“Sir, I feel partially responsible for their loss, even if they were in Kosyk’s hands. I’d like to personally direct the investigation into known contacts.”
“You’re an excellent field operative abroad, but you’ve just proven you’re worthless on home soil. You’re perceived as too central to the operation to remove you at this point without too many questions, or I would. I don’t want you touching it or anything else right now. You’re expected at our final planning meeting tonight, so you’d better show up. Go home until then. Visit your father. I don’t want to see your face around here. Dismissed.” A phone rang and Stukoi lowered his ear to each one along the row.
Colonel Bogdanov walked from the office to see Stukoi’s secretary, Pyatiletka, disappear out the main door. A note on her desk informed the general she had gone home early for her granddaughter’s birthday. Thanks to her usual negligence, her computer terminal was still on. The colonel looked around the empty room and sat at the terminal. At the prompt she typed in KUSNV, then the password LATA33, and she was logged into the SOUD system on the mainframe. She quickly navigated through the hierarchy of menus and searched for records with both Faith Whitney and Svetlana Gorkovo. Fourteen hits. She pressed the delete button and an error message popped onto the amber screen. Only a high-level systems administrator could delete a file.
She logged off and raced to Faith.
CHAPTER
FORTY-FIVE
MOSCOW
4:46 P.M.
Two hours after escaping from the brain trust, Faith knocked on Svetlana’s door as hard as she dared. A loud bark came from the flat.
“Reagan, good dog,” Faith said.
Svetlana’s many eccentricities included talking to her dog in English, but Faith spoke in Russian so as not to give any hint of her nationality to any eavesdropping neighbors. The dog ignored her and barked louder. The more Faith pleaded in Russian, the more Reagan barked. He pawed at the door.
“Quiet!” Summer said. The dog fell silent. “She’s not home or the dog would’ve had her here. Wait and I’ll be back in a second.” Summer went down the stairs, taking several steps at a time. In less than a minute he returned with a thin metal strip with a rivet lodged in one end. He fed the metal into the slit between the door and the frame just as a loud creak came from across the hall.
A shriveled face peeked through the crack. “What’s happening? Who’re you?”
“Zdravstvuite,” Faith greeted her. “I’m here with my husband to feed Reagan for Sveta, but forgot the key. Did she perhaps leave you a spare?”
“She said nothing to me about a trip. What’s that smell?” The woman’s accusing eyes darted between Faith and Summer.
“My apologies. I came from work and we had eleven bodies to embalm today. I don’t understand why people always die in clusters. Cousin Ludmilla went into early labor and Sveta doesn’t want to leave her alone.” Faith turned toward Summer and gestured to the door. Her voice became harsh and she shouted at him in Russian. “Haven’t you got that open yet? You forgot the key, so you go home and get it. And no drinking. Don’t you dare come back here with alcohol on your breath.”
Summer shrugged his broad shoulders and turned back to the door. The dog let out a deep bark. Faith hoped Reagan remembered her. Summer coaxed the metal strip into the lock and the door sprang open.
“Reagan!” Faith held her hands out to the dog, praying he didn’t attack and blow her cover. The husky reared up on his back legs and frantically licked her face, slurping up the remaining lard. She petted the back of his thick neck and turned toward the woman. “Poor Reagan had no walk since yesterday. I’m afraid he left us a present. If you want, you can come over, visit with us and help clean up after him.”
The woman let out a loud snort and slammed her door.
Summer grabbed Reagan’s collar and wrestled him back into the apartment.
“I don’t think she’s going to be calling the police. We should be safe here for a little while,” Faith said as she scratched the dog. “And thank you, Mr. Reagan, for getting that grease off my face.”
The translucent blue eyes of the Siberian husky followed Summer as he paced around the central Moscow apartment crammed with antiques. St. George slew an assortment of lumpy iconic dragons while the Virgin Mary looked on with serene disapproval. The creak of the floor echoed from the high ceiling as he stepped across the worn oriental carpets. Reagan leaped up on an analyst’s couch and curled up.
“What is this place? Are all Russian apartments like this?” Summer said as he looked around.
“Definitely not. You never find one person living in anything this spacious. She had political ties to Brezhnev through one of her husbands.”
“I meant all of this crap. And this place smells like an old lady’s face powder. I’m kind of glad the formaldehyde’s still on me.”
“I don’t like this room, either. I never could get into classic Russian art. But to answer your question, this isn’t normal—nothing about Svetlana is. Let’s go clean up.”
Faith patted the dining-room wall until she found the light switch. A kilim dominated one wall. Woven into the tapestry was the likeness of two Turkic women, their heads covered with bright yellow scarves. They wore matching baggy harem pants under blue and red flowered dresses and each one swung a sickle at wheat stalks.
“What a delight,” Faith whispered as she touched it, admiring the weave. She stepped backward for a better view. “Oh, I want this. You can’t imagine how rare it is.”
“Faith, focus. This isn’t the time to go shopping.”
“We’re safe for the time being. Give me just one moment of beauty.” Faith studied the design. “I can’t get the image of that dead guard’s bloody neck out of my mind. You’ve done it before, haven’t you?”
“I’m special forces. Sometimes my job means taking out the enemy. I’ve seen action in Grenada, Nicaragua and places no one’s supposed to know I’ve ever been. I’ve only done it when absolutely necessary. You work the clean side of the Cold War, smuggling pretty rugs across borders. The Cold War’s not all clean. It takes a lot to keep it from going hot. One of the ways both governments keep it from breaking out of control is by using guys like me and denying like hell they ever did it.”
“I’m not sure that justifies it.”
“Faith, we’ve been having this East-versus-West, hawk-and-dove debate since we were kids. Seems to me they just forced you onto my side.”
“I don’t take sides. I play the communist sympathizer with you, but that’s just to hassle you, since you’re such a dyed-in-the-wool American.” Faith spoke without taking her gaze off the kilim.
“You were always the communist sympathizer, but never a communist. You’re an American when you’re around the Germans and they’re bugging the shit out of you, but you’re never a patriot. It’s the same thing with relationships. You can’t settle down. Things get serious, you’re outta there.”
“I was too young.”
“You couldn’t make up your mind about what you wanted, kind of like now. You can’t take a stand on anything.”
“I think that abortion in Tulsa counts.”
“As a stand against your mama, but not for what you wanted. I haven’t seen you make a choice about something since then. You sit on every fence you can find.”
“Not fair.” Faith choked back tears. “I’ve had enough today without this.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bicker with you. It’s been a tough couple a days for both of us, and it’s not over yet.” He stood and put his arm around her waist. She pressed her head against him and closed her eyes.
“You know I love you,” Faith said.
“I know.” He stroked her hair. “But I don’t know what that means.”
“Neither do I.”
Reagan raised his head and his ears perked. He trotted from the room toward the door.
“Must be Svetlana,” Faith said. “You stay here so you don’t scare her. I’ll g
o.”
“Faith, what’s going on?” Svetlana said in Russian as she stepped over to Summer and took his right hand and turned it over. She pushed back the bloodied sleeve. Red muscle tissue was visible through a deep, six-inch-long laceration that zigzagged across his forearm. Blood seeped from the wound. She squinted as she examined the cut on his forehead.
“We need help,” Faith said.
“I see that.”
Faith switched to English: “This is Max Summer—the ex-fiancé I’ve told you about.” Only when she introduced Summer to Svetlana did Faith notice how wrecked they both looked. Summer had a two-inch gash over his swollen left eye. The skin around it was various shades of dark purple. Stubble covered his head and face, but didn’t quite conceal a long scratch on his left cheek. His clothes testified to his odyssey. His ripped shirt was coated in dirt and dried blood. Faith knew the blood wasn’t only his.
Faith continued, “We just escaped from the KGB. We haven’t done anything wrong—I’ll explain later. I’m so sorry about breaking into your home, but you weren’t here and I didn’t know where else to go or whom else I could trust.”
“I’ll do what I can.” Svetlana spoke English with a British accent. Svetlana turned to Summer. “Those wounds need to be cleaned up. Nothing urgent, but you need a couple layers of sutures. Faith, are you hurt?”
“The Stasi cracked some of my ribs a week ago. They’re really sore, but mending.”
“The Stasi? You two make friends everywhere you go. Faith, can you please grab my bag out of the hall closet? And, while you’re there, fetch some old towels for you to sit on. You’re both slightly soiled.” Svetlana held Summer’s arm and led him into the kitchen.
Faith set the old-fashioned doctor’s bag down on the table and spread towels over two chairs. Svetlana opened a waxed-paper envelope, shook out two curved needles and set them on the packet. She snipped off a strip of gauze and cut away his shirtsleeve.
“Faith, keep the pressure on this while you take him over to the sink and rinse out the wound with running water and alcohol. Before you do that, put on some water to boil for tea and to sterilize the needle. I’ll be back in a minute. Reagan, come along, dear.” Svetlana disappeared into the bathroom. Her dog sat outside the door.
Faith opened a cabinet, squatted and stared at the hodgepodge. Pots, pans and skillets of every size, material and color were stacked on top of one another, but nothing matched. She chose a white enamel pot, but couldn’t locate its lid. When she pushed the cabinet door shut, an avalanche roared inside the cabinet. She lit the gas stove.
Summer cut himself a fresh strip of gauze and pressed it against the wound. Red spots immediately appeared. “How sterile do you think all of this is?”
“I wouldn’t worry. It’s probably Reagan you’ll be sharing needles with, so I’d say your biggest risk is distemper.” Faith returned to the table. “This beats the average Soviet hospital. They’re something you don’t want to experience. I once heard a doctor here complain that American disposable needles broke after about a dozen uses.”
Reagan rushed ahead of Svetlana toward the sound of the whistling teakettle. Svetlana turned the burner off and stepped into an adjacent room. She retrieved a stack of handle-less cups and a teapot, steadying the teapot against her chest as she closed the china-cabinet door.
Summer leaned over to Faith and whispered, “Do we really have to have a tea party? Can’t we get on with this? We have to plan how to get out of here. I don’t want to stay in one place too long.”
“You’re from the Ozarks. Act like it. We have to do some small talk before we ask for help. We’re asking for big favors here, so play along. We’re safe for now.”
Svetlana set the cups in front of Faith. She recognized the tea set as Central Asian. She had seen countless Uzbek ones painted with the repeating white and indigo blue abstract in the shape of ripe cotton, but this set was extraordinary. Faith picked up a cup. A wreath of cotton blooms framed a painting of Lenin, but the Soviet hero’s skin was darker than usual and his eyes were small slits. His facial hair was more reminiscent of Genghis Khan’s Fu Manchu mustache than Lenin’s pointy Vandyke. Arabic script was scrawled above the portrait. “Exquisite. Where’s it from?”
“You tell me.” Svetlana started to place her hand on Faith’s lard-smudged shoulder, but leaned on the back of her chair instead. She turned toward Summer. “Of everyone I know, Faith has the most discriminating appreciation of these treasures.”
“I can see how it takes someone very special to get into this stuff,” Summer said. Reagan licked his pant leg.
“Reagan, where are your manners? Go to your rug. Now move along.” She pointed to the corner.
Reagan held his tail low as he climbed onto a Muslim prayer rug woven with a portrait of Stalin. Summer raised an eyebrow.
Svetlana noticed his reaction to Stalin’s image and said, “Don’t get me wrong. I hate the communists like everyone else—after all, I am a Soviet citizen—but it was such an exciting time in the household arts.”
Faith turned the cup in her hand. Dust coated the white interior. “Clearly Central Asia, most likely Uzbekistan. The Arab script dates it before the mid-twenties—Lenin after 1917. It could even be from one of the city-states after the communists took over, but before the USSR swallowed them. Bukhara? Samarkand?”
“Khiva is my educated guess. Most assuredly from the independent Khorezm Soviet People’s Republic, circa 1923, before Lenin annexed it to the Motherland. I have the entire set, including the serving platter.”
“I might be able to arrange for some chef’s-quality All-Clad pans in exchange for these.” Faith walked over to the sink and rinsed the cups. “You did get the Williams-Sonoma catalog I sent with Ian last month?”
“I loved it. I’ll never understand why, as one of the world’s most advanced countries, we can’t produce decent cookware.” Svetlana poured brewed tea into the antique teapot. “I’ve always wanted a set of the French Le Creuset pots—you know, the bright enameled ones.”
“Hey, I don’t mean to be rude here, but is this really the time to play Let’s Make a Deal? As it stands right now, we can’t get ourselves out of the country, let alone take some fancy cups out of it.”
“There’s always layaway.” Faith smiled and turned toward Svetlana. “Three-piece Le Creuset pot set for the complete tea ensemble. Deal?”
“Five-piece. Plus the five-quart stockpot.”
“Three pieces including the stockpot.”
“That will fetch you the set sans serving platter,” Svetlana said.
“You can’t break up a set like that and you know it. Okay, but only because I owe you for all of this. The five-piece set, including the stockpot.”
“Agreed.” Svetlana carried the silver teakettle to the table. She poured cold tea with her left hand and the hot water with her right, serving Summer first. She scooped red marmalade with a silver dessert spoon. Summer slid his hand over the cup to stop her, but was too late. Marmalade plopped onto his fingers.
Faith offered no resistance to the marmalade. She started to take a sip, but the cup burned her fingers, so she picked it up again by the rim. “We’re in trouble, Sveta. Bad trouble.”
“As bad as the time when you were detained in Omsk?”
“It was Tomsk, and that was nothing compared to this.” Faith fished the sterile needles from the pot with a hemostat. She gave Svetlana a brief overview of their predicament while Svetlana threaded the needle.
Svetlana turned to Summer. “Do you require something for the pain? I don’t have much, so I reserve it for those who really need it.”
“Your dog might need it someday. I’ll be fine.”
“Would you like a shot of vodka to take the edge off?”
“Thank you, but, all things considered, I need to stay alert.”
“Come on, tough guy. You’re allowed.” Faith found a bottle of vodka in the freezer and splashed some into his empty teacup. “Drink.”
&n
bsp; Summer downed it. “Okay, now’s as good a time as any.”
Sveta cut away jagged dead skin, then grasped one of the needles with a needle driver and plunged it deep into the gash.
“Dammit, girl!” Summer gritted his teeth. “From the looks of this place, I thought you were an antique dealer. I wouldn’t have guessed you’re a doctor.”
“I’m chief of medical staff at the Moscow Zoo. Don’t worry. I stitch up big animals all the time.” Svetlana smiled, revealing a mouthful of tarnished silver crowns. She pierced a fat globule and Faith turned away.
“I was hoping you could pull off another one of your miracles and help us get out of here,” Faith said.
“On such short notice, I can probably get you as far as East Germany,” Svetlana said. “By the way, the ice cream was heavenly—better than the Mövenpick you brought two years ago. Now, I’m assuming you’ve got passports hidden somewhere in that container of frightening dinnerware Ian brought me.”
“No, we need papers. And the GDR’s no good. They know me.”
Summer’s voice was strained. “I thought you could get anyone and anything out of there. East Berlin’s at least Berlin. Let’s go there. I like your home-field advantage. There are even permanent American military missions there. American troop convoys pass through East Germany on their way to Berlin all the time.”
“Getting out’s not the problem. It’s getting in.” Faith swirled the tea in her glass, the fruit fragments circling in a tiny whirlpool. “We don’t have time to get Hakan to make papers for us, and I’ve never found a reliable local source for documents here that wasn’t hooked into the KGB.”
“He’s in Berlin. How would you ever get something from there?” Summer said.
“Clipper Class. I could have you a Big Mac here tomorrow afternoon from Rhein-Main if you wanted it, but that doesn’t help us get out.”
Svetlana tied off the first layer of sutures with a single hand.
“Given the circumstances,” Faith continued, “the only option I see is to cross weak points in the border. I know one along the Turkish frontier, but it’s grueling.”
Rift Zone Page 26