For Duty and Honor

by Leo J. Maloney

  The sun had risen above the horizon by the time they arrived at the mine. It was a handful of shacks surrounding a hole cut into the rock, sloping down to a set of double steel doors. The men fanned out, each seeming to know where to go.

  A guard approached Morgan. “New prisoner,” he said. “You go with Vanya’s team.”

  Vanya was a tall man, wrinkled and with heavy scarring on half his face. Morgan guessed it was chemical burn, probably from torture. Vanya argued with the guard. After a brief back and forth, the guard gave what from the tone was an ultimatum. Vanya swore and said, “Come, American.”

  He walked off, and Morgan followed. “What was that about?” he asked.

  “We have a quota per man on the team,” he said. “More men, higher quota. If we do not meet quota at the end of the week, we get lash.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “You look strong,” he said. “You will pull your weight. We do not do your work for you. If we get the lash, you get worse. And then you will be very sorry.”

  “Got it.” Morgan was making friends left and right.

  Vanya led him to the toolshed, where men were crowding around, elbowing each other, trying to get their hands on an implement. Morgan followed Vanya’s lead, fighting to the front of the line to look at what was on offer.

  No modern mining equipment. No machines. Handheld implements was all they had, goddamn shovels and mallets and chisels. Nevsky must have a penchant for the vintage.

  There weren’t enough for everyone, Morgan now saw. The smaller and weaker men were pushed aside. They would be getting the lash at the end of the week.

  “Get kirkomotyga,” Vanya told him. “Pickaxe.” Morgan he forced his way and took one from among the grabbing hands. He held it close to his chest, smelling the rich iron, holding it against grabbing hands until he got clear of the crowd. Then he examined it. The wood was old and grooved, the head covered in rust. But it would do its work.

  A guard unlocked and swung open the heavy metal doors that led into the mine with a prolonged creak. He pulled down a heavy switch on the other side of the door, and dim lights came on. The wooden struts were old and seemed like they could cave in at any minute. Convenient way to bury a group of men the Russian government wanted disappeared.

  The prisoners filed into the mine, two by two. Morgan walked inside with Vanya’s six-man team. Being the new guy, he was given wheelbarrow duty, his pickaxe sitting inside as he struggled to hold the wheel steady on the uneven ground. There was no explicit order or direction, but Vanya and the men moved forward without hesitation. As the tunnels branched out, the men thinned until their group was alone.

  Morgan wondered how often men got lost in here. He wondered how many corpses had been forgotten in the mine.

  They walked for several minutes before Vanya said, “You go with Sergey here. He doesn’t speak English. If you need help communicating, get lost.” Sergey motioned for Morgan to follow him a ways down the tunnel to a small hollow. There, the Russian showed him how to wield the pickaxe, chipping stone from the cave wall.

  They worked in silence for a while, only the dull clang of metal hitting rock. It was hard to gauge the passage of time in the darkness of the mine, so Morgan had no idea how much time had gone by when he heard footsteps coming down the tunnel. He turned, assuming it was Vanya and the others.

  It was not. From the darkness, the three men he had fought on the yard the day before approached. They said something to Sergey, who dropped his pickaxe and took off running down the passage, the sound of his dash fading in the tunnels.

  The three men advanced on him.

  “No guards to save you here,” said the young, tall man. “You are going to have a little accident.”

  Morgan didn’t like his odds. Someone could get hurt.

  He thought about shouting for help, but he doubted that anyone would hear him, except perhaps Vanya’s men. Also, it would do him no good in the long run. Bortsov’s little gang would just wait until the next opportunity.

  Morgan knew one thing. He wasn’t going to die in that mine. So he was going to put a stop to this here and now.

  He tightened his grip on the pickaxe. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

  The tunnel was too narrow for them to come at him all at the same time, which gave him Morgan strong defensive position, but also hamstrung his swing of the weapon.

  The first, the younger tall guy, came at him with another pickaxe. He was slow. Morgan moved out of the way and swung his pickaxe against the man’s back, calculating the force to crack a few ribs. The tip connected, and the man fell forward with a cry of pain.

  The next man held a shovel, which had a longer reach than Morgan’s pickaxe, putting him at a disadvantage. The man thrust it like a spear, hitting Morgan in the belly. He winced. It was going to leave a nasty bruise.

  The man moved to thrust again, and Morgan locked the shovel into the curved head of the pickaxe. Morgan pushed head of the shovel back against the attacker. The handle caught him in the chest and he staggered back. This gave Morgan his opening. He pushed the shovel to the side. It fell from the man’s weakened grip and clattered to the stone on the cave floor. Then Morgan swung at the man’s head with the side of the pickaxe, which slammed into the man’s temple. He hollered, clutching at the bleeding wound. Morgan kicked the man’s leg out from under him and he dropped.

  The third attacker, the tiny, weaselly man, came at him, roaring, wielding a long-handled mallet two-handed. He swung downward and Morgan parried, almost losing his grip on the pickaxe. The man swung again, and Morgan dodged out of the way, inches from taking a blow that would crush his jaw.

  Morgan kept backing away as the swings came. The man had too much reach, and Morgan couldn’t get an opening in the tight quarters. He could rush his attacker, but only at the expense of leaving himself open to a bone-crunching strike. And soon he’d be back up against a wall, a sitting duck.

  Morgan took stock of the environment as he stepped back. Was there anything he could use? Narrow tunnels, held up by struts too strong to break, not high enough that climbing would give him any advantage. But connected to it . . .

  Hanging from the strut above him was the last bulb of the tunnel. Without pausing to think twice, Morgan swung the pickaxe upward, shattering the light bulb and plunging the passage into darkness.

  Morgan could see the man’s silhouette against another light bulb up the passage, but Morgan himself was concealed by a pall of murk. The man swung the hammer blindly. Morgan waited for a wide swing and brought the pickaxe down on the hammer’s handle. Without expecting it, weasel man lost his grip. Then Morgan rushed him with a running tackle that knocked the man off his feet.

  Morgan took up the hammer from the ground. He raised it, and the man, seeing Morgan by the dim light he was no longer blocking with his body, raised his hand in defense.

  Morgan dropped the implement next to the man on the floor, panting. “It’s a very, very dangerous thing to attack me. I’m not looking to kill anyone today. That makes this your lucky day. Try again and I guarantee your luck will run out.” He brought his foot hard against the man’s side. “And tell Bortsov that if he pulls this shit again, I’m coming for him.”

  He walked away, leaving all his would-be killers writhing in pain on the cave ground.

  Chapter Six

  They marched back to the camp after ten hours in the mine, the sun still glaring in the Siberian summer sky. A truck drove alongside them, carrying the day’s haul in tin ore. Bortsov’s three goons limped along with everyone else, keeping the pace in spite of their injuries.

  No one said anything about the fight. Morgan watched as his attackers were questioned by hostile guards in the yard as the mess window opened and men struggled to be among the first to eat. Morgan asked Grushin what the guards were saying.

  “They say it happened in an accident. That they fell.”

  The guards didn’t look like they were buying it for a second, but Bortsov’s
men said nothing that would connect the occurrence to him. Stonewalled and not interested in taking this any further, the guards let it go. It wasn’t skin off their backs if a couple of inmates wanted to give each other shiners, as long as the ore was flowing.

  Morgan had expected as much. They were already under scrutiny for the fight the other day, and would not want to call any more attention to themselves. The whole point of attacking him in the mine was to do it in secret, where no one would see. And with renewed suspicion because of their injuries, they would have to lay low before making their next move.

  But it was clear they wouldn’t let this go. Especially not now.

  “You are a lightning rod for trouble,” Grushin said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m sure you don’t,” he said. “It was just natural curiosity that you were so interested in the men’s injuries, which I’m sure have nothing to do with the fact that you’re trying to hide a limp.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re too smart for your own good?” Morgan asked.

  “What do you think got me in here? Anyway, don’t worry, no one will tell the guards. I’d be more worried about Bortsov, myself.”

  “You think they’ll try something else?”

  “You are challenging the pecking order. They can’t let that stand. If he can, he will kill you. But not yet. Eyes are on him now. I don’t think he can afford to make a move.”

  “Sure you still want to be my friend? It can be dangerous to your health.”

  “Can’t sink that much lower.” Grushin surveyed the yard, the line for dinner organizing itself out of disorder. “You know, if we all attacked together, at the same time, we could take their weapons and take over the prison. There are almost a thousand of us and, what, maybe a hundred of them?”

  “A hundred with Kalashnikovs,” said Morgan.

  “Still. We get a hold of one or two, and with a decent tactician . . .”

  “I don’t like the way you’re looking at me.”

  Grushin rested his back against the wall. “I’m not going to die in here. I refuse to. If I am to die, I want it to be trying to escape. Fighting against oppression, instead of collapsing from exhaustion or starving like a dog.”

  “Careful with that talk. There are people in here who’d sell you out for an extra dinner ration.”

  “But I don’t think you’re one of them,” he said.

  “Why do you figure?”

  “I’m a journalist. My job was—is—to see things. So I see people around here. Most of them keep to themselves. Those are your basic survivors, the ones who are focused on getting through the day. Some find God. They tend to stick together—that’s them over there. You got your standard bullies, like Bortsov’s men, who try to get the upper hand even in here. There are the flight risks, too, although it’s harder to figure out who they are beforehand. But they are the ones who will just take off running one day. Usually they get shot. Some get brought back.”

  “And the rest?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Grushin was probably right about that. “Sounds like you’ve got this place figured out.”

  “There are the specific cases,” Grushin said. He pointed out a small man, very thin and middle aged. Morgan couldn’t quite tell, but there seemed to be something wrong about the way he carried himself. “They say that is Kolya the Cannibal. He terrorized St. Petersburg some ten years ago. Ate at least thirty people, most of them children, before they caught him. They found the bones in his basement.”

  “He’s been in here since then?”

  “It’s what they say. Honestly, I don’t know how he survived this long. He has never said a word to anyone here. Maybe that’s his secret.”

  “And you? How long you been in?” Morgan asked.

  “It’s been five months. Feels like as many lifetimes.”

  “I’m done with this place after a day.”

  “You won’t stay long in here,” Grushin said. “Your government wouldn’t allow it.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it. I’m dead, as far as my government is concerned.”

  “I see,” said Grushin. “So what are you? CIA? Identity disavowed in case of capture?”

  “No. Not CIA.”

  “But something, right? There’s something about you.”

  Morgan didn’t respond. He wondered whether he was that transparent.

  “I am going to write about this place when I get out,” Grushin said. “The world needs to know what is going on in here. When they take you away, remember us here, okay?”

  After dinner, the guards lined up all the prisoners on the yard for the evening count. One guard marched down the line counting aloud while another ticked each number off on a clipboard.

  Twilight was setting in by the time they finished, and the men filed into barracks. They distributed into their respective rooms. Morgan was relieved to find that none of his twenty-odd cellmates were the men he had confronted in the yard. The man he had saved, the Arab, was not among them either.

  Morgan lay down on his bunk. He was still tired enough that he felt sleep coming on, but he wasn’t about to drift off before making sure the others would, too. Sleep left him exposed, and he didn’t like it. But soon enough, his exhaustion got the better of him and he drifted off into dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  “How are you holding up?”

  Karen O’Neal, with her pretty half-Vietnamese face, fussy, socially awkward and a bit off-putting, sat across from Alex in a downtown Boston Starbucks drinking a triple-shot espresso. They had just missed the morning crowd, who left newspapers and coffee rings on the tables, and were sharing a table during the tranquil mid-morning lull.

  “Not well.” Alex emitted a hollow laugh. She was nursing an iced hazelnut macchiato with an obscene amount of sugar in it.

  “I’m glad you called,” said Karen. “Sometimes this job sucks, and sometimes it’s hard on the people close to us.”

  “I think it was harder on my father this time,” said Alex.

  “I know. I was being polite.”

  This was why Alex liked Karen. Sometimes she was honest to a fault. “What happened to him?” Alex asked.

  “I don’t know much. Zeta’s keeping this mission on the down-low, even from people on the inside. They’re even boxing me out of looking for him.”

  “What? Why? Bloch said they were doing everything they could.”

  “I guess that’s not literally true,” Karen said.

  “I need to know more.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m just not in the loop.”

  But Alex had a last resort, a trick up her sleeve. “Was Lincoln working on this project?”

  Karen blushed. “Yes.”

  Lincoln Shepard was the resident computer tech at Zeta, a brilliant nerd who Karen had been dating in secret for months now. Alex was among the few who knew, having found out by accident.

  “He never told you anything?” Alex asked.

  “No, but . . .” Karen looked left and right, as if someone might be listening. “There’s a name I heard him say several times,” she said. “Apparently in connection to this case. Suvorov. Some sort of military officer.”

  “Suvorov . . .” Alex echoed as she committed the name to memory.

  “You’re not actually thinking of getting involved, are you?”

  “No, of course not. I just wanted some closure, I guess.” Liar. “Anyway, what are you working on now?”

  This was enough to get Karen to go off on a tangent about trying to find contraband through recurring patterns in shipping containers. Alex picked Karen’s brain about how data models worked as they finished their coffees, and then Karen said she had to go. They parted on the street with a wooden hug.

  “He might not be dead!” Karen called out as Alex waved goodbye.

  Alex rode her motorcycle home. She pulled off the highway to the suburb of Andover, Massachusetts, where kids on
summer vacation populated the streets on bicycles and on foot. One group was playing in the spray of a hose on the lawn. Alex felt a pang of nostalgia for her own childhood.

  She found the house empty except for their German shepherd, Neika. Her mother was out at work, as usual. Diving into her work was her coping mechanism, and as such things went, it wasn’t a bad one.

  Taking advantage of her solitude, Alex opened the door to her father’s office. She found everything still, the air slightly stale, a light dust settled on the gun display case, the model cars.

  It was eerie being in there with him missing.

  But Alex had purpose, and the heebie-jeebies were not going to stop her. She opened a cabinet behind his chair and removed two piles of old tax and personal documents. Then she felt around the corners for the button, and removed the back panel.

  Stashed there was nearly fifty thousand dollars and a Rolodex. She drew out the money and the old apparatus, shuffling through the cards. They were written in a simple cipher, an idiot code that Alex had over time taken pains to decipher.

  Now, she was looking for a specific card. She went through them until she found it. A name, which deciphered read Valery Dobrynin. And a phone number.

  She picked up the phone in the study and dialed the complex country code and then the number. It rang ten times before she got an answering machine message. She had been studying Russian, but she didn’t quite get what the recording said. She only knew she had not heard the name Dobrynin.

  She heard the beep, her signal to start talking. “I’m not sure I have the right number. I’m calling about my father, Dan Morgan. I—he needs help. I think you know who he is, and I think you can give me that help. Please, if you care about him, call me back.”

  She left her number, finished off with another plea for help.

  It could be nothing. A total mistake, a man long gone. But she would take anything at this point.

  Chapter Eight