by James Frey
When we get to the house, Bernard is outside with the neighbor boy and Bérénice. They’re making a snowman. Already the bottom and middle balls of the body are in place. Now they’re setting the head on top of these. They’re too short to reach, so they’re being helped by a man. It’s Karl Ott.
“Ah,” he says when he sees us. “There you are.”
Lottie goes to him and hugs him. Ariadne and I are less enthusiastic. I extend my hand, which Ott accepts. Ariadne does the same. I’m surprised when he takes it, as they have been at odds since their first meeting.
“I did not expect to see you again,” Ott says. “At least not so soon.”
“Yeah,” I say. “You disappeared pretty quickly during the fight at the factory.”
His smile doesn’t waver. “It was important to get my family to safety,” he says. “You understand.”
I think about my brother, lying dead in the church, and say nothing.
“Let’s go inside,” Lottie suggests, perhaps sensing the tension. “Bernard, you and Paul can finish the snowman with Bérénice. I’ll bring you a carrot and some coal for his face.”
We go inside, where we take off our coats and go into the kitchen. Lottie busies herself getting the carrot for the snowman’s nose, and I fill a kettle with water and put it on the stove to get hot. Then I join Ariadne and Ott, who are seated.
“We spend a lot of time around kitchen tables, making plans,” Ott says.
“You got here quickly,” Ariadne says. “You are living nearby?”
“Not far,” Ott says, but offers no details. “Lottie says that you want to go to Moscow.”
He’s not wasting any time. This is fine with me. My deadline for contacting Kenney is coming up in two days. I want to be in Moscow by then. Preferably with something to show for it, although I don’t think that’s possible.
“Yes,” I tell Ott. “We’re going to get Oswald Brecht out of Taganka.”
Ott laughs. “You can’t be serious.”
“We’re very serious,” I say. “We’d like your help to do it, but we’ll do it on our own if necessary.”
“What makes you think I can help you?”
“Your father is there,” I say. “I think it’s safe to say you’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how to get him out.”
Ott shrugs. “Of course. But my methods would be less—how should I put this—direct than yours.”
I nod. “I understand. I bet you’ve been cultivating relationships with people who might be able to help.”
He doesn’t respond, so I know that I’m right. “We don’t have that kind of time,” I continue.
“What is the rush?” he asks.
“Brecht has become of interest to other parties,” I tell him. “Parties that might prefer he never leave Taganka alive.”
I know Ott understands my meaning. I also know that he very much wants me to tell him who these other interested parties are. I don’t. I’m bluffing, at least in part. I don’t really know that anyone else knows about Brecht, but it’s plausible, and having Ott think that the scientist’s life is in jeopardy might be incentive for him to help us.
“This is of course connected to the weapon,” he says. “I assume that you have it in your possession once more.”
“We know where it is,” I say. “And it’s safe. For the moment.”
He smiles. He knows how the game is played. “And I’m supposed to help you because, in return, you will help me get my father out of Taganka as well.”
“That’s about it,” I confirm.
Ott drums his fingers lightly on the tabletop. Behind us, the kettle whistles. I get up and attend to it, giving him time to think. When I return to the table and set a mug of tea in front of him, he takes it and drinks. He still hasn’t spoken. I give a mug to Ariadne, and our eyes meet. She raises her eyebrows, and I shrug slightly. I don’t know what’s going through Ott’s head, or which way he will go.
“Do you know who my father is?” he says.
I wasn’t expecting this, and I shake my head. I don’t know. I haven’t had time to find out.
“His name is Helmut Falkenrath,” he says.
Ariadne, who has been quiet throughout the conversation, says, “The scientist who headed up Uranprojekt?”
“That’s what he was accused of,” Ott says. “And yes, he worked on the project. But he was not the leader. In reality, he was just the only one left to blame.”
“Uranprojekt was a Nazi attempt to develop nuclear weapons,” Ariadne tells me. “Many of the scientists who worked on it defected to other countries when the Nazis rose to power. Mostly to the United States.”
“That’s correct,” Ott says. “My father helped many of them do so, but he himself remained behind for too long, and then it became impossible to leave. Those men went on to help the Americans complete the Manhattan Project. But after the war, the Americans allowed my father to be blamed. They did nothing to stop the Soviets from putting him in prison. He was deemed expendable.”
He’s looking at me as if this is somehow my fault because I’m American. Before I can say anything, he adds, “And you don’t even know his name.”
“Look,” I say. “If you don’t want to be part of this, that’s fine. We can do it on our own. But let’s get something straight—I’m not responsible for things my government did.”
“No,” Ott says. “You’re not. And I will help you.”
He says help as if we’ve begged him to come along. As if we can’t possibly do this without him. It makes me angry, but the truth is, we do need him. And right now I’m just relieved that he’s said yes, even if it all seems to have happened too easily.
“You are correct that I have some contacts within the Soviet Union. Some even within Taganka itself. Still, this is no simple matter. Do you have resources available to you?”
I understand that he’s asking about more than whether we have access to weapons, or cash. He wants to know whether the Minoans and Cahokians are working together. I don’t want him to know that Ariadne has fallen out with her line, and so I say, “We have enough.” I don’t know if this is actually true. I have money, but not weapons, at least not enough to break into a prison. I’m hoping Kenney will be able to help with that once I contact him.
“And the weapon?” Ott asks again. “Where is it?”
“Safe,” I say, in a tone that makes it clear he won’t get any additional information.
He smiles but says nothing, and I wonder what he’s thinking.
“This is not much of a plan so far,” he says. “Go to Moscow. Break into a heavily guarded prison. Extract two high-profile political prisoners and get out of the country.”
“Sounds pretty straightforward to me,” I say.
Ott sighs. “And then what?”
“Then what what?”
“What do you expect Brecht to do for you? Build the weapon?”
“At least tell us what it is and what it does,” I say.
“Of course,” he says. “Your interest is purely scientific.”
“Perhaps your father can help too,” I say.
“Perhaps he can,” says Ott. “Provided he has sufficient incentive to do so.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about money or about control of the weapon. At this point it doesn’t matter. I’m not promising him anything. The possibility of getting his father out of the Soviet Union has to be enough right now.
“There are two ways to get to Moscow,” he says, not pressing the issue. This actually worries me more than if he had made demands, as it suggests he’s planning something of his own, or holding a winning hand that he’ll reveal when I’m not in a position to counter. “Car or train. Plane as well, although that is much more difficult. I suggest we drive. It gives us more control.”
“Great,” says Ariadne. “More time in the car.”
“It will take two days,” Ott says. “If we don’t stop.”
Two days. That means if we leave soon, we’ll
be there sometime on January 5, the day I’m supposed to contact Kenney.
“All right,” I say. “Let’s get going.”
CHAPTER 9
Ariadne
Listening to the conversation going on around the table, I’m reminded how much Russians enjoy arguing, particularly about politics. And how much they enjoy drinking, which makes the arguing even more impassioned.
The journey to Moscow was long, and I am tired. All three of us are exhausted—myself, Boone, and Ott. I still call him Ott, even though I know his real name; he prefers it, and it’s how he is known by the people we are now with. We are in an apartment in one of the city’s overstuffed tenements, where spaces built for two people are inhabited by four, six, eight, sometimes more. Smells of cooking food—cabbage and onions and boiled meat—fill the stairwells and seem to seep right through the walls along with mumbled conversations and the occasional shouting.
Moscow has been gripped by a killing cold, with temperatures dropping at night to the point that just breathing hurts and exposure of more than a short time invites death. The building’s heating system is inefficient, and it wheezes like an old man with not long to live. Most of the residents wear coats, scarves, and gloves even inside. The apartment we are in is heated by a small gas cooktop, the burning blue rings performing double duty as they heat the kettle and pot of simmering soup seated atop them.
“Stalin cannot last much longer,” says a man named Yuri. He is a bear of a man, massive and hairy, his black beard a thicket on his cheeks and chin. He pounds his fist on the table, making the glasses and plates clatter. “His popularity is falling after what he did in Poland and Hungary.”
A woman seated across from him and to my left, whose name is Oksana and whose eyes are the bluest I’ve ever seen, points a finger at Yuri and says, “Yes, but look at what is happening in China. The Communists will win there, mark my words. The people are desperate to believe the promises made by these so-called leaders. Just as happened here.”
I tune them out and try to relax. These people are Ott’s friends, and I am wary of them because I am wary of him. I understand the necessity of working with him for now, but I am not happy about it. Even though he was nothing but pleasant during the trip here, I do not trust him. I especially don’t like having to depend on him for anything. I wish, as I have more than once over the past few days, that I had my Minoan connections to call on. That, of course, is impossible, however. It’s unsettling to me how nearly every aspect of my life was tied to my line, and how without them, I have to rely on others. It is a position of weakness, and not one I enjoy being in.
I sense someone looking at me, and look up to see Ott watching me from across the table. When our eyes meet, he gives me a little smile, lifts the glass of vodka in his hand, and takes a sip. The voices of the two Russians flow between us like a river, and we stand on opposite sides. I pick up my own glass and drink. The vodka burns my throat, but it also warms me a little. I set the glass down, and almost immediately Yuri fills it from the bottle that sits in front of him.
The apartment door opens, and Boone comes into the room accompanied by another man, who they call Tolya. He is not much more than 16 or 17, skinny and twitchy. He is also, apparently, a radio operator. He and Boone have been in the building’s basement, where there’s a hidden shortwave radio and where Boone was to try and communicate with his Cahokian liaison.
“Did you reach him?” I ask as Boone takes the empty chair beside me. Yuri and Oksana stop their conversation and look at him too.
“Yes,” Boone says.
I can tell he doesn’t want to say too much, but he has little choice. Tolya has heard everything, and although Ott assured us that the boy understands almost no English, I suspect this is a lie. He has most likely understood everything that Boone transmitted to his contact, and everything that was sent back. Because of this, I’m also sure that Boone communicated in coded language.
“I told him that I need a few more days to complete my mission,” Boone continues. “Hopefully, we will be done by then.”
Yuri grunts. “Done or dead,” he says, then laughs loudly. “That is the plan, anyway.” He gets up and joins Tolya at the stove, where he is stirring whatever is cooking in the pot. Yuri dips a ladle into the pot, slurps loudly from it, and then picks up a bowl. He ladles some more of the pot’s contents into it and brings it over, along with a pile of spoons, which he drops in the center of the table.
“Borscht,” he says as he hands me the bowl. “Very good.”
I pick up a spoon and taste the soup. It is good, and warming. Yuri brings more bowls, and soon everyone is eating. Yuri talks as we eat, and it occurs to me that perhaps he gave us the soup so that we would be too busy to interrupt him.
“I work as guard at Taganka,” he says. “In part of prison where Falkenrath and Brecht are kept. “Oksana works in kitchen. Ironic, since at home I do all cooking and she is better shot with pistol.” He laughs again, and Oksana makes a gun shape with her thumb and finger and pretends to shoot him.
“Often I transfer prisoners from one place to another,” Yuri continues. “Plan is that I bring in new prisoner—Sasha.” He indicates Boone. “Also, there is new girl working in prison infirmary.” He looks at me. “What name is on your papers?”
“Irina Guryeva,” I say.
“Irina is new girl in infirmary,” Yuri says.
“Infirmary?” I say. “Why not in the kitchen with Oksana?”
“No girl needed in kitchen,” Yuri says. “But needed in infirmary. Oksana tell them her friend nurse and will come help. Your Russian is good. You will be fine. Mostly it is cleaning and sewing up knife wounds. You can do that?”
“She can do that,” Boone says, and gives me a wink. I think about how I stitched him up after he saved me from the MGB attackers. At the time, touching his bare skin made me feel oddly off balance. Now I know why.
“Excellent,” Yuri says. “Now you both inside Taganka.”
“Okay,” Boone says. “But how do we get Falkenrath and Brecht out?”
Yuri shrugs. “I do not know,” he says. “I only get you in.”
“What?” Boone says. He looks at Ott. “This is the big plan? Get us inside and then make it up as we go along?”
Yuri shrugs again and holds up his hands. A moment later, just as I’m about to speak, he and Oksana burst out laughing.
“Yuri is joking,” Oksana says. “There is a plan.”
“Yes,” Yuri says. “There is plan. Plan is, new prisoner Sasha will get into fight with Falkenrath, so that he has to go to infirmary. There, nurse Irina will give him injection that will make it like he is dead. We then take body out.”
I look at Boone, who, like me, seems skeptical. “You’ve used this drug before?” I ask.
“Three times,” says Yuri.
“And it worked?”
“One time,” he says. “Right, Tolya?”
Tolya, who is leaning against the wall as he eats a bowl of borscht, nods brusquely.
“Tolya was good as new once we give him antidote. No problem.”
“And what about Brecht?” I ask. “How are we getting him out? Are you going to drug him as well?”
“His health is not good,” says Yuri. “And two deaths would be suspicious, so we cannot use drug. To get Brecht out, we need explosion.”
“Explosion?” Boon says.
Yuri waves a hand. “It not as dangerous as it sounds. Always things exploding in Taganka. Prisoners make illegal stoves. Also, things for making vodka.”
“Stills,” Oksana says.
“Stills, yes,” says Yuri. “They make stills out of coffee cans, teakettles. All kinds of things. We make it look like one of them explode. Makes big mess. Lots of noise. Prisoners will start to riot as they always do. While other guards getting them under control, we sneak Brecht out.”
I shake my head. “This is the worst plan I’ve ever heard,” I say.
Yuri shrugs. “You have better one?”
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“Can’t we bribe someone?” I suggest. “Everyone I ever met in the MGB could be bribed.”
“Possibly,” Yuri says. “If you have enough money. But takes time, and you do not have time.”
“Or money,” Boone reminds me. “Not that much, anyway.”
Yuri nods at him, then looks at me. “You have other plan?”
I think for a minute. “I guess not,” I admit.
Yuri holds up his hands. “I think not. So, we use my plan.”
“What will Ott be doing?” I ask.
“Waiting in ambulance,” Yuri says. “To drive body away. We will also put Brecht in van. Hide him underneath place where body is. It will, how you say, use one stone to hit two birds.”
We spend the next few hours going over the plan again and again, using the rough map of Taganka Prison that Yuri draws on a piece of paper. Yuri will use his position as a guard to bring in a new prisoner, Boone. He will put him in the same cellblock as Falkenrath. Boone will pick a fight with the scientist and injure him enough to require a trip to the infirmary, where I will be waiting pretending to be a nurse. I will administer an injection to him that will make him appear to die, at which point they’ll call for his body to be removed to the ambulance waiting outside. Ott will be driving the ambulance, and will accept the body. In the meantime, Yuri and Boone will be setting up an explosion in the cellblock to create chaos and allow them to sneak Brecht out as well.
The more we talk about it, the more unsure I am. There are so many places where the entire plan could go wrong, so many things requiring luck. Yuri assures us that he has some friends inside Taganka who will help, or at least not interfere, but I’m still not comfortable. I don’t like having so many variables, so many moving parts that need to come together for this to work.