by Tigner, Tim
She shook her head. “Frostbite you say?”
“It looks like his fingers are going to make it, but his left foot has to go.”
Anna nodded. They were seeing a lot of severe frostbite cases this winter, especially on Saturday, Sunday and Monday mornings. Men would go out on payday weekends, drink themselves to within an inch of their lives, and then try to stumble home only to pass out in the snow somewhere along the way. In the winter they usually died from exposure, but this patient—Professor Petrov according to his papers—had been warmly dressed and had probably not been out there long before a snow-plow driver spotted him and radioed for an ambulance.
Anna knew that with frostbite of this severity, making it to the hospital was only half the battle. The temperature had dropped to minus forty last night, well below the point where the body’s defenses close off distal capillaries in order to conserve heat at the core. The alcohol had not helped either. Petrov could still die from shock or a dozen other complications spawned by his frozen extremities. It would not be her fault if he did, but she would be darkened by a shadow of guilt all the same.
Many of Anna’s colleagues turned their noses up at men like Petrov. They figured he got what he deserved for behaving the way he did, and saved their compassion for the wives left home alone to worry if their alcoholic husbands would ever return. Anna, however, did not blame these men. She blamed the system that had failed them.
Perestroika had turned Russia on its head, and not everyone could adjust to the new reality. Gorbachev’s great restructuring pulled them relentlessly forward toward an unknown future while they clung stubbornly to the past they knew. The tension ripped many apart. For Anna, the plight of the Petrovs was easy to understand. These men had lived in a very stable system for decades. Perhaps it was not the best system, the richest or most efficient, but it was dependable and it had given them both a sense of purpose and a source of pride. As the signs and posters that still hung everywhere proclaimed, “They were Building Communism!” But not anymore. Now they were limping to their graves on plastic feet.
Anna used a marker to circumscribe three-fourths of Petrov’s ankle and then drew the flap she would fold up to stitch over the stump. This was so sad. She knew the leg would barely bleed as she cut through it with her scalpel—lack of blood supply was why it had to go—and that made her task bearable. But when it came to sawing the bone, she would hand off to Vova. There were some things she just couldn’t get used to.
Anna looked up at Vova, got a nod, and began to cut.
They say the General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union is the most powerful man on earth. Anna had to secretly question this. How powerful could he be if even his best-educated citizens, professors like Petrov, were resorting to the bottle in droves just to escape the life he managed for them? It wasn’t that she specifically blamed Gorbachev, although she knew many others did. Anna understood that he too had inherited most of the problems they were dealing with today, but still… Why should Gorbachev have the Nobel Peace Prize and Time Magazine’s Man of the Decade on his resume when she had men like Petrov on her table?
It wasn’t just the new alcoholics who were hurt by the reforms; perestroika was affecting almost everyone, including Anna herself. With her father and brother both premature victims of service to the State, and her mother’s pension made meaningless by skyrocketing inflation, Anna had to support two households by herself. She knew that physicians in the West earned a lot of money, that supporting two women there would not present a problem given her credentials, but the rules were different here. In the Soviet Union, doctors were considered social workers, and paid accordingly.
Anna had not thought much about money when father was around to take care of mother. Before entering medicine she had prepared herself to be content with a life that would include but a few modest possessions and basic food. That was normal. But it was getting tough now that she had to support her mother as well. Of course, when entering medicine she had expected to have a husband to help pay the bills by now. Don’t go there …
To be honest, sometimes the whole situation did get her down. If she thought about it objectively, her apartment almost resembled a prison cell, one that she voluntarily locked herself in at night when her work was done. Fortunately, Anna was not naturally materialistic and her plight was no different from that of her neighbors, so there was little to covet and her predicament was easy to ignore—at least until someone like Professor Petrov came along and reminded her just how close to the edge she lived.
“Yes, Professor, I think I understand you.”
“You talking to yourself there Anna?”
Anna looked up from Petrov’s new stump. It was the anesthesiologist, Ruslan, who had interrupted her thoughts. He was the kind of guy you knew was hitting on you because his mouth was open. He was just twenty-six, two years younger than she, and slight of build. Nonetheless, Anna knew from talking to her friends that many found him attractive because of his boyish charm and flirty sense of humor. He had no such effect on her.
“Yes, Ruslan, I am. The Professor here is in no mood to talk.”
“I’m in the mood for talk, or anything else you might care to try.”
She ignored the comment. How could he be thinking about sex while standing over a case like this one? The blind persistence of the opposite sex never ceased to amaze her. Last year, one notable gentleman had been so persistent… Don’t go there either. When Anna finally found a guy she was interested in, he would know it. He would not need to hound her night and day.
Petrov suddenly began convulsing on the table and Ruslan ran back to his station as the EKG went wild. “Defibrillators,” she yelled to Vova. He flicked the switch to power them up and then handed her the paddles. Anna placed one on either side of Petrov’s sternum and pushed the buttons. Nothing happened! She looked up and saw that the status light on the machine was still red. Anna stood there, paddles poised, waiting for the green light to indicate that the defibrillators would fire. Three seconds, ten seconds, thirty seconds, and then the EKG went flat. Petrov was in cardiac arrest. Forty seconds, forty-five, fifty, sixty seconds, and then it was too late. Petrov died with her hands on his heart. He died because the mighty USSR, the other great superpower, could not afford to replace a battery. How long could this go on?
Soviet Economy: A Shattered Dream
“The impact of the economic collapse on consumers has been a combination of insult and injury. For the big cities, which is where planners themselves live, the shortages have meant longer lines and endless grousing. For the provinces, which get lower priority, they have meant rationing cards for meat, milk, butter and other staples. For the poor, the pensioners and for those who live in the neglected rural poverty pockets that begin at the outskirts of any city and stretch for countless bleak miles across the country, the last few years have added new misery to an already pathetic situation.”
Bill Keller, The New York Times, Page A1[iv]
Chapter 14
San Francisco, California
Alex ducked his head as the minivan’s locks responded to Elaine’s remote control. A moment later she opened the door with a sob and slid into her seat. As she buckled up, Alex heard the gasp that signaled the start of their adventure. Keep silent. Drive to Wildwood. Get out at your usual spot: she had spotted his note.
Crouched behind the third row of seats, Alex could almost hear the wheels spinning in her mind: fight, flee, or capitulate? It was the first of many life-changing decisions she would have to make tonight. Elaine started the engine.
His investigation had veered onto this unexpected tack when he spotted her tears. They transformed his thinking like a magic elixir. They were the missing ingredient, the piece that completed a twisted puzzle. The picture painted by that streaked mascara was so repulsive that he trembled with rage. (At least he hoped it was rage.) If his interpretation of the clues was correct, Elaine was a victim herself, a victim of diabolic coercion.
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Running with that premise—both literally and figuratively—Alex had dashed for her car to leave the note and hide in the back. He was not hiding from her back there with the Fix-a-Flat and grocery net, but rather from anyone who might be watching, watching or listening. Coercers tended to keep tabs on coercees. If they were sophisticated, that usually meant eavesdropping—in the home, office, and car.
As the minivan left the United Electronics complex, Louis Armstrong’s What a Wonderful World began playing on the radio. Alex feared Elaine might lose it then and there—punch the gas and head for a tree—but she took the sensible, feminine approach, and just switched the radio off. Oh to be testosterone free…
As she drove through the darkness toward the unknown, Alex imagined the torrent of horrible speculation that must be cascading through her mind—shovels and shallow graves, ropes and rape scenes—and felt ashamed of his own fear. He also felt the urge to console her, but knew he had to harden his heart instead: He was about to beckon her toward the dark forest with the barrel of his gun.
Wildwood Park had closed hours earlier at dusk, but Alex knew that Elaine often arrived before the dawn opening, parking on an adjoining street that yielded access the running trails. Eight minutes after leaving the parking garage, she pulled into her usual spot and turned off the engine. Alex timed the opening and closing of his door to coincide with Elaine’s for the benefit of the eavesdropping audience. Then, pistol raised, he stood face to face for the first time with the woman who betrayed his brother.
Her pretty face was a puffy red mess and her cheeks stained by mascara-laced tears, but Elaine’s swollen eyes were thoughtful and alert. This could still go both ways, he thought. Her lower lip quivered as Alex motioned silently toward the trail, but she did not faint or even hesitate. What was this poor woman used to that she wasn’t convulsing in unbridled hysteria right now?
After a thirty-yard executioner’s march, Alex said “that’s far enough.” He tried to project a tone that sounded serious without being ominous.
She stopped.
“Turn around.”
Elaine did as she was asked. Alex centered his flashlight on her neck so she could look toward him without being blinded. He studied her face. He saw fear, resolve, and … relief? All were good signs, but he had one more test before dismissing the ice-cold operative scenario outright. Was this where Frank had stumbled? With a quick flip of his wrist, he centered the beam on his own face, closing his eyes as he did so to avoid night blindness, and then returned the beam to her neck. “Do you know who I am?”
She shook her head. Alex looked her in the eyes for a moment longer, searching for deception. None registered. “My name is Alex Ferris.”
Her face brightened a shade at what he interpreted as a pleasant surprise. She saw the resemblance—for the first time.
“Frank was on to you before he was killed.”
“On to me?”
“Yes, he knew you were sabotaging the project.”
A look of shame crossed her face but she neither denied it nor evinced surprise that Frank had not died by his own hand.
“Did you kill him?”
“Heavens no. I don’t know anything about that.”
Alex believed her. It was in the timbre of her voice and the creases around her eyes. “But you’re not surprised?”
Elaine looked to the ground and shook her head.
“He didn’t say anything to you, act differently, the day he died?”
“No.”
He must have done something to trigger the…reprisal…but Alex decided to let that pass for now. “Why are you sabotaging the UE-2000?”
She tensed again.
Alex read the conflict on her face. He decided to show some faith in the hope that Elaine would reciprocate. He lowered the gun. “Please, tell me.”
Alex watched her stand there silently as a battle raged within, nervously tugging her sleeve while the tears rolled. He gave her another nudge. “We’re here in the woods so we can’t be seen, can’t be heard. It is going to come out Elaine. I have tonight’s switcheroo on tape. The question you have to ask yourself is this: Do you want to be alone when it does?”
“Oh, God, I can’t tell you. They’ll kill my daughter. They’ll kill her, just like that.” She tried to snap her fingers but there was no pop. “Please, please … help me.” Her last words were a whispered sob. If she was playing him, she was the best he had ever seen.
Alex needed more information. “Are you afraid someone is watching you now?”
“I, I don’t know. I never know. They seem to know everything. At first I thought you were one of them.”
Alex was sold.
He pocketed the Glock, held out his hand for hers, and guided Elaine to an adjacent picnic area where they could sit and talk more comfortably. Alex figured the walk would give Elaine a chance to get her thoughts together, to make up her mind that this would be the day that she would change her life. Or not.
They sat facing each other across a picnic table. The moon shone enough light on the clearing for each to see the other’s face, so he turned the flashlight off.
“First of all, do me the favor of keeping your hands above the table.”
She nodded, looking more pitiful than scared.
“Now, I need you to give me the chance to help you, Elaine. I need you to tell me who is doing this to you, to Kimberly.”
Elaine blanched at the mention of her daughter’s name. “I don’t know. They do everything through phone calls and faxes. The voice is always the same, but I’m sure it’s disguised.”
He had made the right decision by not taking the sabotage tape straight to the police. His instincts had not failed. With a tone that was obviously more relaxed, he asked, “Why don’t you take your time and tell me everything from the beginning.”
Elaine nodded slowly and then took a couple introspective breaths to compose herself. Alex waited patiently, actively listening to the woods around for sounds of disturbance. He looked down and caught himself nervously pulling at the hair on the back of his fingers and stopped; he had to appear strong and confident and that nervous habit was telegraphing his bluff. Too late.
“Frank did that too,” she said, nodding toward his hands.
Alex looked up and saw that a glimmer of hope had crept into her swollen eyes.
“It started a year and a half ago, July 5, 1989 to be exact. I got a call early in the morning. The voice told me that MiMi, my mother, was not doing well, that I should go to her room. MiMi, you see, had been living with us ever since grandpa died. I went to see her but she said she felt fine. Then the voice ordered me to look at her bottom. I almost hung up at that point, thinking it was just a very sick prank caller. But there was something about his voice—I didn’t dare defy.
“I found what looked like a nasty bug bite. Then the voice said Kimberly wasn’t doing well either. I checked her and saw that she had the same bite as MiMi. ‘What is it?’ I screamed into the telephone. The answer nearly gave me a heart attack. ‘Poison,’ he replied, ‘a very deadly poison. But don’t worry, it’s also a very special poison. It only activates if I tell it to.’
“I stood there for a minute, certain that I was dreaming because something like this could not happen in real life. But of course it was happening. ‘Oh please, no, don’t do it, I begged.’ Then he said, ‘I won’t. But here’s what you’re going to do for me…’
“There was nothing I wouldn’t have done. You understand, don’t you Alex?”
He nodded somberly and laid his hand on her elbow. The situation she described resembled the picture that had flashed before his mind’s eye when he first saw her tears.
She drew her elbow away as though unworthy of affection and shook her head slowly. “But now, now he’s turned me into a killer, a terrorist.”
This last sentence caught him by surprise. “A terrorist!” Then, realizing his mistake he calmed his voice and added, “What did he have you do?”
“It didn’t start like that at first. He had me bring him plans and progress reports for the UE-2000.”
“So you met him?” This could be it, right here, right now…
“No, oh no.” Elaine shook her head and then drew it from her hands. She still looked pitiful, frightened, drained, but there was also hope in the corners of her eyes. “He concocted a different elaborate setup each time there was an exchange. He usually used a kid off the street. It was like living in a spy movie. That first time he had me leave the envelope in my shopping cart at the grocery store after I’d loaded my car. As I was driving away a kid came up on a skateboard, took the envelope, and disappeared behind the store. Then a couple of days later I got pictures in the mail, frames of a video showing me leaving the envelope. He wanted to let me know he had me in more ways than one.”
“Was that all you did, deliver plans?”
“No. After New Year’s it got much worse.”
“After New Year’s? That was when Frank took over.”
“You’re right, it was.” She grimaced and met his eye momentarily, obviously remembering that he had suffered too. “That was when the voice told me we were starting Phase Two.
“I tried to get out then.” She gave him a guilty look. “I told him I had done enough, that he should get someone else. He told me to forget about that. He said that I was his bitch and that if I tried to deny him he would kill MiMi, then and there. He said that if I tried to leave him, it would happen immediately, before I could even hang up the phone. ‘Tell me you’re my bitch! Tell me now, or it’s bye-bye MiMi.’ He seemed almost excited at the prospect.
“Of course I did as he asked. Thereafter at the end of every conversation he would ask me, ‘Who are you?’ and I would have to answer ‘I’m your bitch.’” Elaine paused to wipe her eye. “Silly as it may sound, his base language shook me. He was always very polite, even gentlemanly, except when he was making threats. I felt like I was dealing with a split-personality, and that made it even scarier.”