She concluded by saying, "We shall meet you back here after the demonstration, which will last exactly one hour and twenty- seven minutes." Then, looking up at Eddie, she said, "Mr. Morrison, is something wrong? You are crying. Are you ill?"
Goddamn, thought Eddie, if she thinks I'm sick she pulls me off the combine, and then I'm screwed.
Before he could think of an answer, the tractor driver interrupted, saying something to the woman in Russian. She seemed surprised, but nodded. The driver chuckled, spat, and put the combine into gear. The machine moved forward slowly, the harvesting blades whirring and the interior belts rattling. A cloud of swirling dust rose up at once. Looking back through it, Eddie could see the Amazon staring after them. Then the dust thickened and she was out of sight as the combine proceeded down the edge of the field at a steady, stately pace.
"What did you tell her?" Eddie asked the driver.
"I say you got tears in eyes from sight of bee-yoodiful Russian motherland."
"And she believed that?"
The driver shrugged. "Who knows? She very good communist. They believe all kinds shit like that."
"Terrific."
"Maybe so, but sometimes with woman like that is better just tell her go fawk herself."
The demonstration route ran for more than five kilometers along the eastern border of the model farm, a straight and unde- viating course through the last of a crop of winter wheat so overgrown and soggy as to be worthless for food. The crop had value only as part of the demonstration; otherwise it would long since have been plowed under. Because of this, no storage truck accompanied the combine to collect the harvested grain that spewed loosely from the elevator and added to the storm of dust and straw that surrounded the machine. The result was a cloud so thick and dark that it was just possible to see through it the contours of the land, the growth of the forest off to the right, and to the left the harvested fields that stretched away. After the first ten minutes, the driver reached under the seat and brought out a pair of goggles to protect his eyes. The eyes of the others on the combine soon were red-rimmed, their heads bowed and bucking into the storm. Despite their discomfort, the delegates were eager to see how the machine functioned, and they chattered among themselves as they observed the process.
Only Eddie was indifferent to the workings of the combine. He sat with his head hunched over, his tearing eyes regularly checking the minute hand of his watch, then moving to scan the right- hand edge of the cultivated field. Just beyond the edge of the field and the split-rail fence the forest began, and he searched for the signs that Vasily had given him: a blasted rock and a shale-strewn gully that opened onto an avenue of trees leading down toward the river. Halfway down that avenue and fifty meters off to the left would be a clearing in which stood a solitary oak, ancient and royal in its bearing. The tree was unique and could not be missed; must not be missed, for around its thick base after every rain in the season rose the wild mushrooms so prized by Captain Pyotr Suvarov.
He checked his watch on the seventeenth minute after departure, and thirty seconds later saw the blasted rock and the gully beyond it. He at once took a massive dose of spray, and tapped the driver on the shoulder. The driver turned, and Eddie pointed to his flooded eyes.
"Stop," he yelled. "I have to get off."
The driver looked at him incredulously, not sure that he had heard right.
"The hay fever!" Eddie dabbed at his eyes in anguish. "The dust is killing me. Let me off!"
"Goddamn, I told you plenty dust."
"I can't take it. I've got to get off!"
"No stop," the driver shouted. "Is forbidden! No stop, no turn."
"But I can't breathe. I'll die."
"Umpossible. Is forbidden to die."
"You can't stop me from dying. I'm an American."
"Umpossible," the driver repeated, shaking his head emphatically. "Is orders. No stop, no turn. Straight lines only. If not . . ."He drew a finger across his throat.
"Tell them to go fawk themselves."
"No joke. Is orders. Go up, go back, one hour twenty-seven minutes. No bullshit, no stop."
The tears had collected in a pool under Eddie's chin. The discomfort was real and urgent. He looked down at his watch. Through the torrent pouring from his eyes he could see the second hand coming up on the twentieth minute.
"That's your problem," he screamed. "I'm getting off here. Pick me up on the way back."
"Is forbidden!" The driver made a grab for Eddie's arm as he stood up and braced himself against the guardrail. The other three delegates, riding the fenders, glanced back curiously.
Eddie looked at the ground rolling by slowly, and said, "You know, I really hate to do this. I hate to quit."
"No quit, Crybaby, no quit."
"Sorry, but they don't call me Crybaby for nothing," he said, and launched himself over the rail.
He landed rolling on one shoulder, and stood up at once. He reached for a handkerchief and dabbed at his streaming eyes. Once they were clear, he could see the driver staring back at him helplessly. The combine could not stop, the combine could not turn. Locked into his course by the rigidity of his regime, the driver was a prisoner of the machine. He shook his fist once in despair, and then the rolling cloud of dust obscured him.
Eddie scrambled. Over the fence and behind the rock, down the gully, slipping and sliding on the loosely strewn shale, up on his toes to preserve his heels as he sped downhill propelled by the pumping terror in his gut. Out of the gully and into the trees, flashing down the needle-covered floor of the forest striped with alternate layers of sun and shade; and then the sweat began, popped out on his skin, and he knew it was the sweat of fear. Twenty meters, thirty, fifty, and he saw the space in the trees off to his left. He cut hard, almost fell, staggered through branches that whipped at his face, vines that pulled at his feet, and skidded into the clearing breathless.
The great oak tree was unmistakable, the earth around it rich and black and loamy. Eddie slumped at the base of the tree, his back against the trunk. He closed his eyes and counted to one hundred, forcing himself to count slowly. Then he opened his eyes and crossed his left leg over his right. He gripped his left shoe with his left hand, and with his right hand he twisted the heel sharply. The heel came off in one piece. It was a normal- looking heel save for the patch of plastic over the top. He peeled off the plastic, and from the hollowed heel removed a minute flask. Holding the flask carefully, he raised himself to his hands and knees and crawled around the base of the tree, searching.
In three places he found old and shriveled mushrooms, the harmless and delicious Agaricus campestris. There the new mushrooms would grow overnight with the rain, and in each of those three places he squirted the ground with the contents of the flask, holding his breath and turning his head aside to avoid breathing in the spoor of the deadly Amanita phalloides.
When the flask was empty, he crawled some distance from the tree before replacing it in the hollow heel and returning the heel to his shoe. Then he kept on crawling until he was cut of the shade of the oak, away from the loamy soil and back onto the needle-carpeted forest floor. He stood up and checked the soil for footprints; there were none. He turned away and without looking back, began the return hike up to Model Farm Number Forty- two. When he reached the field he lay down in the stubbled stalks of wheat, closed his eyes, and let the sharp edge of the sun warm his face.
Twenty minutes later he heard the engine noises and the slapping blades that signaled the return of the combine. He raised himself on one elbow to observe its approach. He frowned at the sight of the dust cloud, and sighed as he reached for the nasal spray. By the time the combine came chugging past him his face was once again covered with tears. He ran alongside the slow- moving machine, grabbed at a fender guard, missed, grabbed again, and hauled himself aboard. He climbed up beside the driver and resumed his former seat. The driver was silent at first, looking at him with grave disapproval, before he finally sai
d:
"That goddamn bullshit thing to do. Make big trouble."
"Look, I'm really sorry," Eddie said contritely. "I'm not trying to make trouble, but I had to get off. That dust was killing me."
"Sure, and now maybe dust kill me."
"You don't mean that."
"Okay, now no. Ten years ago, you bet. Now maybe lose good job."
"I don't want you to lose your job," Eddie said, and waited.
The driver waited, too. Then after a while, he said, "Look, them three." He nodded toward the other delegates. "I speak them people. They no tell. Me, I no tell. How about you? You tell?"
"Of course not." Eddie's smile was genuine. "Why should I tell?"
"Good. Is deal." The driver reached across and shook Eddie's hand enthusiastically. "No tell. No make trouble, not for you, not for me. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Okay?"
"Okay," said Eddie, and took a deep breath. "Ty mne i ya tebe."
"Hey, where you learn that?"
"From an old friend," said Eddie, grinning. "Speak bullshit Russian, yes?"
That evening Eddie Mancuso, freshly bathed and barbered, dined at his hotel, the Rossiya, an establishment catering particularly to visiting foreign dignitaries and businessmen. He drank a modest two hundred grams of vodka as he nibbled at the zakuski, the hors d'oeuvre that are the soul of a Russian dinner, and then picked at an overdone steak. He gave up on the steak, thought fleetingly but longingly of finding a Burger King in the neighborhood, and then contented himself with Crimean strawberries for dessert. After coffee he strolled through the lobby filled with foreign visitors, examining the newspaper rack, staring sternly at the impenetrable forest of Cyrillic letters. He addressed himself to the concierge, an amiable young man who was anxious to please.
Eddie asked casually, "Can you tell me what the weather will be like tomorrow? I can't read Russian or I'd look in the newspaper."
"You wish . . . ?"
"The weather report for tomorrow."
"I am afraid I do not have that information." The concierge sounded truly regretful.
"Well, could you look in the newspaper for me?"
"I am afraid the newspaper would not contain such information."
"How about the radio?"
After a moment's hesitation the young man said "May I ask, sir, why you wish this information?"
Because, you dumb bastard, I want to know if it's going to rain, because rain means mushrooms, and that means a score on the hometown board.
Thinking this, he said, instead, "Just wanted to know what I should wear tomorrow."
The concierge seemed relieved. "Ah, in that case, sir, may I suggest that in the morning you simply observe out of your window. If the weather is fair, light clothing will suffice. If there should be rain, then galoshes and a heavier garment would be necessary."
Eddie glared at him indignantly. "I could have figured that one out myself. Now, listen, all I—"
"Steady, old boy." The speaker was a member of the British delegation standing nearby. "You won't get anything that way. New here, are you?"
Eddie turned to face him. "Yeah, just blew into town on the fast freight from Smolensk."
"Er . . . yes. Well, at any rate, there's no use trying to get that sort of information out of friend Ivan here. You see, in this country the weather report is meteorological information, which is a military secret. That's why Ivan is so close-mouthed. He's convinced that you'll send it straight on to the Pentagon. Fair and clear, send on the bombers, that sort of thing."
"Are you serious?"
"Oh, quite. Just look at Ivan's face. He knows how absurd it is, but he also knows that I'm right."
Indeed, the concierge's face reflected his embarrassment. "Forgive me, but I do not make the regulations," he said stiffly. And then, unbending a bit: "As for the weather, I believe I can safely say that it will rain during the night." He tapped his elbow meaningfully. "Arthritis. It always hurts here before rain."
The Englishman cackled gleefully. "Now, there's a Moscow weather report for you. What's the matter, lad? You don't look very happy."
Eddie, not happy at all, felt the sharp end of a disquieting thought prodding at his mind. "If they don't print weather reports," he said slowly, "then what do they print in these newspapers of theirs?"
"Very little, actually. Mostly ideological stuff and production figures. And the sports, of course. Couldn't do without that."
"But what about news? You know, things like wars, earthquakes and plane crashes, and . . . well, accidents. Disasters."
"They don't print things like that," the Englishman said flatly. "No news is good news, and Ivan doesn't believe in upsetting the masses. You know, you definitely do look unwell. Have you been drinking the water? They say it's all right, but I prefer the bottled stuff myself. . . ."
Eddie, whose stomach was fine but whose mind was now churning, nodded his thanks silently and turned away. He walked in a daze to the elevator, rode up to the fourth floor, and claimed his room key from the dezhurnaya, the woman on duty as floor clerk. He thanked her automatically, walked down the corridor, and let himself into his room. Once there he slumped into a chair, ignoring the buzzing of two pesky flies and the sharp smell of paint. He slapped a fist into the palm of his hand as his daze turned to anger.
"Goddamn Vasily," he muttered. "Thinks of everything, but that's the one thing he didn't tell me. The newspapers. I've planted the spoor, but now I'll never know if it worked. I figured I'd know from the papers, but . . . what the hell do I do now?"
He sat in the chair for over an hour, thinking furiously, raging at his ignorance; and he was so engaged with his thoughts that at first he did not notice the sound of rain beating on the windows. When he realized what it was, he smiled, but bitterly.
That takes care of the mushrooms, he thought. But I'll never know if they worked.
He knew everything he had to know just four days later. He spent those four days attending exchange-program meetings in the mornings, and in the afternoons walking the length of Gorky Street and then over to the Sadovo Ring Road, where the black- market hustlers in records and tapes worked the sidewalks. For the morning meetings he wore the usual conservative business suit, but for the afternoon walks he changed into jeans and a leather jacket, a turtleneck jersey, and charcoal-gray Adidas track shoes. On the first afternoon he had three offers for the shoes from well-dressed young Russians, and two offers for the jacket. The second and the third days were much the same. On the afternoon of the fourth day, one of the Russians took him aside and asked him what the game was.
"Who're you, and what game are you talking about?" Eddie asked, straight-faced.
"Call me Wolf." He cocked his head to one side and grinned. "The way I see it, you come around here every day and you don't want to sell any clothes, so I figure maybe you've got something else to sell. Like music."
"Why music?"
"Because this is the place for music. Everybody knows that, and everybody knows that for music you see me, Wolf."
"All right, I see you."
"What have you got?"
Eddie looked him over from top to bottom: the suede jacket, the brushed-cotton jeans, the pseudo-Texas boots. "Nothing that you can afford."
Wolf flushed. "Try me."
"How about some Coltrane for openers? A little Miles Davis? Some MJQ?"
"Cassettes in good condition?"
"Who said anything about cassettes? I've got the original records."
"Discs?" The Russian gave a quick little intake of breath, and then whistled softly. "How much?"
"Two hundred dollars each. I have twenty-five of them. That's five grand total. Cash."
"Does it have to be in dollars?"
"What the hell would I do with rubles?" Eddie shook his head in disgust. "Who're you kidding? You don't have that kind of money."
As he turned to go, the Russian put a hand lightly on his sleeve. "Wait, please. You don't understand. No one ha
s that kind of money in dollars. In rubles, yes, even certificate rubles. You know, the kind that you can spend in the special stores?"
"Dollars. Cash." Eddie stood, waiting. "Well?"
"It's too big for me," Wolf admitted. "But I might know somebody. I'd have to inquire."
"Forget it. I'm looking for a quick deal."
"Please, again you don't understand." The Russian's smile was quick and anxious. "You're asking something very unusual. You're looking for a collector who can spend big money, and in dollars. There aren't many people like that."
Don't I know it, Eddie thought, and said, "How long would it take?"
"A few days. The man I have in mind . . . well, he's difficult to get hold of."
"I can give you two days," Eddie said grudgingly.
"How do I reach you?"
"I'm at the Rossiya, room four twenty-three. Call me."
Wolf looked doubtful. "Those telephones. They're tapped, you know."
"You don't have to spell anything out. Just give me a time and I'll meet you."
The Russian thought it over and nodded. "And my commission?"
"Five percent. After the deal is closed."
"In dollars?" Wolf asked quickly.
Eddie laughed. "Yeah, in dollars."
He turned and walked away briskly, not looking back. That sets the bait for Comrade Durin, he thought happily, and then not so happily: But I wish I knew about Suvarov.
That evening he dined as he always did at the Hotel Rossiya, stoking up on the zakuski as a hedge against the uncertainties of the rest of the meal. He was halfway through a piece of roast veal with mushroom sauce when the Englishman stopped at his table.
"Mind if I sit with you?" he asked. "The place is full tonight."
Eddie, chewing, waved his acceptance with his fork. The Englishman slid into the chair opposite and looked with interest at his dish. "Bloody brave of you eating mushrooms," he observed. "Although I daresay the ones they serve here are all right."
THE DEATH FREAK -- An Eddie Mancuso Thriller (Eddie Mancuso And Vasily Borgneff Book 1) Page 11