by James Frey
Boone can sense that I’m wary. His hand finds mine under the table, and he holds it while we go over the various steps in as much detail as we can. Every time Yuri glosses over something, or tells me not to worry when I raise a concern, Boone tightens his grip, reminding me to calm down.
It’s after three in the morning when Yuri finally says, “I think that is enough. We go at six, so we should sleep.”
“Six?” I say. “Why so early?”
“Shift changes at seven o’clock,” Yuri explains. “This way, everyone tired from being up all night. Less likely to pay attention or notice anything out of place. Explosion will take them by surprise—BOOM! Also, will still be dark outside, so easier to get away.”
He gets up, as if the meeting has been adjourned, and goes over to the couch, where he lies down. “Good night,” he says, and almost immediately he begins snoring.
“He can sleep anywhere,” Oksana says as she covers him with a crocheted afghan. “He learned it fighting in the war. I, however, cannot sleep with his snoring, so I will be in the other room. You are welcome to sleep there too. We have no beds, but blankets and pillows.”
Ott and Tolya stay in the kitchen as we follow Oksana into the apartment’s tiny bedroom, which is divided in half by a sheet hung on a line. Oksana gives us the promised blankets and pillows, then leaves the room. We hear the door to the tiny bathroom shut, and then the sound of pipes banging as water is turned on. Boone and I create makeshift beds with the blankets and use the opportunity to talk while we’re alone.
“What did you tell Kenney?” I ask him.
“Not much,” he says. “That kid was hovering, although he was pretending to do something else, and I didn’t want to say too much in front of him. I think he understands more English than he lets on. And anyway, I didn’t want Kenney to know too much either. I’m sure the Cahokians have people in the Soviet Union, but I don’t want them involved. The less everyone knows, the better it is for us.”
“This plan is shaky,” I say.
“Like an earthquake,” he says. “But it’s the best we’ve got. Too many people know about the weapon now, and Brecht is the logical person to go to. We’ve got to get to him before someone else does.”
“I wish we had more time,” I say. “And money. And equipment. And pretty much everything else.”
“Hey,” Boone says. “We have the most important things. Each other.”
“You just want to see me in a nurse uniform,” I tease. His remark is sentimental, but I can tell he believes it. I do too. Being with him is the only thing I have right now besides the years of training that are making it possible for me to—hopefully—pull off what we have planned.
“We’ll make this work,” he says, kissing me.
I don’t know if he means the plan or us. Before I can ask, Oksana comes back.
“The bathroom is free,” she says as she disappears behind the sheet.
“Ladies first,” I say to Boone, and head for the door with my bag.
The bathroom is tiny, the water a cold trickle, but it feels good to splash some on my face and brush my teeth. As I do, I look at myself in the cloudy mirror. I look like any number of girls getting ready for bed. But in a few hours, I’ll be in the middle of a mission that could end in the deaths of more than a few people. Perhaps even mine. I think of all the other girls in all the other apartments in this building. What are they thinking about right now, the ones who aren’t asleep and dreaming? Are they wishing they had a new dress, or that the boy they like liked them back? Are they worried about their futures, or filled with hope for a better new year?
I rinse my toothbrush and put it away. Will I be doing this again tomorrow night? Or will everything be different? I don’t know. I turn off the light and return to the room where Boone is waiting. Until it’s time to get up and prepare for the mission, I’ll lie with him, his arms around me, and, hopefully, dream the dreams of a normal girl.
CHAPTER 10
Boone
From the outside, Taganka Prison is actually beautiful, at least what I can see of it in the predawn darkness through falling snow. It’s an imposing brick structure, with high walls, towers, and barred windows. I know terrible things happen inside, but as Yuri and I approach one of the side doors, I feel as if we’re entering a castle.
“Talk little,” Yuri reminds me as he inserts a key into the lock of the door. “Your accent is not so good. Perhaps you act simple, yes?”
I nod. At the moment, all I want is to get inside. I’m supposed to be a prisoner, and Yuri has dressed me as one. I’m wearing pants and a thin shirt underneath a tattered old coat. No socks, and a pair of old shoes with holes in the soles. When the wind blows, I feel as if I’m back inside the flooded chamber underneath the New Museum.
“I will have to be rough with you,” Yuri says. “I apologize. It is necessary.”
With the door open, he pushes me through, yelling at me in Russian to hurry up. I know this is for the benefit of anyone who might be inside, so I play my part, stumbling in and trying to look frightened. But the only one there is an old woman who is washing the floor with a mop, and she doesn’t even look at us as Yuri takes me by the arm and leads me down a hallway.
As he predicted, the prison is mostly quiet. But there is some activity. As we move deeper into the building, a handful of guards appears. They glance at me and say a few words to Yuri. Nobody asks who I am or why I am there. I imagine they’ve seen so many people come in that they no longer care. Prisoners are just more bodies to manage, not people with names or stories of their own.
I see some of these prisoners as I’m marched up a flight of stairs and down more hallways. They are crowded into cells. Most are asleep, but some are up. They gaze out with little more interest than the guards showed, maybe sizing me up, maybe looking to see if I’m someone they know. None speak to me or to Yuri, and I avoid their eyes, trying to be as unmemorable as possible. The smell is the worst, a combination of harsh soap and unwashed bodies. I suspect the soap is used more for the floors than for the prisoners, as I see more women like the one downstairs, all of them tiny and hunched over, pushing puddles of dirty water around as if it will help.
Eventually, we stop in front of a cell and Yuri takes out his ring of keys. A door is unlocked and slid open. Yuri whispers in my ear, “Do it soon, before the shift change.” Then I’m inside, and the door is slammed shut.
The cell is small, no more than eight feet across. Bunk beds are pushed against one wall, and there is a small window high on the far wall. The glass has a hole in it, and the winter cold blows in. A form is wrapped in a thin blanket and curled in the bottom bunk. Helmut Falkenrath. Ott’s father.
I’ve debated about how much to tell him about what is about to happen to him. Part of me thinks that if he knows, it will not be as frightening. Another part thinks that it will all be much more believable if he knows nothing. However, I’m also afraid that if he fears he might be killed, he might have a heart attack or something.
I hear noise in the hallway. Guards are talking. I recognize Yuri’s voice. The shift change is beginning. It’s time to act.
I go to the bed and kneel down. I reach out and touch Falkenrath’s shoulder. To my surprise, he is not asleep. “I have cigarettes,” he says in Russian. His voice is timid, and I can feel him trembling. Probably, he has been afraid since hearing someone new enter his cell. He’s offering me a bribe not to hurt him. He keeps his back to me, curled tightly.
“I am your son’s friend,” I say in German. “I am here to get you out.”
He hesitates, then rolls over. It is hard to see him in the dim light, but I can see the gleam of his glasses. “Tobias?” he says, as if he can’t quite remember.
“Yes,” I say. “I am a friend.”
I feel bad saying this given what else I have to do, but I need to give him some hope to help him get through the next few minutes.
“Is he here?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “H
e is waiting for you outside.”
The voices of the guards grow louder. They are walking down the corridor. It’s time.
“You must trust me,” I whisper to Falkenrath. “You will be all right.”
Before he can answer, I drag him from the bed. “I said that one is mine!” I yell in Russian.
Falkenrath cowers before me, obviously not understanding. He looks at me with confusion on his face. I have to remind myself that I’m here to save him as I punch him in the stomach. I don’t hit him as hard as I could, but even still, he cries out and falls backward. I reach down and pick him up by his shirt, which rips as he feebly claws at me with his hands.
Hearing the commotion, prisoners in the surrounding cells stir. I hear the sound of running feet. The guards are coming. I have only moments to do what needs to be done.
“I am king here now!” I shout. I pull the knife that has been hidden in my jacket out and hold it up. Falkenrath, seeing it, squeals in fear.
“Help!” he cries. “Someone help me!” Despite what I have told him about being here to get him out, he obviously doesn’t believe that’s what’s happening. I don’t blame him.
I cut him with the knife, aiming for the soft part of his stomach, the spot someone who was really trying to kill him would go for. But I don’t go deep, just enough to make the blood flow. Falkenrath screams as if I’ve stuck him like a pig at slaughter, however, clutching himself and throwing himself on the floor. I don’t think he’s acting, but it’s exactly what I need him to do.
I crouch over him, yelling threats and holding the knife up as the guards reach the cell door and open it. As planned, one of them is Yuri. He comes in first, knocking the knife from my hand with one giant paw and throwing me onto my back. He kneels over me and yells to the other guard, “Is that one dead?”
The other guard checks Falkenrath. “Only bleeding,” he says.
“Take him to the infirmary,” Yuri orders. “I’ll take care of this troublemaker.”
The other guard helps a moaning Falkenrath get to his feet, then removes him from the cell. Yuri says to me, “Play along,” then jerks me to my feet.
“Not five minutes in here, and already you think you run the place?” he bellows. “I think I need to teach you how things work in Taganka.”
He punches me, but not too hard. I fall against the bunk beds, making as much noise as possible. From outside the cell, the sound of other inmates shouting drowns out our voices. Some are calling for me to kill the guard. Others are calling for him to kill me. A few rattle things against the bars of their own cells, clacking and clanging, creating a soundtrack to the fight.
Yuri and I make it sound convincing. Several times he throws me into the bars of the door, all the while yelling at me that I need to learn my place. I pretend to fight back at first. At one point, Yuri shoves me a little too enthusiastically, my face connects with the floor, and my nose really does start to bleed. It hurts, but it makes things seem more real, so I don’t try to stop it. Yuri hauls me to my feet and drags me from the cell.
“Perhaps some time alone will change your attitude,” he says as he parades me down the hallway.
By the time we reach the stairs, the whole floor is buzzing. Also, more guards have appeared. As Yuri marches me by them, they eye me like a prize that they wish they’d been lucky enough to catch.
“Do you need help administering his lesson?” one asks.
Yuri laughs. “Get your own student, Kirill,” he barks.
I can tell that the men relish the idea of being allowed to hurt me. Their hunger is evident in the way they leer and joke. I can’t even imagine what it must be like for the prisoners who have to live here. Especially ones like Falkenrath, who have so little fight left in them to begin with. The years here must have been hell for him. I hope that our plan to get him out works.
Yuri manhandles me down more stairs and into a small storage room, where he shuts the door. “Good,” he says, switching to English. “Falkenrath should be on his way to infirmary. Sorry about nose. Now we get Brecht.”
“Where is he?” I ask, wiping my nose on my sleeve. The bleeding has mostly stopped.
“Other wing,” says Yuri. He takes a bag out from behind a stack of boxes. “Put these on. You just promoted from prisoner to guard.”
The bag contains a uniform like the one Yuri is wearing. I quickly put it on. Then Yuri hands me a pistol. I put it into my pocket. It feels good to have a weapon other than the knife, which anyway was left behind in the cell upstairs. I stuff my prisoner clothes into the bag, which Yuri tosses into a trash can.
Yuri takes out another bag, and we bring this one with us as we head for the part of the prison where Brecht is housed. I keep my head down, in case anyone recognizes the prisoner who came through earlier, but nobody pays any attention to me. If they do, we’ve prepared a story about my being a new guard Yuri has been charged with showing around Taganka.
The area where Brecht is looks exactly like the one where Falkenrath was. Cell after cell is filled with prisoners. Now, though, they are waking up. Somehow, word of the events in the other wing has reached here, and there is an undercurrent of unrest. The guards who are ending their shift are anxious to leave, and the ones coming on are not pleased to be here. It’s exactly what we hoped for.
“They will open the cells soon for morning showers,” Yuri says. “We must be ready to go.”
We’ve decided that the best time to act is while the prisoners are going back and forth to the communal bathroom at the end of the hall. The bag Yuri carries contains a small, simple explosive device that he and Tolya have made. It’s designed more to make noise and smoke than to destroy anything. Once we light the fuse, we have a short time to get away from it.
A guard blows a whistle indicating that the first group of prisoners should file into the corridor and walk to the bathroom. We know that Brecht ought to be among them. We pretend to patrol the hallway, looking for him. When he appears, coming out of a cell halfway down the hallway, Yuri nods at me. We walk toward his cell but do not address him in any way.
The line of men shuffles toward the washroom. When they have passed us, we slip into Brecht’s cell. Yuri takes the bomb from the bag and tucks it underneath the bed. He lights the fuse, and we walk quickly out of the room, heading back in the direction of the bathroom. We are almost to the door when there is a loud noise and black smoke billows out of Brecht’s cell.
Immediately, people begin running and yelling. Guards come rushing down the hallway, both to see what has happened and to keep control of the prisoners. They’re yelling for them to get back in their cells. Many comply, but others are refusing to go. The guards grab them and push them. Soon the hallway is a confusion of bodies.
Yuri and I duck into the bathroom. A few men are already in the showers and haven’t heard the racket. Others are lined up, waiting their turn. They look at us as we walk among them.
“Back to your cells!” Yuri shouts. “Now!”
The men are used to obeying, and most obey. Brecht is one of them. As he walks by us, I take him by the arm. “Not you,” I say in German.
He startles, surprised to hear me use his native language. I lean in and say, “Come with me. Your daughter sent me.”
These are apparently the magic words, as Brecht doesn’t hesitate to walk with me and Yuri as we leave the bathroom and press into the crowded hallway. Fighting against the tide of bodies, we manage to get to the end and into the stairway. There Yuri removes his coat and puts it around Brecht, who is swallowed up in it. He is not at all convincing as a guard, particularly as he is not wearing shoes, but it will have to do.
We hustle him down the stairs. Either because most of the guards are upstairs, or through sheer luck, we make it without encountering anyone. Yuri pushes a door open, and we’re in a courtyard where there is a GAZ-55 ambulance waiting. Ott is sitting in the driver’s seat. We usher Brecht to the ambulance and push him inside.
“You stay here,” Yur
i tells me. “Wait for Falkenrath.”
He turns and goes back into the prison. I climb into the back of the ambulance and pull the door shut. One side of the interior is filled with a stretcher and the sole passenger seat. Brecht is sitting on the seat. Ott, in the front, is turned to him. Their hands are clasped.
“Is it really you, Tobias?” Brecht asks.
“Yes,” says Ott. “It is good to see you again, Oswald.”
“Are we escaping?” Brecht says. “What are we waiting for?” he asks.
“My father,” Ott tells him.
“Helmut?” he says. “You’re getting him out as well?”
“We’re trying,” I say.
I wonder what’s happening inside Taganka’s infirmary. By now, Falkenrath should be there, and Ariadne should be playing her part in the operation. It’s a risky part, for everyone involved, and a lot could go wrong. There’s nothing I can do about it, though. Nothing but wait.
As Ott and Brecht talk, I sit with my eyes glued to the door to the prison. If all goes well, it should be opening at any moment. If it doesn’t, we will leave with Brecht, and Ariadne will be on her own. I stare at the door, willing it to open. Come on, I think. Come on. Get out of there.
The door opens, and someone comes out. But it’s not someone bringing Falkenrath to the ambulance. It’s someone I’ve never seen before. And he’s holding a gun.
CHAPTER 11
Ariadne
Helmut Falkenrath is not a good patient. A quick glance at his wound tells me that Boone has not injured him badly. But there is a lot of blood, and the scientist is frightened, which probably contributes to his hysteria.
“I’m dying!” he wails in German as I clean the cut with antiseptic wash.
“You’re not dying,” I tell him, also in German.
This calms him somewhat, although he continues to moan and gasp with every touch of the cotton on his skin. I wish I could inform him that, if all goes well, he’ll soon be out of Taganka Prison and reunited with his son, but the risk of exciting him further is too great. And if he knew what he’s going to have to endure before that reunion, he would likely get up from the bed on which he’s lying and run screaming from the infirmary.