He took off his shoes and overcoat and relaxed onto the bed. A sudden thought caused him to spring up in alarm.
He’d forgotten to check for bugs.
Lying back down, he focused his concentration, letting his mind’s eye wander over every bit of the room. It was difficult to pinpoint inanimate objects, but if he concentrated hard enough, he could perceive the faint electrical impressions. There was one microphone hidden in the molding, and another in the base of the lamp. A third--a small transmitter--was cleverly concealed in the ornamentation on the doorframe, broadcasting the room’s conversations to strangers at their radios. Toivo assumed that every room in the hotel was similarly equipped, the dramas and secrets inside laid bare to faceless voyeurs.
He went deeper and let his consciousness creep out through the walls, running like vines through the brick and steel of the building. The tiny life forces of mice darted in and out of his perception, and down on the ground floor, he saw the vague psychic outlines of guards. Electrified cables laced the walls like luminous veins; Toivo let himself be carried along in the current. There was no one else in any of the other rooms. All channels would be tuned in to him.
Charming the physical world took enormous effort. In a human body, Toivo could only manage to toy with the energy of objects--and only because the forces of light and electricity felt natural to him. If he concentrated very hard, sometimes he could get enough of himself past the barrier of his body to affect the flow.
He tried now, focusing on the little microphones in the walls. For an instant he was inside them, a sudden surge that warped their foils and shorted them into oblivion--and then he was out, back inside the body prone upon an ugly bedspread.
Toivo breathed a deep sigh of relief. Now he was truly alone. Suddenly, exhaustion enveloped him like a blanket; he no longer had the strength to keep his eyes open. He drifted off on top of the covers, still dressed in his tailored tweed suit.
He was awakened by a tapping at the windowpane.
The cut-out? he thought blearily as he roused himself. A messenger from the others. He slid his feet to the floor.
He opened the blinds to find a gray dove sitting on the windowsill, preening its feathers. It cocked its head and cooed, begging to come in from the night.
He cracked the window. The dove fluttered into the room and perched with dignity upon his outstretched arm.
“Zophiel.”
Toivo started, hearing his true name encoded in the cooing of the dove. What might have sounded like an animal murmur to normal humans came through to him as a double voice, steganography for his ears alone.
“It is I,” he replied softly.
“You are here safe. Good. Message for you,” the bird said, struggling to express the sentiments that had been imprinted upon its dim mind.
“Go ahead.”
“Documents to be left in dead-drop. Will contact you when safe to retrieve.”
The bird paused, looking around distractedly. Toivo had to wave a finger in front of it to force it to focus.
“Forest Clan is expecting you,” it continued. “Contact case officer for further instructions. End of message.”
“I copy,” Toivo replied. “Tell the others I got through safely.” He thought for a minute before adding, “And tell them that this time, we’ll win.”
He blessed the dove, and gently set it back on the windowsill. It looked back at him as though asking if there was anything he wanted to add; he shook his head and waved it out.
“Keep safe, little bird,” he whispered as the dove took flight, its pale wings shining in the faint light of the moon. He watched until it vanished over the top of the next building, then softly shut the window.
**
A black shadow roosted atop the clock tower in Market Square, keeping a keen watch over its domain. The raven had noted the anomaly of the dove’s nocturnal flight; it had grown progressively more interested as it saw a man bring the dove into his window and speak with it. The familiar act alone merited investigation. The raven had missed the conversation, but guessed that tailing the bird might yield further details.
After all, the raven thought, the Boss pays better for that kinda report.
The raven spread its wings and leapt into the air. With a whisper of dusky feathers, it swept down upon the oblivious dove. It wheeled and turned expertly to keep out of sight of its mark, until a sudden movement in an alleyway below caught its eye.
A figure in shabby clothes skulked through the darkness. The raven circled above the alleyway, suddenly interested.
Curiosity getting the better of it, the raven perched on a lamppost to observe the suspicious figure. It could bother with the dove later--this seemed worthy of attention.
Kaija ran. As her boots struck the cobblestones, she felt like every echo was an alarm bell, a shout in the silence calling disaster. She slowed and crumpled against the frozen wall, trying to catch her breath as she swallowed the blood-iron tang of her saliva.
The act of breaking curfew was risky, but it was nothing compared to what would happen if she were caught tonight. She clutched the bundle more tightly to the breast of her old men’s overcoat, and, gritting her teeth, raced off again.
I can’t be caught. I can’t be caught.
She repeated the words like a mantra--a chant keeping time with the beat of her steps. It didn’t matter what happened to her. To let the others down, to put their lives at risk was a far worse fate than anything she might endure in the basement of the State Security Building. They had entrusted this task to her and she would carry it out or die. For her comrades. For her friends. For Kalevia.
A bright glow ahead indicated the end of the passageway. Kaija dashed to the turn and hid just around the corner, peering out to plan her next move. This was the tricky part. She knew all of Old Town by heart--her mental map built from years of exploring--and she had faith in her route through the shortcuts and back streets of the city. Tonight, she had planned the quickest and quietest course with one concession: she would have to cross Market Square.
Although a cheery gathering place in daylight, Market Square now loomed vast and cold ahead of her. The buildings rose enormous and twisted in the darkness; the frozen fountain seemed as distant as a dream. Floodlights illuminated the huge realist murals that lined the plaza and cast harsh glares over the stones. As she stared at the bold faces of the Heroes of the Revolution, terror rushed over her and threatened to drag her under. She could still turn back...
Kaija breathed in the wet wool smell of the scarf that hid her face and willed herself back to the moment. After coming this far, there was no way she could abandon the cause. She selected a memory and turned it over in her mind like a bitter pill.
Dad...
She closed her eyes and counted down from ten. Then, like a hare flushed from the bush, she raced out into the open.
Time seemed to slow down as she sprinted across the square, dilating as in a disaster. She tore in and out of pools of light, expecting to hear the shriek of a policeman’s whistle. The dark windows of the clock tower all seemed to be watching, countless eyes judging and condemning her.
Suddenly, she was in the glare of the floodlights, her shadow writ large across the face of Lenin. Her body went numb with dread.
This was the end. She was on display for all to see. She stumbled blindly forward, sure that she would hear shouts ring out.
But none came. In an instant she was down a flight of steps into the reassuring darkness of another alley.
How had they missed her? Were the night guards watching their own searchlights? When she finally accepted that no one was coming for her, she paused in the shadow of a doorway, taking great gulps of the winter air as she waited for her heart to steady.
Her ears rang in the nighttime quiet. Gradually, she became aware of another sound at the faintest edge of her hearing: the crack and strain of ice. Her chest filled with a warm rush of relief. She might be able to pull this off, after all.
&n
bsp; A few more twists and turns in the darkness, and she was at the river. Rows of warehouses lined the stone banks, with stairways and cranes leading down to frozen docks. The Kalevajoki still ran like a black ribbon between plains of ice; she watched the dark waters slide by before turning to the abandoned building behind her.
The location of the drop, she thought. If I figured this right.
She slunk around to the side of the warehouse, and in no time found the mark: a shape like a tiny leaf, painted low upon the door. She tested the entrance to see if it was locked and cautiously ventured inside. Dim light filtered in from the grimy windows, falling on piles of broken bricks and discarded pallets. She could barely pick out the appointed low grate in the riverside wall.
She hurried over and wrenched the metal grating away to reveal a hollow space. She gently laid her small, cloth-wrapped box inside. As she pushed the box back into the shadows, she soundlessly mouthed a plea to it to stay hidden until the intended recipient came to claim it. She didn’t know what it contained, but they’d told her that it meant a great deal to the rebellion.
That was enough for her. She replaced the grate and crept away, trying not to leave obvious footsteps in the dust that covered the floor.
She returned by another path, following the river. Free of the box, she felt as though nothing mattered anymore; she could almost enjoy her night run over walls and through the narrow spaces behind shops. As the buildings became older and shabbier, her spirits soared at the familiarity of neighborhood sights. Only a few more blocks and she would be safe within her little room, warming her hands at the stove.
A flashlight beam from around the corner split the night like a knife. Kaija dove for the nearest cover: a rubbish pile of old crates by the back door of the butcher shop. She shivered there, drowning in the reek of chicken feathers, as the policeman slowly approached, rhythmically swinging his light back and forth across his path.
A stone of horror sank in her stomach as stories of the frozen prison camps flooded back to her. Visions of torment filled her mind. She bit into her lip to keep from whimpering, a hair’s breadth away from the madness of a cornered animal.
But when the man was nearly upon her, a tomcat yowled from the stoop. It scampered off as it was caught by the beam.
She heard the patrolman chuckle. He continued his slow progress.
The nightmares subsided, leaving nothing in their wake but simple gratitude for the cat.
She stayed in the garbage until long after the man had gone, pulling the flaps of her ushanka hat down around her ears to blot out the world.
She finally stopped shaking, and crawled out of the rank pile. She sat on the stones and looked up at the starry sky.
Then, gathering her courage, she raced the last steps to the back door of her decrepit apartment building.
As the door swung shut, she barely heard the call of a raven in the distance.
**
As the city slept, the raven soared through the streets and over the moonlit rooftops of Vainola. It made a few lazy circles above the upscale neighborhood where the Party elite made their homes.
The bird finally selected a modern apartment building, and swooped down to land on the sill of a top floor window. It struck its beak against the rime-covered pane.
After a moment’s pause, the window opened, and two strong hands offered themselves as a perch. The raven hopped on.
**
“Did you see anything interesting tonight?” inquired the Angel of Shadow, stroking the raven’s neck feathers. “Tell me everything, friend.”
The bird croaked its reply. Demyan laughed--a rich, velvet sound in the darkness.
“My, you have had quite an evening.”
He listened intently to the raven’s story, his hazel eyes widening in excitement. His informants had certainly earned their keep tonight. The lad with the suspicious parcel was definitely worth looking into, but who was this young westerner sending messages by dove?
It smacked of angelic machinations, and Demyan’s blood stirred at the prospect of a rival agent appearing in his territory. Finally, a break from the monotony of the political games--a chance to play himself against another operative of his caliber. This new troublemaker wouldn’t last, of course, but going after an angel for the first time in who knows how long was going to be delicious.
I need to check the stars, he thought. Divine my next move. And then the chase would begin.
The raven hopped to the desk and began to eat from a tin of biscuits. Demyan snapped his fingers.
“Are you staying or going? It’s getting cold in here.” He indicated the open window.
The bird, apparently full, flapped off into the night. Demyan fell back onto his bed, his heart pounding as he hugged himself.
He fought the urge to follow the raven, dashing off into the sky to seek the new interloper. His chance would come soon enough.
Patience, he warned himself. His fingers dug into his sides.
Patience.
Chapter 2
The moon had set hours ago and the rail yard was black as pitch when the boy, Martin, followed his four companions over the ridge. They paused at the crest, waiting for a subtle sign to pass between them before pressing on down the slope. Martin was relieved to hear they made no sound, save for the whispered crush of frost underfoot; their movements were darting and skittish as they crept forward, hunched almost double, occasionally stopping to raise their heads like wild animals testing the air for a predator’s scent. He felt like part of a herd of deer moving single file, loath to leave the periphery of the pine forest into open danger.
They reached the fence by the tracks and hunkered down beside it. One of them, a stringy man with spectacles, produced a pair of wire cutters from his canvas rucksack and went to work, severing the links with rhythmic precision. Martin chewed his knuckles as the snaps of metal echoed in the still air, but there was no cry from within, no notice taken of their labors. The cabin on the hill remained dark--the soldiers stationed there, asleep. Far off, by the main depot, a lone guard walked back and forth under the single floodlight, seemingly making his rounds less out of diligence than a desire to keep warm. Martin watched him with bated breath, but the guard continued his pacing.
In no time at all, they’d opened a hole in the fence large enough to squeeze through. The de facto leader of the group--a tall, broad-shouldered man known as Klaus--placed a hand on the nearest shoulder and nodded in appreciation.
“Let’s go,” he said in his hushed baritone.
One of the twins came forward with a large satchel, which he handled slowly and gingerly. His brother watched, eyes wide in the darkness, as the bespectacled man opened it and removed a spool of fuse. Martin could barely make out his furtive movements, but he couldn’t miss the sickly sweet smell of nitroglycerin that wafted from the bag.
Preparations complete, the bespectacled man slipped through the fence and was gone. Klaus quickly gave the twins instructions to remain and flash the signal if they saw anyone approaching. Martin hung back until Klaus handed him a penlight and pulled him in the direction of the hole.
“You, too, Martin. Hold this so he can see what he’s doing.”
Unable to risk lighting their way, they stumbled slowly through the yard, tripping on mounds and gravel, past the looming black shapes of clapboard buildings. Martin could barely make out the silhouette of the depot up ahead, where the army trains stopped for supplies on the way north to the prisons. He thought about the bounty contained within those walls; he wished they had the time to grab a few guns to round out their pitiful munitions. He knew it was better no one have them if the other option was Communist control, but it seemed a bit of a waste, really.
They found their way to the back of the building, shielded from the eyes of the patrolling guard, before the demolition man opened his bag once more and carefully withdrew a large bundle. Martin turned on his tiny light, revealing a pack of rods about the size of his forearm, wrapped in brown p
aper. The expert pushed his glasses up his nose and got down to business.
The warehouse was situated on a cinderblock foundation, slightly raised to avoid the swampy mud of the spring thaw. Properly concealed beneath the floor, the dynamite would do enough damage to destroy most of what was contained within. Martin tried to hold his hand steady as he made the plant. Klaus stared off into the darkness, sweeping the yard with his sentinel gaze. He stiffened.
“Hold on. Look.”
From back at the fence, a tiny pinpoint winked frantically. Danger, danger.
Bright light flashed over them. There stood the night guard, his jaw slack in disbelief.
No one moved. Martin could see the shine of the man’s wide, puzzled eyes, his face lit from below by the reflected glow of his torch beam. The fool had missed the crucial moment to shout for help.
He went for his rifle. Klaus sprang at him like a panther, clamping a hand over his face and yanking him around the corner into blackness.
There was the sound of a brief struggle and a small, stifled cry. A long pause left Martin and the demolition man trembling with anxiety, hands gripping fuse and blasting cap. Then Klaus rushed around the side of the building, panting, eyes wild.
His large hands were wet with blood. As he bent over them, Martin could smell it thick on his clothes--a rusty, bestial funk. He tried not to gag as he swallowed the salty saliva that flooded his mouth.
“Is he...?” Martin's voice slipped out in a shameful squeak.
Klaus grabbed him roughly with a gory hand and stared down at him. Martin suffered there a moment, cold sweat prickling in his armpits, before Klaus turned from him with a snort and began wiping down his hunting knife.
“Hurry.”
The demolition man inserted the cap into the tidy bundle of brown paper. He made his retreat, running the fuse wire behind him as he went. Klaus followed and Martin joined him, jogging close by his leader’s side.
Dusk in Kalevia Page 2