Zrada

by Lance Charnes

  “Where did you meet Colonel Rogozhkin?”

  “Outside Starobesheve. I shot Stas—Stepaniak’s goon—and Rogozhkin and his people grabbed me. I didn’t get much choice about helping them.”

  Mashkov prods her through a step-by-step recitation of everything she did from the massacre at the chicken factory to the moment she killed Stepaniak. She tells it straight. Lying gets her nowhere, and she’s in no condition to keep track of lies anyway.

  Carson rolls out her neck and shoulders, blinking away the stars creeping into her vision. “Look. All I want is the pictures. The money can go wherever. But the pictures go to Bonn with me or there’s gonna be a problem.”

  “I believe we’ve seen what you mean by a ‘problem.’” He flashes a grim smile. “We confiscated the Cranach from the room where we found you. Where is the icon?”

  “I had it. If you don’t have it now, then Rogozhkin does.”

  “He also has half of our money.”

  “Welcome to my world. It’s been going this way since Wednesday.” She scowls. “What’s going on between you two? Thought you were on the same side.”

  He hesitates, clearly sorting out what to tell her. “Not all our Russian brothers have our best interests at heart.”

  “No shit? I could’ve told you that.”

  Mashkov gives her a hard look. “Lieutenant, I need to have a private conversation with Miss Tarasenko.”

  Dunya says, “You know I can keep secrets, sir.”

  Carson thumbs toward Dunya. “She gave me a pelvic exam. I don’t have many secrets with her anymore.”

  Mashkov winces, then composes himself. “As you wish. Have you any idea where Colonel Rogozhkin is now?”

  “No. Thought Rogozhkin was coming back here. Since you’re asking, I guess he didn’t.”

  “He hasn’t. We lost contact with him yesterday.”

  “Around the time you shot the Russians?”

  Mashkov’s cheeks warm a few degrees. “You’re well informed.” He aims a scolding eyebrow at Dunya.

  Carson says, “You have a history of that. Shooting prisoners. Like at Ilovaisk?”

  Mashkov snaps, “I wasn’t commander then.” His ears turn pale red. “The situation here is very…fluid just now. Yes, we’ve broken with our Russian minders. That means we’ve also broken with their supplies and funds. We need the money Rogozhkin has to make up the troops’ back pay and to fill our petrol storage before we begin an operation next week. You say you’re anxious to recover the icon and return to the West. This makes me think we have a certain…shall we say, commonality of interests. Would you agree?”

  For once, Carson thinks about her answer before she says a word. Moving anything through the sludge in her head is like walking through Jell-O.

  Mashkov’s right: she has unfinished business with Rogozhkin. But saying that will lead to Mashkov asking her to get the money from the Russian, something she’s not so keen to do. “You know he’s got ten spetsnaz operators with him, right?”

  “I’m aware of that. I believe there are nine, now.”

  “Losing one will piss him off.” Carson turns toward Dunya. “How many in the brigade?”

  “One thousand one hundred eighty-six, not counting prisoners and patients.”

  “Let’s see…” Carson taps her lips with an index finger. “Twelve hundred of you against ten of them. That’s almost a fair fight.”

  Mashkov’s face turns stony. “Your point?”

  “If you take him on—seriously do it, not just trip over him like last night—prepare to lose a lot of troops. I’ve seen what ex-spetsnaz can do. I can imagine what the real deal can do with an army behind them.”

  “Your point?”

  “He’ll maybe give me the icon. I did him a solid by killing Stepaniak. But he won’t give up the money unless he feels like it. What can you offer him?”

  Dunya raises a hand. “Since I’m here… Lisa shouldn’t be going anywhere. She was beaten. She has a concussion. She needs to recover before she goes running around out there.”

  Lisa? Oh, yeah, that’s me. “What’ll you give Rogozhkin if he hands over the money?”

  Mashkov crosses his arms and rocks in the chair. “I have Rogozhkin’s starshina, a man named Yartsev. He’s in hospital in Amvrosiivka with two bullet wounds. The lieutenant tells me that he’ll survive. I know how I feel about my senior sergeant and I expect Colonel Rogozhkin feels the same about his. The question is whether this Yartsev is worth a million euros to him.”

  Good play. Hostages usually get people’s attention. But it’s never a good idea to expect sentimentality in a special operator of any kind. Rogozhkin doesn’t strike Carson as someone who’ll trade away a big advantage for a small return. Mashkov may know something about Rogozhkin that she doesn’t.

  “Miss Tarasenko.” Mashkov leaves the chair and paces toward the now-useless sink. “If I set you free, won’t you go directly to Rogozhkin to collect the icon?”

  “I would if I knew where he is. Which I don’t.”

  “He may know where you are.”

  “How?”

  Mashkov leans back against the sink and faces Carson again. “According to what you told me, he seems to be able to find you.”

  “The first time was about an explosion. Then he followed me from Starobesheve to Byryuky.”

  “Was he always in visual range?”

  “Well, his guys…”

  “Are you certain?”

  Maybe it’s the headache or the pain pills, but Carson’s confused. “What are you saying?”

  Mashkov lets a satisfied smile spread across his mouth. “I have reason to think he can follow you. I won’t go into more detail. If you leave, I expect he can find you again.”

  That sounds like Mashkov thinks Rogozhkin has a tracker on her. But how would he have managed that? Yeah, he stood real close to her before she and Galina went to the farm, but she’d have noticed if he’d planted something…wouldn’t she? “Did you find something in my clothes?”

  “Perhaps.” Mashkov considers her for a while, though Carson’s not sure he’s actually seeing her. Finally, he nods once. “I propose this: I release you and provide a vehicle. You drive toward Mospyne.”

  “It’s not safe for her to drive.” Dunya leans toward Mashkov while pointing at Carson. “She gets dizzy. It’s a symptom of concussion. If that happens while she’s driving—”

  “Yes, Lieutenant, I understand.” Mashkov waves her off. “I would be very surprised if Colonel Rogozhkin doesn’t come to you, either to pay his debt or to get intelligence about what’s happening here. You relay my offer—the money for Yartsev.”

  “So I’m delivering a message?”

  “Yes.”

  Carson braces her palms on the tabletop so she can stretch her back and buy some thinking time. This scheme gets her close to the icon—assuming Rogozhkin comes out of whatever hole he went into—and all she has to do is pass on Mashkov’s demand before she takes the painting and icon and makes a run for the contact line. It could end this gong show real fast.

  It’s too easy.

  She glances at Dunya—watching Carson with the expression of a worried mother—then focuses on Mashkov. “Let’s see if I got this straight. You give me the picture and let me go. I let Rogozhkin find me. I tell him your deal, take the icon, and disappear. Did I miss anything?”

  “Yes, you did.” Mashkov gives her a meaningless smile. “I let you go, but I keep the Cranach for now to make certain you do as you’re told. It appears that isn’t something you do well. If you refuse, I put you in a cell and leave you there until the brigade returns from next week’s operation. If you don’t return by tomorrow at sunset, the painting will go into secure storage and you won’t see it until we return, if then. The only way you can take it away it is to buy it with the money Colonel Rogozhkin took from us. Do you understand now?”

  Chapter 38

  Carson’s clothe
s appear about thirty minutes after she and Dunya finish dinner. It doesn’t take long to sort through them. When she’s done, she tosses her blood-caked jeans on the pile in disgust. “Fuck.” English.

  Dunya pokes her head out of the storeroom and says in clear, lightly accented English, “Do you speak English?”

  “Uh, yeah. Do you?”

  “Yes.” Dunya leans against the doorjamb. She’s taken off her baggy uniform blouse, exposing a semi-tight olive-drab tee shirt. She’s petite and fine-boned, though her tanned arms have a fair amount of definition. “Mama and Papa hired for me a tutor. I do not get to speak as often as I want. Is it easier for you than speaking Russian?”

  “Yeah.”

  Dunya smiles. “Can we speak in English? I like to practice. You can right me when I am wrong.”

  “Correct you.” This is unexpected, but welcome. Carson’s brain hurts enough without adding the constant translation strain. “Okay. You’re doing fine.”

  “Thank you. What is wrong with your things?” She frowns. “Are wrong?”

  “Is wrong. Everything’s bloody.”

  Dunya raises an eyebrow.

  “Okay, my fault. Both my shirts are torn to shit. And this…” She holds what’s left of her Cheata bra. “They cut this off me. I paid a hundred bucks for this thing and they destroyed it.”

  Dunya’s perky little nose wrinkles as she peers at what Carson’s waving at her. “What is that ugly thing?”

  “Compression bra. And yeah, it’s ugly, but it’s to keep me alive, not get me laid.” She gets back a blank expression. “You wear body armor in the field?”

  “You mean the bullet vest?” Dunya waves her hands over her torso like she has one on. “Yes, sometimes.”

  “Ever have a problem when you run or move around a lot, and your tits move, and your vest shifts out of place?”

  “Tits?”

  “Breasts.”

  “No.” Dunya cups her breasts through her shirt. “They are small. I wear two sport bras and it is good.”

  “Yeah, well, you saw mine. Sports bras don’t cut it. This squashes everything together so they don’t move at all.” Carson glares at what’s left of her very expensive bra. They couldn’t take a minute to figure out how to unzip it? Assholes. She tosses it in the nearest garbage can. “And my baton, knife, and sidearm are still gone.” On the black market already? She wouldn’t be surprised, but she’d be pissed. At least she got her watch back. Good thing she left her money in the car.

  Dunya sorts through the messy pile Carson left on the exam table. She holds up the jeans. “You can wash this in the sink. Use the water bottles. The rest…?” She shrugs.

  Carson grabs the jeans, her underwear, and her socks, and stalks to the battered porcelain sink. “Please please find me a shirt. This thing’s scraping the shit out of my nipples. The more that happens, the more pissed off I get. You won’t like me when I’m mad. Okay?”

  Dunya’s mouth twists. “Okay. I will lock the door when I go. If you run away, the guard will shoot you. It will make me very sad.”

  While Dunya’s gone, Carson searches the storeroom, which is also Dunya’s bedroom. She finds a rumpled cot, a clothesline crowded with underwear, two jumbled shelves of uniforms and clothes, and miscellaneous supplies. As she scrubs the blood out of her jeans, she tries to figure out what to do next.

  There’s no way she’s leaving the Cranach behind when she walks out of here. She’s done with chasing the damn thing all over. But Mashkov isn’t going to change his mind. She’ll have to take the painting, then leave before he notices. Good luck with that.

  Where does he keep it? He’s got to have a secure place to store valuables, like money and codebooks. It’ll be someplace he can keep an eye on. The command staff must have offices around here. But where?

  Dunya would know. She probably won’t just blab it out, though. Carson could beat it out of a guy, but not another woman. Men do more than enough of that shit; she doesn’t need to add to it. Certainly not with Dunya.

  Once she gets the painting, she has to get out. Carson saw a tiny sliver of the base on her way from the cells to the clinic while she was concentrating on not tripping over her own feet. The only window in the clinic is obscure glass. How many guards are at the front gate? How far is it from the command offices?

  Again, Dunya would know. All Carson has to do is get her to talk.

  Forty minutes later, when Dunya returns with a large olive-drab tee shirt, Carson’s head throbs from too much thinking…and she still doesn’t have a plan.

  She slips on the tee—so much better than the camo top’s rough stitching—and perches on the exam table. “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver. Hope it wasn’t a lot of trouble.”

  “It is no problem to find.” Still speaking English. Dunya hangs her uniform blouse on the back of the desk chair, steps out of her runners, then curls up in the chair. “I must lie to the supply sergeant to get it. He will not give it to me if it is for you.” She sighs. “I wish I have your body. I feel so small and weak next to the men.”

  Carson gets that a lot from other women. “It’s a lot of work to keep up. Don’t worry; you’re fine. I wish I had your face.” Get to it… “So…what’s Mashkov’s story?”

  Dunya thinks for a few moments. A soft little smile touches her lips. “He is a very good man. A good commander. He loves the brigade and he loves the people in it. He was with the brigade from the beginning, do you know? He is usually very fair. That is why he disappoints me today. What he asks of you is unfair.” She swivels until she can stare at the ancient refrigerator grumbling across the room. After some consideration, she raids it for a bottle of yellowish liquid and two shot glasses that she sets up on the exam table. She pours shots and hands one to Carson.

  It smells like lemons and cloves. “What is this?”

  “Spotykach.” Dunya belts her drink. Her eyes flare, and she blows out a sharp breath.

  Carson chugs the shot. There’s sugar and coriander, too. It’s an eye-opener. “Vodka?”

  “Yes.” Dunya refills the glasses. This round, she sips.

  There’s more than one way to get information…

  Vodka isn’t Carson’s favorite—she prefers single-malt whiskey and the occasional Manhattan—but at least this tastes like something. “So. Mashkov.”

  Dunya lets out a big sigh. “This week has been very difficult for him. He tries so much and he expects much of self.”

  “Himself.”

  “Yes. Sorry. I think he feels very alone.”

  Carson notes the concern, even sadness, in Dunya’s voice, and the semi-dreamy look on her face. “Does he know you have a crush on him?”

  Dunya gives her a puzzled frown. “A crush?”

  “You’re in love with him.”

  Dunya’s cheeks pink up. “I think he does not notice. If he does, he says nothing.”

  He can’t be that clueless. “Ever just lay it out for him? Tell him?”

  “I cannot do that!” Dunya’s cheeks shift from pink to red. “He is very married.”

  “So?”

  “He rings his wife every night if he can.” Dunya’s talking to the floor now. “Or he writes the email. He loves her very much.”

  It’s almost cute, watching the nurse turn fifteen again. But it’s also maddening. Carson’s known so many smart, accomplished women who were still tangled up in that high-school waiting-for-the-cute-guy-to-notice-her bullshit. “She’s not here. He’s a guy. And you’re pretty.”

  “No!” Dunya almost throws herself from the chair but catches herself in time. “He could make me leave. I could not. No.”

  This isn’t the talk Carson wanted, but it’s the one she’s got. A little girl-bonding might help when she segues to what she wants to know—the painting—so she might as well push this talk down the ice. She refills their glasses, then sips while Dunya downs hers in two goes.

  The conversation’s level degenerate
s as the booze level sinks in the bottle: brigade gossip, Dunya’s nonexistent sex life, men. Over an hour trickles by. Dunya, overheating, kicks off her uniform trousers and flaps the hem of her shirt, exposing seriously functional black underwear and a figure that would be cute if her ribs weren’t so visible.

  Carson does her best to nurse the shot glass. She can’t afford to get pissed drunk—like Dunya is doing—if she expects to get out of here. She also has to keep Dunya from getting so blitzed that she passes out before she gives Carson the info she needs.

  She hates doing this to the nurse. Dunya’s been nice to her, took care of her. Wants to be friends. Carson knows what it’s like to be a woman in an all-male organization—the harassment, the groping, the isolation, the insults and slander, pinups or dildos in her locker. It’s gotta be harder for Dunya; she’s small and cute and she’s held onto her femininity. At least Carson could try to be one of the guys, not that it helped.

  Dunya wraps her arms around her shins and rests her chin on her knees. “What will you do?” She’s back to speaking Russian.

  “About what?”

  “About your painting. About Rogozhkin. About…” She shrugs. “You told the colonel you will think about what he asks. What will you tell him?”

  Carson had meant to steer them to that topic in a while. She figured she’d need to ease into it. Maybe not. “Why ask now?”

  “Because I’m very, very drunk.” Dunya’s over-careful with the words, like a good drunk should be. “If you ask me something or ask me to do something…I probably will.”

  Carson’s brain isn’t foggy yet—misty, maybe—but she takes a moment to herd her words together so she doesn’t blow the mood. “I won’t do it. I can’t stay here. Mashkov may throw me in a cell just because. And I’m not leaving without the picture. Understand?”

  Dunya gives her a slow, over-broad nod.

  Carson refills Dunya’s glass. “Let’s talk about that picture.”

  Chapter 39

  Carson leaves the shadows in front of the clinic, edging around the bluish pool of light surrounding the gate. She can’t avoid the crunch of her boots on gravel, but at least she can be a dark shape rather than an identifiable person.