by James Frey
The syringe containing the drug that will “kill” Falkenrath is in my pocket. Before I administer it, I want to tend to his wound. This also gives Boone and Yuri time to liberate Brecht and get him to the ambulance as well. When Falkenrath was brought into the infirmary by two guards, it was a great relief to know that the first part of our plan had worked so well.
The nurse in charge of the prison hospital is a sour, pinch-faced woman who is more concerned with drinking her morning tea and eating the vatrushka sitting on a plate on her desk than she is with attending to the patients, so I have been left alone to do all the work. There are eight men in the beds that line both sides of the room. Most have wounds from fights of various kinds, although two have deep, rattling coughs that suggest something more serious. From what I’ve been told, it is our job to patch them up and get them back into their cells as quickly as possible.
I take a needle and pass the catgut through its eye. Clamping the needle between the jaws of a driver, I prepare to begin sewing Falkenrath up. This should take only a few minutes, after which it will be time to give him the injection. I still don’t know exactly what is in the syringe, but Yuri has assured me that it will be effective at mimicking the symptoms of cardiac arrest, after which Falkenrath will go into a coma state and appear dead, at least to anyone who does not examine him carefully, which I don’t believe the nurse in charge will do. She has made it clear by her indifference that the lives of prisoners are not valued commodities at Taganka, even the lives of men like Helmut Falkenrath. I think of all the scientists, writers, dissidents, and other intellectuals who are living inside these walls, imprisoned here because of supposed crimes against the powers in charge, and how most of them will simply disappear, never to be heard from again. It’s such a waste of life, and it saddens me.
I am about to push the needle through Falkenrath’s skin to make the first stitch when a male voice behind me says, “Be careful with that one, Strekalova. We would like for him to live.”
I start to respond that I will do my best, when I realize what he has called me. Strekalova. My name when I was undercover with the MGB. My blood runs cold. I turn slowly and look at who has spoken.
I recognize the face. He is someone who worked in the MGB office in Berlin, although we never had occasion to work together. It takes me another moment to recall his name, but I am able to retrieve it. “Morozov,” I say.
He smiles. He is not holding a weapon that I can see, but his hands are in his pockets, and so it is possible he is armed. More important, he is blocking my way out of the room, standing between me and the only door. The head nurse is seated behind us, and she does not appear to have heard what he’s said to me.
“I am surprised to see you here,” Morozov says. “I did not know you were a nurse.”
I smile even as every nerve in my body tenses for action. “You learn many things when you serve in the army,” I say.
“Indeed,” he says. He takes a few steps closer, until he is standing beside the bed across from me, with Falkenrath between us. The scientist is listening to our conversation, but he says nothing. “I was greatly surprised when I heard that you had left Berlin,” Morozov continues. “It was very sudden.”
So, he knows. But what is he going to do about it? Perhaps he thinks that he has me trapped in the room with nowhere to go, and so he is not concerned. This would be a mistake on his part. Still, it is not only myself I am worried about. I am supposed to be getting Falkenrath out of this place. Now I don’t see how I can do that without a fight. A fight I don’t have time for.
“It is too bad what happened to Utkin,” Morozov says. He lifts his hand and draws an extended finger across his throat. Then he laughs.
Falkenrath is looking from me to Morozov. He senses that something is going on, although he has no idea what it is. He is also still in pain from his wound, which I have not sewn shut. The needle remains in my hand, poised above his abdomen. Now I hold it up to show Morozov.
“If you will excuse me, I have a patient to attend to.”
Morozov’s face hardens. He reaches into his pocket. “I think perhaps someone else should take over for you,” he says. “Nurse! Come here.”
The head nurse looks up. “What do you need?”
Morozov turns his head to answer her. As he does, I leap out of the chair I am sitting in. At the same time, I draw the loaded syringe from my pocket. Before Morozov knows what’s happening, I jab the needle into his arm and depress the plunger. He roars and pulls his arm away, the needle still stuck in it. But it’s too late. Whatever is in the syringe is now coursing through his body.
“Get up!” I say to Falkenrath.
“I’m wounded!” he objects.
“You’ll be worse than that if you stay here,” I tell him, pulling him out of the bed.
He comes with me, clutching his stomach. Morozov attempts to grab us, but already his body is racked with spasms. His face reddens and contorts, and his mouth opens in a silent roar as he clutches at his chest. Falkenrath and I slip past him and head for the door as the nurse screams behind us.
Unfortunately, her screams draw the attention of the guards in the hallway. They turn and look as I leave the infirmary with Falkenrath ahead of me. When they see a prisoner they think is attempting to make an escape, they draw their guns.
“Get down!” I tell Falkenrath.
He doesn’t listen. What’s happened in the infirmary has frightened him, and he panics. He runs toward the guards yelling for them to help him. They ignore him, firing their weapons. Falkenrath falls to the floor, blood pooling out from half a dozen wounds. I can tell that he will not get up again.
It hits me with full force that I’ve lost Ott’s father. But I have no time to waste mourning for a man I’ve never met before today. I have to think of my own survival. For the moment, the guards think that I am a nurse chasing an escaping patient. They lower their guns as I approach Falkenrath’s body and kneel beside it, pretending to check for a pulse.
“Are you all right?” one of them asks as another runs to the infirmary to see why the other nurse is still shrieking. I have only a few seconds.
I do not have a gun, but there is a knife tucked into the pocket of my nurse’s uniform, and I’ve always preferred fighting with a knife. I draw it and throw it at the nearest guard. It enters his eye, and he falls. I pull the knife out, get up, and run down the hallway. I know that Ott is waiting in an ambulance in the courtyard. That’s where I need to get to. I have memorized the map Yuri drew of the prison, and I have only to run down this corridor, turn left, and go to the end. There the door will open into the outside.
As I turn the corner, I see someone else running. It’s a man. He’s ahead of me, and he hits the door to the courtyard and goes out. I hear him yell. I don’t know who he is, but I know he’s bad news for me and for whoever is waiting for me in the courtyard.
I run hard for the door, waiting to hear shots. I do not. Behind me there are shouts. The second guard has discovered his friend dead, and now his booted feet pound on the floor as he comes after me. There is nowhere to hide. I have no cover if he starts shooting. I have to get out.
The first shots are fired from behind me just as I reach the door. They hit the wall over my head as I push the door open and burst into the courtyard. There I find the man who was ahead of me, standing with his gun pointed at Boone, who is climbing out of the ambulance with his hands raised.
The man with the gun turns. I kick out with one foot, pivoting at the hip, and connect with his arm. The gun fires, but I’ve thrown him off balance, and the bullet strikes the building behind me. Before the man can collect himself, I’m on top of him, using my knife to make him no longer a problem.
“We have to go!” I call to Boone. “There are more coming.”
“Where’s Falkenrath?” he asks.
“Dead,” I tell him.
Boone looks shocked. So does Ott, who has gotten out of the ambulance. He looks around, as if perhaps his
father is somewhere and he just hasn’t seen him. “Dead?” he says.
“The guards killed him.”
Before I can say anything else, Ott gets back into the ambulance. It starts up just as the door behind me flies open and the guard who has been chasing me comes out. I turn to meet him, and hear the ambulance roar away. Boone yells something, but I’m too busy with the guard to hear what it is. I make quick work of him, then turn my attention back to Boone.
“That wasn’t part of the plan,” I say, every doubt I’ve had about Ott’s loyalty now ringing like warning bells in my head.
“He was probably afraid and wanted to get Brecht to safety,” Boone says, but he sounds unconvinced.
The door to the prison opens once more, but this time it is Yuri who emerges. He looks at the two dead guards and says, “You must go. Now. Return to apartment. I will be there when I can.”
Boone and I don’t wait for him to tell us twice. We run out of the courtyard. Thankfully, it is still dark, and we are able to hide from the flashlight beams that shortly begin sweeping the area. We hear the voices of the guards calling to one another, but they don’t know where we’ve gone, and we’re able to slip away from Taganka and into the streets without being seen.
It takes us some time to return to the building where Yuri and Oksana live. When we get there, Tolya lets us in. When we ask him if Ott has been there, he shakes his head no.
“Where do you think he’s gone?” I ask Boone.
“I wish I knew,” he says.
“Do you think he’s crossed us?” I ask. It’s what I’ve been wondering since hearing the ambulance drive away.
“I wish I knew that too,” Boone says. “For right now, let’s just assume he was afraid that Brecht would also be killed if he waited.”
I can’t help noticing that Tolya seems edgier than usual. He’s walking around the small apartment, fidgeting and looking nervous. I suppose he could simply be worried about his friends, but this seems to be more than that.
“What do you know?” I ask him in Russian.
He glances at the door, as if he is thinking of running.
“You won’t make it out,” I say. “I promise you that.”
Surprisingly, he laughs. “None of us will make it out,” he says bitterly. He looks at me, and now the shy boy is gone, replaced by something with a harder edge. “Do you know what they did?” he asks. “Stalin’s army? During the war? They sent children to fight. They sent dogs to fight. Dogs with bombs strapped to their backs. They starved them, then tossed meat underneath German tanks so that the dogs would go to get it and the bombs would explode.”
He looks haunted, as if he is remembering something unspeakable. “I was only eleven when I was taken to fight,” he says. “Given a rifle and told to shoot anything that didn’t look like a Red Army soldier. Then they assigned me to the dogs, because I was good with them. They liked me. When I saw what they were doing with them, I cried, so I was beaten for being weak, for caring about dogs more than about my countrymen. And so I learned not to cry. Instead I was kind to the dogs, because I knew they were going to die, and I wanted them to know that someone loved them.”
He looks away. “Stalin does not care about us any more than he cared about those dogs. We are just tools for him—things with no purpose but the one he assigns to us. And when he is done with us, or when we refuse to do as he asks, we disappear.”
I think I’m beginning to understand. “What did Ott promise you?”
“A weapon,” he says. “A weapon to help us regain our country for ourselves.”
I look over at Boone. I don’t know how much of our conversation he’s understood, as it’s all been in Russian, but from the look on his face, I think he has the general idea.
“What was his plan?” he asks Tolya.
“To get his father and the other scientist out of Taganka, then convince you to reveal the plans for the weapon.”
“And then?”
“Either share it—or kill you.”
“And in exchange for helping, he would let you use it on whatever targets you have in mind,” Boone says.
Tolya nods.
“And you trusted him to actually do this?” I say.
“We do not have many options,” Tolya says. “And Ott despises the Soviets as much as we do.”
This is true. And maybe Ott would allow them to use the weapon, as long as it suited his purposes. However, I think there is more going on than any of us know. More to Ott than we even suspected.
I am about to say as much when there is a knock on the door. Boone stands, removes his pistol, and moves so that he is out of sight. I nod at Tolya to go to the door, keeping my hand on my knife, as my pistol is still in my bag in the bedroom.
Tolya goes to the door. “Who is it?”
A child’s voice responds. This does not mean there is no reason to worry, however. I think back to the incident in Europa’s apartment in Berlin. It could be a ruse. So as Tolya undoes the locks and opens the door, I do not relax at all.
The child is alone. It is a boy of maybe six or seven. He hands Tolya an envelope. “I was told to bring this to you.”
“By whom?” Tolya asks.
The child shrugs. “A man,” he says. “He gave me fifty kopecks to bring it.”
The boy leaves, and Tolya shuts the door. He opens the envelope and takes out a piece of paper. He looks at it, then hands it to me. “It’s for you,” he says. “From Ott.”
I take the paper and read it.
“He wants us to meet him,” I say. “To talk.”
“Talk about what?” Boone asks.
“He doesn’t say,” I tell him. “But I’m guessing it will involve the weapon and not killing Brecht. He probably wants to make a deal. There’s only one way we’re going to find out.”
“When and where?”
“Tonight. In Gorky Park.”
“What do we do until then?”
I crumple the note up and toss it on the table. “We wait,” I say. “And we make a plan.”
CHAPTER 12
Boone
The Moscow River is a frozen ribbon dotted with fishing huts, the lanterns inside spilling golden light onto the black ice. The snow that was falling most of the afternoon has stopped, and stars diamond the clear sky as Ariadne and I make our way along the walking path and deep into Gorky Park. The temperature has tumbled to well below freezing, and not many people are out. Those that are bustle by quickly, heading for shelter and warmth. No one looks at us. It’s as if the park is filled only with shadows sliding silently in and out of the trees.
We’ve had all day to discuss what Ott might want. We still aren’t sure. Tolya had little else to tell us, and when Yuri and Oksana returned to the apartment, they were equally unhelpful. The incident at Taganka is being blamed on Nazi sympathizers, and the death of Helmut Falkenrath credited to the bravery of the guards who thwarted the “terrorist activity.” The escape of Oswald Brecht has been covered up for now, although Yuri says that, privately, the prison authorities are in a panic and terrified that they will face stiff consequences for his disappearance. The government does not like it when prisoners slip through their fingers, especially political prisoners. Someone will have to pay.
At first we weren’t sure if we should even stay in the apartment, after finding out that Ott had promised the group use of the weapon in exchange for their help. But we had nowhere else to go, and Ariadne argued that we were better off knowing what they were up to than leaving and wondering. And she was right. Both Yuri and Oksana seemed genuinely surprised by Ott’s behavior, and I think they honestly believed that we would willingly help them with their cause in exchange for their assistance.
We are still having a conversation about them as we walk to Gorky Park.
“They are part of a group that is looking for any way out of their current situation,” Ariadne says. “They are small, and without resources. Their battle seems impossible to win, and probably it is. It’s no su
rprise they would agree to help Ott.”
She’s right. It’s something I can’t really imagine living with, being so afraid of what your government might do to you that you would risk everything to try to stop them. I think Yuri, Oksana, and Tolya are good people. Ott, I’m not so sure about. Although he says his interest is in fighting oppression, I think he really wants the weapon to take revenge on the people who put his father in Taganka Prison. And now maybe Ariadne and I are also on that list. His father died while we were supposed to be getting him out. I’m sure he blames us.
“He’s going to try to trade Brecht for the weapon,” Ariadne says.
It’s the obvious thing. But I’m not so sure. “He needs Brecht to make sense of the plans,” I remind her. “Without him, he’s starting from zero.”
“Maybe Brecht has agreed to help him,” Ariadne says. “Maybe once Ott has the weapon, Brecht will help him anyway, and this is all a trick to get us to hand it over.”
“He should know we wouldn’t bring the weapon with us to Moscow,” I say.
“Except that we did,” Ariadne reminds me.
We did. It is not an ideal situation, but I was uncomfortable leaving it behind in France, so far away. While Lottie might have been entrusted with it, I don’t entirely know where her loyalties lie, and at any rate, having it or knowing where it is would put her in more danger than she is already in. It was best to leave her ignorant regarding its whereabouts. And so we brought it with us, making sure that at all times one or both of us has been awake to keep it safe from Ott in the event that he went looking for it. This morning was the most perilous time, as we didn’t dare leave it in the apartment while we were in Taganka, and had nowhere else to put it. Also, in the event that neither of us returned from the mission, we didn’t want anyone who knew anything about the weapon to stumble upon it. In the end, we separated the tube containing the plans from the box holding the weapon pieces. The box we hid in the basement of the apartment building, tucked inside a broken boiler. Not the best place, but the best we could do given the circumstances.