She’s wearing a faded red dress that leaves little to the imagination, the color itself rebellious and shocking. Her hair and face have been prepared for this encounter.

  There’s something about her that is hard to put my finger on. Her eyes are not full of lust. They’re careful. I survey her face, and behind the beautiful mask, I suspect she’s had a hard life. Maybe that’s the intangible trait. She’s a survivor—someone who will protect herself no matter the cost.

  “Dimitri, I was surprised to hear from you. The last time I saw you, you were just a schenok, and now you’ve grown so powerful. The Verkhovney Gosudar must want something very important to send you back.”

  I step forward, and her sultry smile slips. She tries to recover quickly. “You didn’t mention you were bringing additional guests.”

  “Yana, this is Yulia,” Dimitri introduces us.

  “I know who she is.” Yana looks at me, eyes wide and calculating.

  “Zdrastvootye.” I size her up and she does the same, each of us deciding how to deal with the other. “So good of you to have us.” I push my way through her door. “Dimitri told me about his visit tonight and mentioned that your husband’s health was poor. I thought maybe you could use some female company,”

  “What a pleasant surprise.” Yana stands back and purses her lips, assessing us. It’s as though I can see her trying to regroup. I suspect she likes dislikes not having the upper hand.

  We remove our shoes, and each of us takes a pair of old slippers from the basket beside the door. The lights are brighter in here, but the walls are faded and the floor is so worn in places that I can see the cement underneath the old linoleum.

  “I have never been to this part of the country before,” I say, trying to think of something to get her talking. “Did you grow up here?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” There is a rasp in her voice that matches her sultry appearance. She’s probably a heavy smoker. She motions us into a cramped little kitchen.

  “Perhaps we could talk in the sitting room?” Dimitri offers. “It might be more comfortable.”

  “Sergei sleeps in there now. And he’s not well enough for visitors.” Yana raises her eyebrow, effectively ending the argument. Dimitri motions for me to go into the kitchen first.

  I take a seat at the tiny table, and Dima stands behind me. Yana sits in the other chair and holds out her hand. “Portables,” she demands, and we both hand her our portable devices. I don’t mention the tiny microphone taped to my chest. She checks to make sure both devices are off and then sets them on the windowsill. She stares at us, saying nothing.

  “I understand your husband is unwell,” I say with as much sympathy as I can muster for this woman. “That must be challenging.”

  “It’s a burden. Every girl that marries a rich old man knows it’s a possibility. She just hopes the money lasts. As you can see, it has not for me,” she says pointedly. “I hope you plan to improve our situation.” She smolders at Dima, and the look on her face makes anger boil up my chest. I won’t allow her to look at him like that.

  “I think you’ll find that I’m the one who has more to offer you tonight,” I say, bringing her eyes back to me. Her smile fades into a hard, thin line.

  “Dimitri, why are we playing games?” Yana turns her scowl from me to him.

  “I’m not playing games,” I tell her. “I’m here for information. And I’m willing to give you what you truly want.”

  “How could you possibly know what I want?” she snaps.

  “Because,” I look deep into her eyes, trying to see through the hard exterior and into the woman below. She has spent all these years keeping her husband alive. Keeping herself alive. It certainly would have been easier to leave him unprotected and start over. Just looking around her depressing apartment paints a picture. I suspect she’s not nearly as horrible as everyone thinks. I suspect she’s just desperate. “It’s what I would ask for if I were you.”

  “And what’s that?” she asks, her lips curled into a sneer.

  “An end to all of this.” I gesture to the broken-down apartment. “The struggle. The uncertainty.”

  She doesn’t respond for a moment. “That would take an exceptional amount of money. His medications alone burn through the payments I receive in a matter of months.”

  “I’m offering more than money. I’m offering security, an apartment, a nurse, and a monthly stipend.”

  Yana takes a deep breath and clasps her hands together to disguise her trembling fingers. “Of course you’re required to show me compassion. Will this count toward your charitable quota?” She scoffs.

  “No.” I hold my ground, unwilling to let her get under my skin. “I don’t offer compassion as a requirement. I offer it because that’s who my mother taught me to be. And I’m offering it to you because everyone needs a way out.”

  She X-rays me, searching for any anomaly that would disqualify me from her confidence.

  “And just like that, you expect me to trust you?” She narrows her eyes.

  “I expect nothing from you, but I would hope you could trust me.” I reach my hand across the table and rest it on hers, offering something I don’t think she has had in a long time. Empathy.

  Yana stares at my hand on hers and then sniffs and stands. “Join me in the bedroom, Yulia.”

  Chapter 31

  “No,” Dimitri growls.

  “Join me to talk. I only want to talk to you,” she implores me and I nod.

/>   I stand, placing my hands reassuringly on Dima’s chest. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “I have cameras, as I’m sure you remember,” Yana tells him. “Take one step out of this kitchen, and you can both leave with nothing.”

  We leave the dingy kitchen, hurry down the short hall, and move into the lonely bedroom. “Your father knows you’re here?” she asks.

  I nod, and she bites on her fingernail. “Well,” she says in her sultry voice. “He knows what I like, so let me test the prize before I decide what I’ll give.” She moves closer.

  I cross my arms defiantly and shake my head. She rolls her eyes at me and motions with her hand for me to play along. I shrug, having no idea what she wants me to do next.

  Yana sighs and walks around the bed to grab a hairbrush off her bedside table. She holds it to her mouth like a microphone, asking if I’m wired. I nod

  She opens her closet, revealing monitors. Dimitri is pacing in the kitchen on one screen, while a lonely old man sits slumped in a wheelchair on the other.

  Yana paces back and forth before moving close to me. “I like what I see, Yulia. I’d like to see more,” she purrs. “I’m going to give you five minutes with my husband. And then you’re going to give me everything you’ve promised, plus some.”

  She’s artful in her performance while calculating and measuring every move.

  Yana walks me across the hall and opens the door quietly, ushering me into the shabby sanctuary.

  Sergei stirs in his wheelchair by the window. His white hair is long and stringy, his whiskers need trimming, and he wears a threadbare green sweater. The color makes me smile. These people refuse to conform within their home. I wonder if others do the same. Sergei raises his head and starts to mumble about his neighbors stealing his keys.

  I walk over to him. “Hello,” I say in a gentle voice.

  He gazes at me with an empty look in his eyes. “Dyevushka, do you have my keys? They’re always getting stolen. It’s the neighbors. I need to find them.” He scoots to the front of his chair as though preparing to stand. I don’t know if he’s capable, and I don’t want him to fall.

  “Here, let me help you.” I lay my hand on his shoulder. “Maybe we can find your keys together.”

  He seems less agitated at the mention of my help. He places his hand over mine and pats it. “Yelena, it’s been too long since you came to visit your uncle,” he chides me. “But I understand. This war is a nasty business . . .“ I freeze at the mention of my mother’s name along with the word uncle and look back at Yana. She pinches her lips together, her eyes glossing over.

  I study Sergei’s face. I never had the opportunity to see my mother grow old. Do any of her features echo in this man, who is at least two decades her elder? The Myatezhniki sent me to him, not to Yana. There must be a reason.

  “How are the children?” Sergei asks. “I see them in the papers, and it stabs my heart that my family is so broken up. We’ve paid a high price to fight this oppression.”

  He must be talking about Sasha and me. What other kids are in the papers regularly?

  He looks around the room as though losing his train of thought, unaware that we’re the only two surviving members of his family. I’d thought I was the only one. The Myatezhniki must have known about our familial relationship when they sent me, and a hot rage rises in my chest at the cruel situation they’ve placed me in. Do they expect me to push this discovery aside as if Sergei is some random old man? I look to Yana for guidance, but she’s clearly lost in her own torment. I focus, knowing I must obtain the intelligence to secure my entry.

  I turn my uncle’s chair to face me and kneel down in front of him.

  “I’m sorry for not coming sooner,” I say gently. “This war makes such visits dangerous for both of us.”

  “I don’t know why we call it a war. More like a takeover. The west helped criminals overthrow the old regime, and then the new regime turned on them.” He begins to laugh. “Serves them right.”

  I’m sure he could visit all day—this poor lonely old man. But I have minutes to get this critical information.

  “Uncle, is there anything you want to tell me? About your work?”

  He wags his finger at me as though I’m playing a joke on him. “You shouldn’t ask about that. You married the criminal. If he finds out who you really are . . . I worry about you.”

  His face is grim, worry etched deep into the lines of his brow. He and my mother must have shared a strong bond.

  This man holds so many answers. Everyone wants his information, but what about my answers? I desperately need to understand my mother, and here is a man who holds stories of her life.

  I wrestle with the fear of what my father will do to Sergei if I succeed at drawing out information about the bombs. What is his life worth once he has revealed his greatest secret? If I don’t succeed, I’ll never make it to the Myatezhniki, and I’ll be in danger from my father.

  This is a terrible decision, and I understand more clearly the impossible position Dimitri has found himself in time and time again. Situations where the only options are fraught. How do I balance right and wrong when every solution carries such heavy consequences?

  This choice is already made for me, since my father will hear these recordings. If he didn’t know that my mother and Sergei were related, he will by the next time I see him. I wish I could walk away, erase everything that led me here, and find another path. But how far back would I have to delete? I was set upon this path at birth, and I fear I would end up here just the same no matter how many choices I made differently. My only option now is to press on and do my best to shelter Sergei from the fallout.

  “Uncle.” I squeeze his hand softly, trying to capture his attention. “Tell me about your work. You were such a brilliant scientist. Did you build anything that could help us now?”

  “You want to know my secrets?” He looks around the room, trying to remember something important. And then he looks at me. “Is it time for the bombs?”

  My heart rate accelerates. “What bombs, Uncle?”

  “Bombs powerful enough to take out an entire city, with radiation that won’t spread beyond the blast zone. I made them to last as long as it takes.”

  “As long as it takes for what, Uncle?”

  Even in his dementia, he takes care with his information, providing only simple, vague answers. His secrecy is instinctive. I need to make him believe we have a mission.

  “Where are they, Uncle? I think we’re ready for them. They could save the nation if we have enough to beat our enemies.”

  “Not to worry. We have just enough.”

  “Enough for what?” I ask him.

  “He’s a bad man, that husband of yours. You should never have taken the assignment to marry him. He kills everyone.” His face falls.

  “He killed you. He killed you.” Sergei begins to tremble as he remembers. I try to comfort him, but when I move closer he yells.

  “Don’t touch me, or I’ll be dead tomorrow. Don’t touch me. I don’t know anything.” He’s frantic and shaking in fear.

  I try to calm him, “Shh, Uncle. It’s okay. No one is hurting you.”

  Yana rushes over and kneels down next to him gently. “Sergei,” she says with a kind smile. “I saw a new bird today that I’ve never seen before. And I thought, ‘Sergei would love to see this bird.’”

  Sergei is still shaking and breathing hard. His eyes dart all around the room, and Yana turns his chair back to the window.

  “Maybe we’ll see a Siberian Nuthatch,” he says, his voice more feeble and his mind more distant.

  “That sounds lovely, darling,” Yana coos at him and straightens his lap blanket.

  She points to the hall, and we exit silently. Dimitri is waiting for us. She gives him a coy smile. “My house, my rules, Dimitri. Yulia and I aren’t quite done yet.” She directs him back into the kitchen.

  Dima asks me a thousand questions in a single glance, none of which I know how to answ
er. Nothing is clicking into place. Every word Sergei uttered creates new questions. I shrug at Dima, too aghast to give him anything else, and follow Yana back into the cramped bedroom.

  “Now that you have half of his greatest secret, I think I’d like to see a little more of you,” Yana coos and holds her fist like it’s a microphone. I point to my chest where the wire is hidden.

  “Tsk, tsk.” She reaches down and pulls out the microphone. “Everyone knows I’m the only one to record in this room. Besides, if you actually want to know where the bombs are, I’m sure you can offer me a little fun first. Prove your loyalty, and then we’ll talk about how and when I’ll give you locations. I fully expect you to uphold your end of the bargain. Poverty has lost its appeal.”

  Yana turns off the microphone and hustles to her bedside, pulling out a suitcase. “How close are the nearest operatives?” she asks urgently.

  “I don’t know. We came alone.”

  “This is what’s going to happen.” The case is already full, but she adds a few items to it: her hairbrush and a picture of her and Sergei smiling on a beach many years ago. “I’m leaving. Give me at least twenty minutes. Get whatever you want from him, but swear to me on your mother’s life that you won’t cause him any pain.”

  “I won’t. I swear. Where are you going?” I’m trying to keep up.

  “He’s near the end. And once he’s gone, there will be nothing to protect me. Not even your charity. So I’ll disappear, and you can run back to your papa with whatever story you need to tell. But remember this, Yulia. He spent his life trying to keep this information from your father. He loved your mother more than anything or anyone in this world. And if you have any loyalty to her, you’ll take his secrets to your grave.”

  “I’m not here to get information for my father,” I tell her.

  “I don’t care why you came. He’s been asking for your mother daily. He knows he’s at the end. Give him a good ending.” She pulls her coat on.