Oksana took a step back from Victor. “What are you saying?”
“I don’t see how this can end with Anton.”
“Wherewill it end?”
Victor squeezed the cold railing with his bare hands and looked out into the night. “Maybe it never ends.”
Oksana got quiet. When Victor turned to her a moment later, she was gone. He stood alone several more minutes and then went inside. He found Oksana in the kitchen with Valery.
“So,” Victor said. “What do we do about Little Rock?”
Oksana and Valery exchanged glances. Valery said, “Gennady swears Anton is not there. It’s pretty solid information.”
“But Gennady was only in the ‘A’ and ‘V’ wards,” said Victor. “Anton could be in one of the other three — ‘B,’ ‘G’ and ‘D.’”
“Perhaps. But on cold days, the wards were often mingled during exercise time — so that the guards could quickly get back indoors. There’s a chance they just never crossed paths, of course. But still . . .”
“You’re saying we should eliminate it.”
“I wish we had something more solid, but the place is a real fortress,” said Valery. “This may be the best information we ever get out of Little Rock.”
Victor stood a long time thinking. What should he do?
If it were a cosmological survey, what would you do?
The answer came clearly: When time is limited and the problem is large, identify the likeliest candidate and eliminate the rest.
“I agree,” said Victor. “Little Rock is out. We’ll concentrate on the others.”
28
In-mates! At-ten-tion!”
The cry ricocheted through B ward of Little Rock Special Psychiatric Hospital like a trapped bullet. The voice belonged to the Uzbek, chief orderly for the asylum. He had earned the nickname not because he was from Uzbekistan, but because of his enthusiasm for the old khanates of Central Asia, and, in particular, their embrace of slavery, torture, public executions, stoning, public humiliation, rape and the cutting-off of hands and feet. He would often glare at a prisoner and say, “You know how they would have handled this in Bukhara, don’t you?”
The Uzbek stood in the precise mathematical center of B ward, a point marked with a red dot. The ward itself was an open two-story structure, like a brick airplane hangar. On all sides, metal doors with peep slots, locked by sliding bolts, faced him. From where the Uzbek stood, he could see the outside of fifty-seven doors. Behind them were fifty-seven eighteen-foot-by-twenty-one-and-a-quarter-foot cells, home to two hundred and thirty-two inmates.
Following the Uzbek’s command, the ward grew still. The Uzbek had a baton in his hand and he swung it against his palm.Smack. He took a breath and raised his head.
“Pre-pare your-selves!”
His cry was followed by shuffling, like the flapping of a hundred birds’ wings, which was the sound of prisoners moving behind the doors of their cells, getting out of beds, pulling on clothes, whispering to each other if they dared. Then came thejingle of keys in orderlies’ hands followed by theclank-clank of stubborn locks and thecreak of reluctant doors. There were fifty-seven doors to be opened in B ward so the jingling and the clanking and the creaking and the smacking went on for some time.
Then out they came, upright-walking, jittery beasts, blinking as though coming into a bright light. The smell came with them, damp tobacco, urine, sweat and the spoiled-beef smell of rotting teeth. They wore dusty-blue pajamas and round caps atop their shaved heads. Some had the dancing eyes of frightened horses. Others stared blankly ahead, as though the nerves connecting the eyes to the brain had been severed. Those on the second floor stepped out of their cells onto a catwalk and put their backs against the wall. On the first floor, they found a yellow line the color of goldenrod and placed their toes on it. Their slippers covered the line completely, but did not cross over. Never before in the history of mankind had a straighter row of upright-walking, jittery, blinking, foul-smelling, rotten-toothed beasts been assembled than the one that toed that goldenrod-yellow line.
“Right face!”
The prisoners turned.
“Move!”
The prisoners moved, shuffling toward the little passageway at the end of the building.
It was exercise time at Little Rock.
Everyone was already in the muddy yard when Inmate 222 came outside, led by a square-faced female nurse. He looked unsteady on his feet, and the nurse supported him by the arm. They took a few more steps together and stopped. He nodded at her, and she turned and left.
The sky was gray, and it was cold, but the air had already lost its winter chill. Inmates stood in groups in the small yard, not much larger than a basketball court. It was pie-shaped and bounded by the wall of B ward on one side, A ward on another and a brick wall on the third. A guard tower rose over the fat end of the wedge, and they could all plainly see the barrel of a machine gun aimed unspecifically in their direction. Beyond the walls, the gentle Urals rose in all directions.
Not far from Inmate 222, a group of six prisoners stood together awkwardly, like shy kids at recess not quite sure what to do.
“Look!” said a man with a tumor in his neck the size of a plum. “There he is!”
They all looked at Inmate 222.
“The unluckiest bastard in Little Rock,” said a man with eyes that darted over the ground as though he were looking for something.
The prisoners only saw Inmate 222 once a week, as often as he was allowed in the yard. Most inmates had daily exercise rights.
“Je-Jesus,” said a dwarf. “H-He looks t-t-terrib-b-b . . .”
“Shut up!” said a man with a dark, angry face.
Like the others, Inmate 222 wore pajamas. The right side of his face hung limply on his skull. Sagging skin partially covered his right eye. He looked like a boxer who had lost a fight.
“The anti-Christ,” said a fourth man, fairly young, with strange, dark eyes that were almost black. “He is. For in my dreams I have seen . . .”
“Shut up!” said the man with the angry face.
“. . . his eyes being pecked out by ravens . . .”
“Shut up!”
“P-P-Poor ba-ba-ba . . .”
“. . . his skin crawling with the maggots of . . .”
“Shut up!”
“. . . stard.”
“. . . his own decay . . .”
“Shut up!”
Inmate 222 stood strangely twisted, favoring his right side. His right hand was turned into a hook. He began to look around.
“What’s he looking for?” asked the man with the tumor.
“Shut up!”
“His fr-fr-fr . . .”
“Shut up!”
“. . . friend.”
“The anti-Christ! He is. For in my dreams I have seen . . .”
A short distance away, two orderlies also noticed the appearance of Inmate 222. The first was a large man with long dark hair. His name was Felix Tulikh, and he was supposed to have beaten his wife to death for having flirted with a neighbor. He had been serving his sentence at the regular part of the prison when he was recruited as an orderly in the asylum. The second orderly’s name was Stanislav Surikov. He had an average build, an oval face, and hair the color of beach sand. He was not a convict but a professional guard, which was unusual. It was rumored that he had been transferred to the asylum as punishment. No one knew for what. So now Stanislav worked side by side with some of the same men he had once guarded.
“Jesus, look at him,” said Felix.
Stanislav shook his head. “Nerve damage. All down his right side.”
“He’s on your rounds, isn’t he?”
Stanislav nodded solemnly. “Lazda really has his hooks in him.”
“What do they have him on?”
“Insulin shock. Sodium Amytal.”
Felix whistled. “I wonder what he did.”
Little was known about Inmate 222. His identity was a secret, guarded by
the inmate himself, who seemed to do so against some kind of threat. But Little Rock was a place of a thousand secrets, and the two orderlies gave no more than a passing thought to the matter of Inmate 222’s identity. It was enough to know that he was a prisoner in Little Rock. After that, what else mattered?
“What’s he looking for?” asked Felix.
Stanislav pursed his lips grimly. “Hehasn’t heard.”
“You’re right! Hehasn’t heard.”
“Poor bastard.”
“Come on,” said Felix, and he started toward Inmate 222. Stanislav followed.
When they reached him, Felix asked, “Looking for someone?”
Inmate 222 stared at them. He didn’t recoil from Felix’s voice the way most inmates did. This seemed to irritate Felix, who barked, “Speak up, scum! Are you looking for someone?”
“Niko-wai Do-gan,” Inmate 222 said. He had begun to lisp in the last several weeks.
“NikolaiYuseyevich Dolgan?” grinned Felix, emphasizing the Jewish part of the name. “The history professor?”
The prisoner didn’t respond, and Felix slapped his baton into his palm. “Speak up or you go to the infirmary!”
“Yes.”
“You two were friends, weren’t you?”
“W-were?”
“Your friend is dead.”
Inmate 222 looked at Felix in disbelief.
Felix held up his right hand, fingers together, palm out. “Swear to god.”
“It was suicide,” said Stanislav. “I’m sorry.”
“Crazy son-of-a-bitch sucked the ends off of 365 match heads,” said Felix. “The Uzbek made me count them. Tough way to go. Hell of a bellyache.”
“Shut up, Felix!” said Stanislav.
“But h-how — ”
“. . . did he get the matches?” said Felix.“He was issued one match a day to light the oven. He worked in the kitchen, as you know. He used a flint and pocketed the match.”
“You’re saying he planned this . . .”
“For exactly one year,” said Felix.
“How long have you known him?” asked Stanislav.
“Three mo-months.”
“And he never said a thing?” asked Stanislav.
Inmate 222 didn’t answer. His masklike face was twisted into an expression that might have been grief. He turned and limped away.
“Hey!” barked Felix, disappointed. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
“You’re a bastard, Felix,” said Stanislav.
Felix grinned.
Stanislav watched Inmate 222 walk away. After a few steps, Stanislav called out, “Two-twenty-two?”
He turned.
“You okay?”
He lowered his head and went on.
Aweek later, Stanislav Surikov went onto night duty. On his first night, as he made his rounds in B ward, a voice called out to him from Cell 37.
“They say you have debts,” it whispered.
“Quiet in there!” he hissed.
“I can help you.”
“I said, quiet!” He tapped his club against the door.
“Let me help you with your debts.”
“Don’t make me open this door,” Stanislav warned.
“You won’t be sorry.”
“That’s it!” said Stanislav. He fumbled with his keys and pulled open the door. He raised his club, and was about to strike the man before him. He froze.
“You?”
It was Inmate 222.
“I hear you have debts.”
The orderly shook his head incredulously. “I ought to crack your skull.”
There were five other prisoners in Cell 37, all lying on their bunks under a red light. Some were snoring. One had his eyes open, but that’s how he always slept.
“You have to help me,” Inmate 222 whispered.
“I don’thave to do anything.”
“I have money.”
“You don’t have piss.”
“I have nine uncut diamonds. Big ones.”
Stanislav grabbed the prisoner by the arm and dragged him out onto the catwalk. He threw him against the wall and put the club to his chin.
“Move and you die,” he said.
He got out his keys and locked the door. He grabbed the prisoner and pushed him to the end of the catwalk. Stanislav pulled open a door and threw the prisoner inside. He followed him into the dark room and closed the door. He flipped a switch and a dim light illuminated a small, brick-walled room with a single chair and a table. It was an interrogation chamber.
“Bullshit,” said Stanislav.
“They were given to me, right before I was arrested,” said the prisoner. “I hid them. They’re yours if you help me.”
“Where are they hidden?”
“Karelia.”
“What the hell good are they to me up there?”
Inmate 222 took a step toward Stanislav, and the orderly raised his club in defense.
“They’re worth over a million rubles,” said Inmate 222. “That’s worth the trip north, wouldn’t you say? You’re not a convict, like the others. You could get out of this place.”
“Maybe I like it here.”
The prisoner stroked the dead side of his face. “They say you have debts to black marketeers.”
“Do they?”
“They say you got caught stealing from the prison, and that’s why you were assigned here. But your debts remain.”
“I can take care of myself,” said Stanislav. “I don’t need help from some political.”
“Okay,” shrugged the prisoner. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and they’ll only break your legs.”
Stanislav’s eyes narrowed. He seemed to be thinking. After a minute, he shook his head. “I can’t help you.”
“L-Look at me,” said Inmate 222, his stutter suddenly getting worse. “Look at what they’re doing to me! Half my f-face is dead. My kidneys ache all the time. I’m beginning to f-forget things. Three more months of their th-therapy and I’ll be dead. Or w-worse.”
Stanislav looked at the prisoner a long time. “What do you want?”
“There’s a man in Moscow. Nikolai told me about him. I have a letter for him.”
“Mail it yourself.”
“Lazda would never let it get through the post. It must be delivered from the city post office.”
“You have this man’s address?”
“It’s about a year old.”
“Why send it to him? Why not to your family?”
“I have a three-year-old son, who my wife is raising alone. I can’t take a chance of him losing both his parents.”
“Don’t you have any other family?”
The prisoner was quiet a moment. “A brother,” he said finally. “I have a twin brother.”
“Why not send the letter to him?”
Inmate 222 shook his head. “My brother is a great man. He would sacrifice his life for me, or his work, which is the same thing. I can’t let him do that.”
“I think you should worry about yourself.”
The prisoner didn’t respond.
“What’s the name of this man you want to get the message to?”
“Pavel Danilov.”
“I should report you — and him — to the Uzbek.”
“Then you’ll never get the diamonds.”
“Sure I would. I can get the information from you under interrogation.”
“You would have to bring in the Uzbek or Dr. Lazda. They would get the diamonds.”
Stanislav was quiet a moment, calculating. “And what if they’re not where you say they are?”
“Then you will kill me.”
“You got that right,” said Stanislav, and he swung his baton into his hand. In Inmate 222’s weakened condition, two blows from that baton would end his misery. “How can this Danilov help you?”
“He can get word to the West.”
“That might make things worse for you,” said Stanislav.
Inmate 222 st
ared at him. “How could things get any worse?”
29
Katherine followed her father’s misadventures in Washington through her weekly phone calls to Cameron Abbott.
Jack Sears’s meeting with the secretary of state did not take place as scheduled, or even the week after that, as rescheduled. Following the second cancellation, an aide refused to set a new date. The secretary had a long-scheduled tour of Central America, and Jack should try to schedule something after he got back. No promises.
“Dad must be going crazy,” said Katherine.
“No,” said Cameron. “He’s going to Costa Rica.”
“An ambush?”
“That seems to be the general idea.”
In spite of herself, Katherine laughed.
That conversation with Cameron took place the day her father was supposed to have returned.
“I’m sorry things are going so badly,” said Sergei when he heard about it.
“Not badly,” said Katherine. “Just slowly. At least the KGB hasn’t returned to the taxi park.”
Sergei nodded. “They were just fishing. They’ve been to every train station in Moscow.”
“How do you know that?”
Sergei just smiled.
That night, after Sergei left for Moscow, Katherine went out onto the grassy street of Ivanovka. The night was still, with only the faint howl of a dog to break the silence. The air was brisk, and Katherine jammed her hands into her coat pockets and pulled her arms against her sides. Katherine knew she should be in her room preparing for her first English lecture the next day, but there was something else she had to do. She stood a moment, scanning the heavens. In remote Ivanovka, far from lights and pollution, the night sky was a display of unbelievable richness. For an astronomer like Dr. Katherine Sears, such a sky was like a favorite book she could open up at random and read for hours.
But Katherine had come out into the cold this night with a purpose, and it didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for. In the east, suspended on the border between Capricorn and Aquarius, hung a faint star that, in fact, wasn’t a star — the Large Magellanic Cloud. Katherine shivered to think that in a strange way, this subgalactic clump of stars located outside the Milky Way was the impetus for all that had happened to her. After all, it had brought her to Victor Perov.
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