Transition

by Henry Charles Mishkoff

  “Well, shit, I don’t have any pictures or tapes, if that’s what you mean by ‘proof,’” G.W. says. “But my information comes from a reliable source, and…”

  “Who?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me.” Karnaga’s expression is changing from thoughtful to dubious. “Who is your ‘reliable source’”?

  “I will not stand here and listen to these slanderous lies,” Petronovich says, but he still makes no move to leave. “And I intend to file an official protest with your government, Commander. I am the Director of the Russian Athletic Commission, and I will not be subjected to such hostile, shabby treatment. The fact that you refuse to restrain this barbarian merely proves that your country is not sufficiently civilized to host the Olympic Games. Awarding the games to your nation was a horrendous error in judgment, as I have long suspected. An incident like this would never have happened in Russia.”

  “I can’t tell you who my source is,” G.W. says. He had very nearly blurted out the truth, but an urgent nudge from Jago had brought him up short. Exposure of Dimitri Boronov as the source of this information, G.W. suspects, could have dire consequences for Jago’s old friend. “The information was given to me in confidence. But I assure you…”

  “He cannot name the source because there is no source,” Petronovich says. In contrast to G.W. he speaks softly, so that the others in the room have to strain to hear him. He raises his cigar to his lips, but he finds that it’s no longer lit. He throws it to the floor and grinds it under his foot. “Like all Americans, he suffers from delusions. He is too irrational to accept the obvious conclusion that the people who kidnapped his daughter are freedom fighters who are striking back at the repression of the fascist regime.”

  “You lying sack of shit,” G.W. shouts. “You had Jill kidnapped because you knew it was the only way your girls could win the fucking race.”

  “You forget that the kidnappers wounded one of our best athletes. Or I suppose,” Petronovich sneers, “that you think that I deliberately sacrificed Karl Malenko to add realism to my scheme. What incredible paranoia. You Americans see conspiracies everywhere.”

  “From what I hear,” G.W. says “your boy was shot pretty much by accident. My guess is that he simply didn’t know the plan. Or maybe you did sacrifice him. I wouldn’t put it past you. From what I hear, you don’t let anything stand in the way of getting what you want.”

  “That is enough,” Petronovich says, with a dismissive wave. “This is becoming tiresome. Commander, I will file an official protest through the Russian embassy in the morning. I came here of my own free will to assist in your investigation. It is shameful and inexcusable that you allow me to be abused by this… this American swine. Stand aside.” He points his cane at G.W. “I will leave now.”

  “You’re not going anywhere, old man,” G.W. says, closing half the distance between them with two quick steps. “You’re going to tell me where they’re holding Jill if I have to beat it out of you.”

  But as he draws near, Petronovich swings his cane with surprising strength, striking the surprised G.W. in the ear. The force of the blow knocks G.W.’s Stetson to the floor.

  With a howl of pain, G.W. grabs the side of his head. His hand comes away sticky with blood. For an instant, his vision blurs, and his knees wobble. With the bellow of an enraged bull, he charges Petronovich, knocking the old man off his feet and landing squarely on top of him. Petronovich screams and curses. He flails at his assailant with his cane, but the blows glance harmlessly off G.W.’s broad shoulders.

  But right then, Tanaqo Karnaga, Commander of the Home Guard, First Division, steps up behind G.W. and thumps him squarely in the back of the head with the butt of his service revolver.

  And G.W. does not shrug off that blow quite so easily.

  5.2.15: Tanami

  G.W. opens his eyes.

  He’s lying on a couch, on his back, staring up at an acoustic-tile ceiling. He turns his head ever so slightly to the side, which only serves to make his head throb with a dull pain that seems to radiate from the back of his skull. A wall slowly comes into focus, he’s staring at a few small paintings… no, wait, they’re certificates of some kind, with seals and ribbons. Maybe diplomas?

  He props himself up on an elbow, which causes his vision to blur, but which doesn’t seem to make the pain appreciably worse. So he takes a chance, sits all the way up, and waits for the room to settle back into focus.

  “Would you like some ice?”

  G.W. looks over in the direction of the familiar voice. Commander Tanaqo Karnaga sits behind a sturdy wooden desk, more solid than ornate. He’s leaning back comfortably in his chair, a phone pressed to one ear, his hand over the mouthpiece. Behind him, the lights of Tanami twinkle gaily in the clear, crisp evening.

  Or maybe, G.W. thinks, the twinkling is going on in my head.

  “Would you like some ice?” Karnaga repeats. “It might make you feel better. Prevent swelling, and all that.”

  “Jesus.” G.W. shakes his head, trying to clear it. “You didn’t have to wallop me so goddamn hard. You had the whole fucking army there, for shit’s sake. You coulda just pulled me off the son-of-a-bitch.”

  “That certainly was an option,” Karnaga agrees. Holding up a finger to motion to G.W. to wait, he speaks a few words into the phone, smiles grimly, and replaces the handset in its cradle. “Good news,” he announces. “But yes, I am sorry to have caused you such pain. I felt that it would be helpful to appease Dr. Petronovich. And as it happens, he was delighted to see you lying unconscious on the floor. He even spat on you as he left the room. Although he may complain about the incident, I don’t believe he will cause a major furor.” Karnaga shrugs. “Please forgive me. It was not personal, I assure you.”

  “I demand that you let me call the American embassy,” G.W. says. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to say in a situation like this?

  “Why?” Karnaga seems puzzled.

  G.W. stands and steps carefully over to Karnaga’s desk, ignoring the pounding of the blood that’s rushing painfully through his head. “I’m an American citizen,” he says. “I know my rights. You can’t hold me here without letting me call the embassy. The ambassador is a personal friend of mine, and he won’t take none too kindly to the idea of you folks roughing me up and holding me here against my will.”

  Karnaga smiles thinly. “Petronovich was right,” he says. “You Americans are paranoid.” He motions to the couch from which G.W. rose. “Sit down, Mr. Kendal. Now that you are awake, I would like to call a doctor to examine you. You might have a concussion.”

  “The only call I’m interested in is the one you’re gonna let me make to the American embassy,” G.W. insists. “Are you gonna let me call them, or not?”

  “Mr. Kendal, you are operating under a misconception. You are not here as my prisoner. You are here as my guest. I was under the impression that you wished to remain here to follow the progress of our investigation, but you are certainly free to leave any time you wish.” The phone buzzes. Karnaga picks up the handset, speaks a few words, and hangs up.

  G.W. is suspicious. “You won’t try to stop me if I walk out?”

  “No one will hinder your exit, I assure you. I can also assure you that you will have considerably more difficulty should you decide that you wish to re-enter the building. The choice is entirely yours.”

  Well, hell, G.W. thinks, I guess I oughta stick around. Or maybe that’s exactly what he wants me to think. Is this some kind of trap?

  Finally, his head spinning with pain and confusion, G.W. shrugs and sits back down on the couch. His Stetson, he’s pleased to notice, sits on a nearby end table. He reaches for it and stuffs it onto his head. The weight of the hat makes his head pound even harder, but he grits his teeth against the pain and resists the urge to remove it.

  “So, what’s the deal here?” G.W. asks. “Are you telling me that you’re not pissed off at me for that little ruckus I started?”

>   “Oh, my, no.” Karnaga is clearly amused. “I dislike the Russians as much as you do. Probably more. Were it not for political considerations, I would have been quite pleased to watch you pound that degenerate old man into a bloody pulp.”

  Karnaga stands up, walks over to the window, and stares out into the night. “Were it not for the generosity of the Americans, the Russians would have overrun my country decades ago, back when they were still Communists. I was educated in your country, you know.” (I didn’t know. G.W. thinks, but it certainly explains why you speak English so well.) “I have great admiration for your people, Mr. Kendal. I have nothing but contempt for the Russians.”

  “So, how are you gonna get Petronovich to talk?” Stretching out on the full length of the couch, G.W. places his hat over his face to shield his eyes from the bright lights. “He set this shit up, I’m telling you. He’s the mastermind.”

  Still looking out over the city, Karnaga shakes his head. “I am certain that you are mistaken,” he says. “I was studying his face when you confronted him, and he was as surprised by your charges as I was. He knows nothing.”

  “Then who did set it up? Who else knew where the girls were going and wanted them out of the way? My money’s on Petronovich. I wouldn’t piss on that slimy son-of-a-bitch if he was on fire.”

  “Well.” Karnaga smiles his thin smile. “We will see.” He turns back into the room just as the phone buzzes. He speaks into it for a few minutes, and he’s smiling when he hangs up. “More good news,” he says, nodding.

  G.W. sits up in a flash. That’s right, he remembers, Karnaga did say something about “good news” after the last phone call. And here I’ve been so wrapped up in my own problems… “What’s going on? Is it about Jill?”

  Karnaga sits down behind his desk and leans back in his chair. “We have not yet located your daughter,” he says, “if that is what you mean. But we are closing in.”

  “Holy shit. Fill me in.”

  “While you were… asleep, shall we say, Karl Malenko – the Russian athlete who was shot trying to prevent the terrorists from taking your daughter? He regained consciousness in the hospital.” Karnaga glances sharply at G.W. “Our conversation is in the strictest confidence, of course. If what I am telling you were to reach the wrong ears, your daughter’s life would be in far greater peril than it is already.”

  “Goddamn it, man, I’m not gonna tell a soul. Did Karl know something?”

  “You are aware that this Malenko attempted to follow the terrorists on a bicycle, yes? Apparently, he trailed them further than we first realized. Not only did he witness the actual abduction, but he followed their van for several miles to a house, where it stopped to discharge two of the terrorists. Your daughter and the O’Malley woman, unfortunately, remained in the van. Karl attempted to follow the van once again, but he was unable to continue much further.”

  “So you know where two of the fucking terrorists are.” G.W. throws his hat off his face and jumps to his feet. “Goddamn it, that’s the first good news I’ve heard all night. Now you can go pick up the two assholes and make them tell you where they’re holding Jill.”

  “Thanks to Karl Malenko, yes. He was unable to describe the location to us, as it was dark and he was unfamiliar with the territory. So he insisted on accompanying one of my commando units to the site, so he could point it out to them. He urged us to drive him to the site where he was found so that he might attempt to retrace his route. He did this against the advice of the Russian doctor who was treating him, by the way. He has put himself at great risk by leaving the hospital in his fragile condition. He is a very brave young man.”

  “I’ll make it up to him, somehow,” G.W. swears, softly. “It does my heart good to know that all of the Russkies aren’t as fucked up as Petronovich. And now that I think about it, I’m surprised that Petronovich didn’t try to stop him.”

  “That is precisely why I did not tell him,” Karnaga says, with the merest hint of a self-satisfied smile.

  “You mean…”

  “Exactly. Malenko regained consciousness at almost the exact instant that Petronovich left the hospital to come here. Malenko probably left the hospital with my commandos at about the time that you and the good doctor were rolling around on the floor of my briefing room. Petronovich’s people were in my lobby searching for him, desperately. Unfortunately, it took a surprising amount of time for my people to locate him. You know how maddeningly inefficient we can be here in Qen Phon.” He smiles, coldly, without a trace of humor.

  “So did you pick up the terrorists? From that house?”

  “It wasn’t quite as simple as merely ‘picking them up,’ Mr. Kendal. These groups are well trained and heavily armed. Fortunately, my men are much better trained and have considerably more firepower at their disposal. There was a brief exchange of gunfire, but we did manage to capture two of the men alive and relatively unharmed. A third was killed in the exchange.”

  “Hot damn!” G.W. is beside himself. “But I thought that Karl said that only two of them went into the house.”

  “Apparently,” Karnaga says, “one of their companions was already in the house when they arrived.”

  “I take it that none of your men were hurt?”

  “You take it wrong. Four died at the site, and several others are in critical condition. About a dozen were wounded. Storming a fortified building is never a simple proposition.”

  “My God, I didn’t know.” G.W. finds that he’s more than a little embarrassed by his excitement. Here I am celebrating that they found Jill, and it turns out that a whole bunch of his people have already died trying to find her. “I’m so sorry,” he says, shaken.

  Karnaga shrugs. “That is their job,” he says. “To risk death. They are proud warriors, and quite prepared to die. It is an honor to die in the service of your country. These men are heroes. Their families will be very proud of them. Their only regret will be that my men were not in a position to kill all of the terrorists. It was important that we capture them alive, but it is very frustrating, just the same.”

  For a minute, G.W doesn’t know quite what to say. Karnaga’s no different from the goddamn terrorists, he thinks. They’re all a bunch of bloodthirsty savages, they’re just on different sides. “Did your men find out where they took Jill?” he finally asks.

  “Not yet. We will question them here. That last phone call was from my field commander, telling me that the operation was secure and that they were on their way back. They should be here soon. You may view the interrogation, if you wish.”

  Do I wish? G.W. wonders. I imagine these folks can get pretty brutal. But hell, these are terrorists, not people. They’re scum. And they’ve got Jill. Anything that will get her back in one piece is okay with me.

  He sighs as he sits heavily back down on the couch. “I hope to hell that you can get them to talk,” he says. “I want my little girl back more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my whole fucking life.”

  “Oh, they will talk,” Karnaga rises to his feet. He speaks matter-of-factly, as if the outcome is assured, as if it’s a matter that merits no discussion. “In fact, before very long, they will beg me to give them an opportunity to tell me everything that I wish to know.” He flashes his cold, hard smile.

  “And if they beg me very, very convincingly,” he adds, softly, “and if I am in a forgiving mood, there is a chance that I will grant them that opportunity.”

  5.2.16: Aqevina

  She’s standing with her back pressed firmly against the wall of the dark, narrow hall. She’s looking into a small room that is illuminated by a single, flickering candle. The room – or, at least, what she can see of it – is nearly bare: wooden floorboards, shards of wallpaper hanging from the walls, no furniture other than a wobbly card table and two rusted-metal folding chairs.

  Two men are sitting at the table. One, dressed in what appears to be some kind of military-camouflage uniform, sits with his back to the doorway through which Sunshine peers. Th
e other sits across from him, looking directly at the spot where Sunshine hides, wide-eyed, in the darkness.

  Even in the dim light, the bald head and ragged beard are instantly recognizable.

  Oh, wonder of wonders! she thinks, her heart leaping with joy. This is too good to be true! He’s found us! He’s come here to rescue us!

  Her lips form his name in silent thanks. Nathan.

  She’s just about to throw open the door and burst into the room… but then a thought hits her and she stops dead in her tracks. Her hand flies to her mouth in horror.

  What if he’s not here to rescue us after all? What if he’s a prisoner, just like me and Jill? Her heart sinks. How could I have been so foolish? They kidnapped me and Jill, and they must have kidnapped him, too. And who knows, maybe they kidnapped a whole bunch of other people as well.

  Oh, this is awful. This is too much to bear.

  She groans, softly. How horrible. How unimaginably horrible.

  I’d rather die, she vows, than see anything bad happen to Nathan.

  The man who sits with his back to the door is speaking, but in Sunshine’s confusion it takes a few minutes for the words to start to make sense. And then she realizes with a start that she’s been mistaken about the gender of the person in uniform, who is, judging from the vocal pitch, a woman. I guess I just assumed that all terrorists were men without even realizing it, Sunshine thinks. She silently rebukes herself for harboring such sexist tendencies.

  “What’s amusing to me,” the woman is saying, “is the attitude that you Americans have toward our religions. ‘Eastern religions,’ as you like to call them. On the one hand, some of you treat our religions like they’re fairy tales, like they’re too trivial to be considered on a par with Christianity. Everything is black or white to you westerners. There is no middle ground. Either you’re for us or you’re against us. Either you’re of God or you’re of the devil. Either you’re a good person – in other words, a Christian – or you’re a dirty, filthy, stinking heathen.