by Talia Carner
At first, Olga had missed the noises of the woods, the rustling, crackling, twittering, swishing sounds of dry leaves made by small animals, birds, and wind. Eventually, though, she had become accustomed to the hum of engines. Instead, she had trained her ears to hear the cooing of the pigeons that nested in her attic and flew in and out through the small window Viktor had cut. Some winters, Viktor killed pigeons for meat, and she cooked them with carrots and preserved grapes. The trick was not to get too attached to the birds; she had stopped giving them names.
Ignoring stabs of pain, she moved on to fertilizing each furrow with crushed eggshells she had collected. She paid no attention to the car that swerved off the road as it neared her small cabin. Only when it skipped over the bumpy shoulder and tore through the hedge did she lift her head.
A shield on the driver’s cap reflected the sun. Was that a police officer behind the wheel? Why didn’t he even try to stop?
Chapter Forty-seven
THE CONCIERGE AT the hotel arranged for a private car to drive Brooke to the airport, where she would meet Svetlana. Judd would be there too, as he had to make last-minute arrangements to get on the flight to Frankfurt connecting to New York.
Brooke stood at the window of her hotel room. In the courtyard below, three women sat on stools, their aprons sagging with the weight of potatoes and carrots, which they peeled into bowls, their quick chattering sounding like an argument. A boy ambled about, banging a stick on iron grates and low windowsills, ignoring the women’s admonitions.
During the night Brooke had heard gunfire. Now everything looked so normal. Moscow. What a city of extremes, she thought, combining the shortages of a nation stuck in the hunting and gathering stage with the technological sophistication of a superpower; a city with political chaos equal to an underdeveloped African nation’s, yet whose people were educated and possessed a vision for the future.
An hour later, at the Sheremetyevo Airport bar, Brooke glanced around. What if Sidorov or his minions showed up? Beside her, Svetlana sliced a huge sandwich into bite-size pieces and fed them to Natasha. Brooke was afraid the little girl might get sick from too much food, as she herself had in her youth.
“We must head for passport control,” Brooke told Svetlana. She downed the last drop of her cappuccino, the sweet taste of home in her mouth. She hoped that the area beyond the lobby would offer protection from Sidorov, yet knew that she and Svetlana would be safe only once the plane took off. “Ready?” Brooke rose to her feet and took hold of her rolling case.
To her surprise, Svetlana grabbed her hand and kissed it, tears streaking down her cheeks. “Before, I cried because of my troubles, now I cry because I’m so happy. There is a word in German, Weltschmerz. It means world-weary. For the first time, I don’t feel that way.”
“You’ll have a good new life. You deserve it.” Brooke took out a tissue and dabbed Svetlana’s cheeks. “NHB is lucky to have you. Now let’s go.”
Svetlana touched her “Attitude Is Everything” button, prominently displayed on her lapel. “I will do anything they ask me. And even though I will be so honored to work at a German company, I will always admire Jews. Because of you, I’ll tell everybody that Jews have good hearts.”
Svetlana’s continuing awe at discovering that Jews weren’t the conniving, devious people she had been indoctrinated to believe annoyed Brooke. She would deal with it another time, after they had passed customs and she had located a working pay phone to call Norcress to find out the status of the negotiations with Olga. As she bent to pick up one of Svetlana’s bags to help move her along, something Olga had said came back to her. “By the way, how long have you known Aleksandr?” Brooke asked.
“A few years, maybe. I met him when he worked at the Economic Authority where my friend Katerina works.”
“When did he leave?”
“A year and a half ago he received an offer from EuroTours.” Svetlana pulled out a Ziploc bag from her purse and slipped the remainder of the sandwich inside. “He’s a good man. Doesn’t drink. You saw that he wears good leather shoes and a leather coat? It means that he makes good money.”
Brooke shook her head in amazement. The connections were so simple, so predictable. If only it had occurred to her to ask earlier. “What did he do while at the Economic Authority?”
“Special projects for Sidorov. Once Sidorov even took him on a trip to America.”
“Yes, he showed me photographs of a supermarket.”
Natasha pulled on her mother’s skirt, then whispered something, causing Svetlana to blush. “Natasha says you are more beautiful than Cinderella.”
“Thanks.” Brooke kissed Natasha’s head. “Let’s go to customs.”
“We want to go to the toilet. It’s clean here.”
Brooke sighed and put down her bags again, watching the ladies’ room door as if she could protect Svetlana and Natasha. She was relieved to spot Judd approaching.
He looked sprightly and fresh, and gave Brooke a big smile. “Got my ticket.”
She spoke in a low voice. “We’re not safe here—not even on the tarmac—until the plane takes off. What if Sidorov’s thugs show up? It’s easy to check the flight manifest and find that we’re on it.”
“With any luck, Sidorov himself will show up.”
“What?”
“Last night, he tried to get you into a corner, but you disappeared from under Aleksandr’s nose.”
Brooke glared at Judd. “I’ve just learned from Svetlana that Aleksandr has been in Sidorov’s service all along. When did you figure out the relationship?”
“Not soon enough, I’m sorry to say, because you hadn’t clued me in on your investigation.”
“Was the militia working for Sidorov too?” Brooke asked. “Was the threat of my arrest a hoax orchestrated by him?”
“The militia search for parliament rebels and sympathizers was for real. But it’s likely that once they were in the hotel, Aleksandr enlisted them for a little freelance job.”
Brooke was surprised that she was still capable of being surprised.
“Being a woman with star credentials, you must have been Sidorov’s best candidate for recruitment. That’s why Aleksandr kept notes on you. But you got away.” Judd regarded her, his head tilted. “His interest in you began even before Olga and you launched your investigation.”
“He’s the one who had arranged my visa in less than a day.”
“Here you go, then. He’s been trying from the start to find a way to enlist you into his service. That’s why he’s been following your movements.”
“Why, then, do you hope he’ll show up here personally?”
“Your findings about him have become my business because his international dealings must be watched. I’d like to hear what he’d want with you.”
Soon, everyone would know the truth about her. She might as well tell Judd now. “Sidorov has something over me,” she said, her voice cracking. “There are—there were—things in my life I believed had been buried.” Her hand reached to her Star of David. “Twenty years ago I posed for Penthouse in order to pay for college. Sidorov got the photos.”
Judd’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’m sorry. It is a shocker, but I understand.” He looked away, then back at her, and his eyes behind the rimless glasses reddened. “God knows I did things in Vietnam that are far worse. Survival, or the perception of what we need to do to survive, can make us jump out of character, but it doesn’t change who we are.”
This was so much easier than she had feared. Relieved, Brooke studied his face, but then her eyes caught past him a small man in an Italian-cut suit entering the cafeteria. His graying hair was brushed back from a peaked hairline. It took Brooke a few seconds to place him. “Roman Belgorov? What are you doing here?”
As he had done at Zagorsk two days earlier, the Russian took her hand and kissed it. When he raised his eyes, his expression was grave. His dark gaze shifted from her to Judd, assessing him.
A sense of foreb
oding enveloped Brooke. “You can speak freely.”
“I’m afraid I have bad news. Dr. Olga Rozanova is dead.”
Brooke’s skin went cold. She smelled the sting of the detergent used on the linoleum floor, felt the burning of a hangnail, heard the distant, irregular crackle of a P.A. system.
“This morning, a car crashed into the garden at her dacha while she was tending her vegetables,” Belgorov continued. “Looks like an accident.”
The words echoed in Brooke’s head. Her body went slack and heavy, and she staggered to the nearby chair. Suddenly, it was twenty years ago. She was lying in a bed in a white room, panting, exhausted, her life slipping away with the distant wail of the baby she would never see. Nothing left but searing loneliness and hopelessness. Judd crouched by her chair and placed an arm around her shoulders. “Brooke, I’m so sorry.”
She raised her eyes toward Belgorov. “How did you find out?”
“I was the one negotiating with Sidorov on her behalf,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know her personally before Monday, when you told me what was going on. I immediately contacted her through a mutual friend. As I told you, I work closely with Gaidar. I had hoped to begin a chain of releases from the mafia, which would maybe also uncover what happened to Yuri.” His voice wobbled. “And I would have, if only that American journalist had not released the article in spite of—”
She bolted upright. “What?”
“The Los Angeles Record transmitted the article over the newswire before dawn.”
The words hit her like a blow. Norcress. “I should never have trusted him!” she cried. “Olga’s death is my fault.”
“You took an enormous risk yourself. It could have been you,” Belgorov said.
A sob broke from her lips, and she pressed her temples. “Olga said that she would rest in her grave,” she murmured. “She never expected to get there so soon.”
Judd must have signaled the bar because a small glass of vodka materialized. “Drink,” he ordered.
“It’s only ten o’clock in the morning.” But she reached for the glass, noticing as she did how tightly her fists were clenched. She released them. Tiny crescent-shaped marks were etched into her palms. The sip of vodka she managed burned her tongue, throat, and stomach.
Belgorov pulled over a chair and sat down. “I want you to know that this chap, Norcress, called me. Apparently you had given him my number for Yuri’s story. Thanks. He asked me to tell you that his editor had published the story against their prior agreement, that he was very upset and wanted you to know that he had kept his end of the bargain with you.”
“What good does that do? Olga is dead.”
“For whatever comfort you may derive from it, you’d be glad to hear that your investigation with Olga and the exposure were not in vain. As soon as the newswire story came through, Sidorov was arrested.”
“But not before ordering Olga killed.” Her throat felt scratchy. She took another sip of the vodka. “Since he operated with direct authorization from the Kremlin, his arrest might very well be a token gesture. Yeltsin will release him within the hour, I’m sure.”
“One of Yeltsin’s less endearing traits is his disloyalty to his friends and backers,” Judd said. “People fall out of his favor as quickly as they come into it.”
Belgorov added, “Right now, there’s no one of authority between Yeltsin and Gaidar to countermand Gaidar’s arrest of Sidorov.”
“Is there any evidence to connect Sidorov to Olga’s death?” Judd asked Belgorov.
The Russian shook his head. “It would be safe to assume that the car’s owner won’t be associated with him. In fact, his car was driven by a local policeman.” He clasped his hands together on the table. “But thanks to you, Brooke, there’s plenty to connect Sidorov to the terrorizing of women’s cooperatives in the Moscow region.”
“Even if he does jail time,” Brooke said, “he’s accumulated more dollars, yen, and deutschemarks than he knows what to do with. He’ll resurface as an oligarch.” Her voice gathered rage. “His political connections will still be around, and with so many power axes crossing, Gaidar will soon fall out of favor.”
“Even in Russia it might be difficult for Sidorov to run for mayor of Moscow,” Judd said.
“I must call Viktor.”
Judd waved to Svetlana, who came out of the bathroom with Natasha, and pointed to the gate sign. “After we clear passport control and customs. I don’t relish the idea of missing our flight.” He picked up Brooke’s and Svetlana’s bags.
“Before you leave,” Belgorov told Brooke, “I have something for you.” His hand reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Brooke’s heart skipped a beat as she recognized the neat typing of her name and saw the red “Personal and Confidential” stamp. “It was on Sidorov when he was arrested. It’s addressed to you.”
Her tongue thick in her mouth, Brooke took the envelope and turned it over. The Scotch tape had left fraying marks, the tin clasp was broken. Sidorov must have had a laugh, and God knew who else had seen her naked body. “Thanks,” she said with a tight smile. Whatever Belgorov might have seen of her younger bare thighs and breasts, neither his face nor his demeanor showed it. She tucked the letter into her purse and clutched it to her chest.
Chapter Forty-eight
MOUNTING THE STAIRS from the tarmac, Brooke stopped before entering the plane and turned her head for a last glance at Moscow’s sky. A flock of ravens floated above. The last time she had seen ravens, less than a week before, she was fleeing the Gorbachevskaya Street Factory. She had thought then that that had been the worst scene she could ever witness.
Svetlana had been shocked by the news of Olga’s death. Her Russian passport had allowed her fast process, and she had rushed onto the plane with Natasha.
Brooke settled into her window seat and placed her Walkman in the pocket in front of her along with the copies of Business Week and Fortune she hadn’t opened all week. From across the aisle, she watched as Svetlana bravely steadied herself in front of her daughter, and Natasha accepted with delight a coloring book the flight attendant handed her. Brooke sent Svetlana a tight, sad smile over the child’s head. She adjusted a pillow and lay her head back. Judd stowed his bag in the compartment above, sat down next to her, and took her hand. This time she let him.
After takeoff she asked, “Do you believe in life after death? Do you believe it when people claim they sense a dead person’s presence?”
“The friends I lost in Vietnam just died.”
“I feel Olga is close by.” The awareness of it shocked Brooke. “I can’t let it end this way. I don’t want Olga’s death to be for naught.” She looked out the window. The sky above the clouds was bright and clear. She mulled over Olga’s candor, her owning up to the collective guilt and shame, her facing uncomfortable truths about her family and her village. Olga had the courage to assume guilt for actions she had not committed. Perhaps it was time for Brooke to own up to her own momentous mistakes.
“Judd, what I told you earlier was only the second part of a long, ugly story.” She halted, the words stuck in her windpipe.
“I’m listening.” He brought up her hand and planted a kiss at the base of her palm.
She hesitated, and then the words rushed out. “I went to Berkeley at seventeen and lived in a commune. Seven months after it broke up, when I was a sophomore, I gave birth to a baby. They told me it was a girl, and I insisted that she be adopted by a Jewish family. This way at least, my role in perpetuating our tribe wasn’t wasted.”
Without speaking, Judd kissed each finger. His face was close to hers. He raised his face, and his lips sought hers.
The kiss took her breath away. “Thank you for not judging me,” she whispered.
“But I do. And I find you an amazingly accomplished woman who’s gone through a lot but never allowed it to defeat you.”
“Don’t we have to be strong and successful to show the goyim?”
He smiled. “As go
od a motivation as any.”
“I did the other thing, the posing, to make up for the scholarship I lost while I was having the baby. I was depressed. My hormones were raging. There was no way to jump out of my skin and escape my misery. All I knew was that I had to pull out of the muck. And, of course, my parents could never know.”
“That makes you all the more compassionate toward other women.”
She stared into the void of the sky. “When Amanda suggested this trip, I thought I’d learn something about the new economy that would give me a leg up at the firm after the takeover. At best, I would collect some brownie points for next Yom Kippur. But now the joke’s on me. I got emotionally tangled in the plight of the women I’ve met.” She took a deep breath. “But the greater surprise for me is finding my Jewishness. I always brushed away anti-Semitism because I didn’t want it to exist. It’s easy to be liberal in New York, to consider prejudice a non-issue.” She looked into his face. “How do you deal with anti-Semitism here?”
He took her hand in his again. “I try to ignore it, but it still hurts to be hated so much—and for reasons that never make sense.”
“I don’t want to be defined by it any more than I wanted to be defined by the Holocaust. I want my Judaism to be my choice—a spiritual me—not dictated by others’ misguided view of me.”
“Well, you fix the world as we’re commanded to do,” Judd said.
“I try to, but not very successfully.” Brooke glanced in Svetlana’s direction. The young woman had fallen asleep with Natasha’s head in her lap, the girl talking softly to her stuffed rabbit. Svetlana’s comments had merely represented the voice of millions of other Russians. “I hate to admit it, but anti-Semitism has brought to the surface my pride in being Jewish.” She chuckled. “I love my DNA.”
For a while, neither spoke. An air of understanding—rare, comfortable—stirred between them.