by Tigner, Tim
“You’re safe. Don’t push it; let yourself come out of it slowly.”
Alex took a long, deep breath and propped himself up on one elbow.
“How do you feel?”
“I feel like I was rolled down a mountain in a rusty barrel—which is a big improvement over how I felt when you found me. What’s your name?”
“Anna.”
“Where am I, Anna?”
“You’re in my apartment. Tell me, what’s your name?”
What’s your name: three mundane words, one tricky question. It got his mind going. Alex didn’t have his own documents anymore, or even Alexander Potapov’s, but he had Yarik’s and Andrey’s passports. Could he pass for either of them? Should he try? Was it possible she had staged the rape?
“You’re hesitating.”
“I’m sorry. Your simple question got me thinking about a lot of things; I’ve been through quite a bit lately. My name is Alex, Alex Ferris.”
“What kind of a name is Ferris?”
In for a penny... “American.”
Anna exhaled slowly. “How about I give you some tea, and you give me your story.”
“That sounds like a fine plan. One question first though. How long was I out?”
It was her turn to pause and his to exhale. “Five days.”
Five days. Alex looked at his wrist. His beloved compass watch was still there, but it had stopped so he could not verify the date. Perhaps that was a good sign. A mastermind might well have wound the watch and set the date to reinforce a ruse.
Anna smiled and got up from the edge of the bed. “I’ll make tea.”
Once she left the room, Alex flopped back down and stared at the ceiling. He wished he had the opportunity to absorb what had happened before moving ahead, but he did not have the time. He had to decide if his surroundings were real or staged, if Anna was an angel or an actress. She passed his intuitive test—he was naturally relaxed in her presence—but he had been fooled before. Sending in a beautiful doctor, a vulnerable soul eager to save and be saved, was classic KGB.
Alex tried to distance himself from his emotions so he could run objectively through his options. He had four basic alternatives: he could delay, he could lie, he could tell her part of the truth, or he could tell it all. At least he had a couple of minutes to decide while Anna waited for the water to boil. If this was all a clever interrogation—the ambulance, the rape, Florence Nightingale’s apartment—that was their first mistake.
As he began to dissect the scenarios, Alex realized that his initial calculation had been wrong. He did not have four alternatives; he had only two. If Anna was an actress, then he was a prisoner and nothing he said or did would get him anywhere but dead. Conclusion—lie to the liar. If, however, Anna was what she appeared to be, an altruistic angel and willing accomplice—then the truth would set him free.
Images began flashing through his mind, ranging from Clint Eastwood’s Do-you-feel-lucky line, to the truth-teller/liar logic problems of his youth. He never expected that he would actually have to make this decision, but he had been preparing for it all his life. The big difference between this puzzle and those: no eraser.
Alex was still chewing when Anna returned with two teacups and a basket of chocolates. He accepted his cup with a smile. It was the second she had given him if memory served. He looked his benefactor in the eye. He saw nothing but kindness and concern painted there—in beautiful amber strokes. He smelled and then tasted the tea without breaking his gaze. Nothing peculiar registered. It occurred to Alex that he had been in a similar situation ten days earlier, sitting on a park bench with a woman no less desperate than he was now. Elaine had chosen to trust him. She had chosen wisely. Alex wanted to trust Anna, but would it be wise? With that thought Andrey’s image flashed before his eyes and Alex made up his mind.
When Anna returned, a subtle sexual tension entered with her. It filled the air like an opiate perfume, and made him feel conversational and alive. His friends in Langley would cringe if they could read his mind now. Sometimes you had to break the rules—and live with the consequences.
As he put the events of the last week into words, Alex could only imagine what thoughts were going through Anna’s mind as she listened to the crazy American with the bandaged head. Yet she listened without a skeptical crease or a judgmental twinge. She listened attentively even when Alex himself found it hard to believe. So he told it all. The only thing he kept secret was Elaine’s involvement and identity, and by the time he finished he even felt guilty about that. He left nothing out, factual or emotional, from Frank’s death to Andrey’s to Yarik’s. Walking through it sequentially it struck him that each chapter concluded with a headstone. Would “Alex” soon be but another section of the story, or would he get to finish the book?
For the first time in his life, Alex understood what drew people to counselors and psychiatrists. Perhaps they weren’t only for the weak. He had refused such services twice in his life, once when his father’s chain of mistresses came to light and then again after the bomb in Rome. Perhaps if he had been more open-minded… But probably not. They had not been Anna.
Two hours later, his catharsis was complete. Alex leaned back on the couch and Anna excused herself to make tea. As she rose, Alex knew it wasn’t really a refreshment break. Either she needed a few minutes alone to decide if she believed in him, or he was about to have another very bad day.
Chapter 48
Academic City, Siberia
Thirty seconds after Anna left the room Alex got up and crossed to the kitchen door, careful to avoid the squeaky board on the floor. She had left the door ajar, either to avoid looking suspicious or because there was nothing for him to be suspicious about. He crouched down so his shadow would not appear at eye level and then peered through the crack.
He couldn’t see much of the room, but the glass on the oven door reflected enough. Anna was sitting sideways on a chair with her back to the wall. She had tucked her knees up beneath her chin and wrapped her arms around them as though she were minding a nest. The pose wasn’t quite Rodin, but close enough.
When Anna returned to the main room a few minutes later she had a serious look on her face but it melted when she looked his way. “What?”
He had wiped the smile from his face, but had obviously failed to drain the joy from his eyes. “Nothing.”
She gave a shrug and sat back down across from him. Then she took a deep breath and dove right in. “You really don’t have any idea who Andrey is or why he was helping you?”
Those were questions Alex had pondered more than once. “No, I don’t, although I’m sure those answers lie at the heart of the mystery. The only thing Andrey told me about himself was that his friend’s death was related to Frank’s.”
“And you believe him—a man you just met, the man who called you to the murder scene—when he tells you that a guy you went to four years of college with, your brilliant brother’s friend and confidant, is really a murdering Russian spy?”
Alex had gone over that one again and again while trekking through the wilderness. “As naïve as that may sound, I do. I have to admit that part of the reason I believe Andrey is that I want Jason to be the guilty one. But at the end of the day, I buy his story because the one thing I do know for certain about Andrey is that he was a man with a profound sense of duty, and honor.
“Mind if I ask a question now?”
“Sure.”
“What’s been going on these last five days?”
“Well, as you might imagine, Vova and I have been concerned that the KGB rapists would track us down for personal revenge. We assumed, apparently correctly, that they would not want to report the embarrassing incident, meaning any reprisal would be unofficial. And we guessed that their most likely course of action would be to search the hospitals in their off hours for you.”
“So you didn’t take me to a hospital…”
“Right.”
“I’ve been here the whole time? Fiv
e days?”
“Right again.”
“I had some papers…”
“They’re in the end table.”
“Was I in a coma?”
Anna flushed. “No. You were exhausted, critically so, and wounded. But I couldn’t stay with you, and I couldn’t risk involving anyone else by asking them to stay with you … so I kept you drugged.” She looked up to meet Alex’s eye. He gave a reassuring nod while his hand found the spot on his arm where the IV had entered. “That way I knew you wouldn’t wake up while I was away during the day,” she paused, “and I felt safe at night. Today is Saturday, so I let you wake up. That’s why you’ve been able to keep talking these last few hours.” Her voice trailed off on the last few words. “What’s wrong Alex?”
“Pardon?”
“Your expression changed. What’s wrong?”
Alex knew what the problem was, and surprisingly, he found himself admitting it. “I feel silly mentioning it, given that I’m here talking to you rather than adorning the hood of a snowplow, but to be honest I’m not feeling very good about my progress. I came to Russia to avenge my brother’s death and free a little girl, yet all I’ve really done is get an accomplice killed and put new friends in peril. I’m supposed to be a professional, but my performance has been amateur.”
“Are you kidding? One man against an army and you expect to squeak through unscathed?” Anna winked, dropping her professional demeanor for the first time. “Actually Alex, you have a lot to be proud of. As you yourself pointed out, you know why and you know where. All that’s left is who, and you’re half way there.” She leaned forward and put her hand on his knee. “Being professional doesn’t mean you’re perfect—doctors get reminded of that every day—it just means you’re better than most. And you obviously are. You have outwitted or outmaneuvered everyone on two continents who has tried to come between you and the truth. You have a lot to feel good about.” She squeezed his knee and gave him a warm smile. “You’d see that if you were as generous with yourself as you are with others.”
Her words had been music to his ears, but Alex found himself focused on her lips instead—her perfect pink pillowy lips. The touch of her hand had turned his throat dry and made him acutely aware of her physical presence. He wanted to say “Thank you” but he was afraid his voice would crack, so he just looked down and nodded.
“So, Mr. Private Eye, what’s next?”
Alex cleared his throat. “Good question. Can you get your hands on a map of the area surrounding Academic City?”
“I think I can manage that.”
“Excellent. There are some people I have to find.”
Chapter 49
Academic City, Siberia
Two meals, eight hours, and a long nap later, they were in her kitchen, finishing off the cheap bottle of Moldavian wine she had uncorked with dinner.
Acting in the interests of her patient’s recovery, Anna had cajoled Alex into a day of rest and relaxation with the promise to procure him the map he wanted—tomorrow. Once he acquiesced, the pressure came uncorked, the wine began to flow, and a refreshing exchange bubbled forth. Anna did not usually drink or prescribe alcohol to her patients, but she knew that the sweetest memories were born in life’s exceptions, not its routines, so she ran with her instinct on this one.
Their conversation eventually turned to the topic of Alex’s implant and the deviant power it represented. Soon they were slogging through a quagmire of conundrums, moral and political, but Anna felt uplifted despite the weighty words. She found it rejuvenating to enjoy an enlightened conversation with an attractive man, one who wasn’t looking for anything from her but common kindness. “Do you think the axiom is true, that ‘all is fair in love and war?’” She asked.
“Of course not. That’s the antithesis of the Golden Rule, and the precipice of a very slippery slope. I accept that ‘turnabout is fair play,’ but would assert that if there is a ‘right’ side in a conflict, you can identify it by looking for the side that doesn’t lower the bar. Morals are meaningless if you can suspend them at whim—and ‘love and war’ can encompass just about any whim.” Alex paused and rolled his shoulders. “I don’t mean to preach, Anna, I’ve just been thinking about this stuff a lot since Yarik LoJacked me.”
“LoJacked?”
“Implanted me. ‘Got my number.’”
“It’s got to be terrible for you, the not knowing.”
“Pardon?”
“How do you handle not knowing if Yarik gave your number to someone else? It must be terrifying.”
Alex nodded. “It’s the pits.”
“If I were you I’d be spending every waking moment frantically trying to figure out a way to rid myself of that thing. How can you remain so calm and nonchalant with that time bomb in your body?”
“What are the alternatives?”
“Alternatives?”
“The alternatives to being calm and nonchalant.”
“Are you saying you have a choice about how you feel?”
“It’s more of a question of control. When you can’t control a situation,” he nodded toward his hindquarters, “your best move is to control how you feel about it. In situations like that you’re almost always better off forcing vibrancy than feeling vulnerable.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Agreed. But I usually manage. More wine?”
“Um hum. Is there some Zen technique they teach you in the CIA? Do they bring in a Tibetan monk to spend a day with you at orientation?”
“No, it doesn’t work like that.” He paused and grew the mischievous smile she had already come to know as his trademark. “In my case it was a Turk named Mehmet.”
Chapter 50
Academic City, Siberia
“So ‘a Turk named Mehmet’ taught you to be vibrant when vulnerable? Is that another one of your American movie references like—what did you use earlier when you told me about your decision to leave the cabin—‘Yoda in the cave.’”
“Well, yeah. I mean yeah I did learn it from Mehmet, not yeah it’s a movie reference.”
“Go on.”
“Well, first of all, it wasn’t CIA orientation as you suggested. And to be completely accurate—always my chief concern—Mehmet had help from a pair of Caucasian wolfhounds.”
“Big white dogs?”
“Not that sense of Caucasian. Caucasian in its primary sense, as in the Caucuses, the rugged mountainous region dividing Europe and Asia where you find countries like Armenia and Azerbaijan struggling to survive. Think of sandals and sawed-off shotguns, rocky trails and vendettas. Think of families who have survived for thousands of years by breeding goats on dusty mountainsides. Think of the kind of dog you would employ to protect your herd, your family’s very livelihood, from packs of wolves and the occasional leopard. Picture eighty kilos of muscle-driven incisors bred to serve and survive in the harshest of conditions and you’ll have some conception of Caucasian wolfhounds.” Alex looked her in the eye and cocked his head. “But you knew that.”
Anna nodded playfully. “Tell me about your furry friends.”
“They come later in the story.”
“Are you toying with me, Alex?”
“No more than you’re toying with me. Actually, the wolfhounds are just the first picture that pops into my head when I remember the story, so I thought I would share the mood-setting image with you.”
“Lovely. And what were you and your partner doing in the Caucuses?”
“Actually, we were in Turkey, near the Iranian border. Mehmet and I were looking for men of, shall we say, anti-American sentiment.”
“I would think the US would use allies to do that. Easier to infiltrate a chicken coop if you don’t look like a fox.”
“Very perceptive, Doctor. Is that really wine in your glass?”
“We can switch if you don’t trust me.”
Alex poured the remainder of his wine into her glass with a take-that nod. “Well, you’re right. I was pretendin
g to be Russian.”
“And Mehmet, what flag was he wearing?”
“Mehmet was Mehmet—as big as a bear, as tough as a tiger, and as silly as a seal.”
“Is it the wine bringing out the wildlife theme, or were you a zoologist in a previous life?”
“No, I was a Mongolian king.”
“I’ll leave that one alone. More wine?”
“Doctor’s orders?”
“Psychologist’s.”
Alex pushed his glass toward her. “So, back to vibrant versus vulnerable. After six weeks of dead-ends, we got a tip about a man who was willing to talk to us. He was a man whose son had been a member of the terrorist cell we were after—right up to the day they killed him. It was the first real break of the investigation.
“Mehmet and I were given a place to go and a time to be there. The meet was set up at the dead-end of a dirt road ten miles from civilization. When we got there in our old Mitsubishi Pajero, a shiny new black Range Rover was waiting. Four men wearing ski masks got out, two with AK-74s, and two with metal detectors.”
“You mean AK-47s.”
“No. Automatic Kalashnikov model 74, introduced in … you guessed it, 1974. Don’t you know your own country’s history?”
“Don’t get cocky with me, Alex. I’ll call in your tab.”
He looked at her with honest eyes. “You know I owe you more than I can ever repay.” Then he shook his head and his voice returned. “Anyhow, the leader yelled over that we should leave all our equipment in the Pajero. We did, and then his boys gave us the once over with callused hands and metal detectors. They say you never really know the Middle East until you’ve been patted down by a terrorist, and I would have to agree.”
Anna choked on her wine and sprayed Alex. She hadn’t opened a second bottle since medical school, and it showed. “Excuse me.”
Alex wiped his face, gave a small bow, and plowed on. “Anyhow, once mister feel-good was satisfied, the leader pointed to the remains of a centuries-old monastery a couple hundred meters past where the road ended, and said, “The small building.”