by W. Len
The lighter lies cracked on the floor, its fluid staining the concrete. That’s what happens to useless things; they’re tossed aside.
I don’t want to be safer, I want to be together, I want to be with you—I replace all those pathetic phrases with a lulling melody of zeroes, blanking out everything. I’m getting good at it; I’ve been practicing. “Ok,” I say. “Ok.”
“Andrei…” he trails off for there is nothing to say.
I snatch my bag from the floor. When I look up, Luka has turned from me. He’s heading towards his laptop. So be it.
My phone buzzes. It’s Anton. Come to the restroom.
1.85
A loud train rushing through the industrial district rattles the area as I near the restroom. The hollow metal door creaks open when I knock. It wasn’t latched. I push it wide open and Anton’s not inside. From the window, I can see the train, a blurry rush of colorful containers, darting from left to right like a flattened rainbow. The plywood tacked over the window is gone.
“Anton?” I call out. No response.
“Anton?” I try again, then look at my phone. He messaged me barely a minute ago. Something is wrong. I walk towards the window, and see the board on the ground outside. The hole is more than big enough for a person to squeeze through. What game is this? Is Anton outside? A chime cuts through the fading roar of the train. This time, it’s an email with an attachment from Luka. No title, only a link, as if it was sent in a hurry. What is going on?
Then, I hear shouting. Had Anton sneaked around me?
My neck starts tingling when I recognize a reedy voice. Boris. And this isn’t some dream. I feel my breath quickening. Oh, no. Oh, no.
But I need to know.
I creep out from the restroom and crouch behind a pile of boxes. Luka is in the clearing, sitting on the floor, his back against a pillar. And I see Milo placing a boot on Luka’s thigh. “I can shoot his knees, Boris. He can still type that way,” I hear him say, and a familiar detachment slides in to keep my dread at bay. I steady myself against the floor and the hard chill of the concrete soaks into my palms, up my spine, lending me strength. In the distance, I see the door wide open. Anton had been the last one in, and he didn’t lock it. Then, I remember his warning last night. I feel a stabbing sensation in my chest, before I realize it’s my heartbeat.
“Easy, Milo. Luka’s a sensible person.” I see Boris moving into view, dragging a few cardboard boxes into a makeshift seat. “Your pal didn’t ask for much to tell us where you’re hiding. Whatever did you do to him to make him hate you so?”
There is no mystery here. Anton betrayed us.
“No comeback?” Boris’ voice is gleeful. “Let me do the talking then. Here’s the revised deal—”
“My wife?” Luka cut him off. “Is she still alive?”
“Tchut, tchut. What is this seller’s remorse? It’s unseemly. You turned her in to save your own skin back then. Now you want her back? The F.S.B. is not a pawnshop. You should have known that. See, Milo, how people deceive themselves? The moment you turned her in, Luka, she was gone. Poof. I can’t resurrect her, but I do appreciate how she motivated you.”
Is it true? Did he betray his wife? I don’t want to believe it.
Luka says nothing to defend himself. Why is the truth always silent? Because the lies have chained them all and thrown them deep into the Moskva river. The truth is dead here. I realize that now.
“Here’s the new deal: the program for you and the boy. As a show of good faith, Milo took care of your traitor. He came out to meet us just now. You should have seen his stupid face when Milo plugged him.” Boris tapped his forehead. “Never liked those half-breeds. Never know where they stand. How dare he betray my friend, eh? Let that be a lesson to all.”
“I suppose I should thank you then,” Luka says.
Part of me doesn’t believe what I’m hearing. This can’t be happening. Another part of me is thinking of possibilities, ways to help Luka. I know I can do it, because I have to—that’s the logic of desperation. I cast my eyes around for something, a plan, a tool. Keep talking, Luka, I scream with my heart, I need more time.
“No need. All I want is the virus. Hand over your laptop, or whatever you kept it in. Then, we can all go for a drink, and talk about the other jobs we have for you and your sidekick.”
“Then what? I’ll get my wife back the next time?” Luka laughs. “You want the program? It’s not on my laptop. As for Andrei, he’s gone. I sent him away. Far away.”
He’s telling me to run. Oh, Luka!
“Tchut, tchut, a sad lie, that. One, two, three. I count three cups here. Moscow’s my playground. I have friends everywhere. I’ll find him. Last chance, Luka.”
“If my Masha’s gone, why should I care for my life?”
Boris leans in. “Because you’re an animal. There’s several millennia of self-preservation programmed into your genes. Unlike that boy, you’re not the self-sacrificial type. I know you. We’re alike.”
“You know me, Boris, we’re similar, eh?” Luka laughs again. Every instinct screams at me to run—towards him, away from him, somewhere—but the resignation, that finality, in his laugh roots me. “If I’m a fool, then so are you.”
Time slows. Luka reaches inside his jacket; Boris seems to float in the air as he dives; Milo’s grin widens; I start running.
Someone fires just as I run inside the restroom, scrabbling through the window.
A gun fires again. Then, again.
I’m running. That’s all I can do, all I can think of. I need to run.
1.90
Breathless. Don’t run, walk. There’s a bus stop nearby. Nobody cares about people on the buses. As I walk, the towering whiteness of the Moscow Swissotel looms beside me. On top, a glass eye is balanced on claws, as if it could see all. Luka—is he dead?
He can’t be. Because he can’t be.
There were gunshots. Too many of them.
Tears roll down my cheek. Anton had betrayed us, yet he saved me with his text message. I fumble for my phone to see if there are more messages. The inbox icon throbs. Luka has sent me a link? What good did it do? How useless!
No, I’m the one who’s useless. I betrayed Luka too: I was the one who’d told Anton about Boris. Everything collapsed back to my mistake. I’m as damned as this city.
Be careful, Luka’s voice reminds me. Keep going, don’t stop.
Further out, a boat chugs down the Moskva river, sparks of camera flashes flaring along its deck. I imagine pressing a button: the boat sinks while the audience, high up in the hotel’s viewing gallery, laughs at the people drowning.
I catch the first bus I can. Onboard, there’s only one passenger, a blonde. I sit behind her. She’s on the phone and pays no heed to me.
Think, Andrei! Boris may look for me, but he doesn’t know where I live. I’m safe—for now.
Think, Andrei, think hard! What can I do?
I blanked out. In the window beside me, I see a helpless-looking boy pretending to be all grown up. Why did everything happen the way they did?
“Don’t blame me, it’s the traffic,” the woman speaks into her phone, and I dimly register what she says.
Lies. The road we’re on is wide open.
“I love you,” she says as she stifles a yawn.
More lies. Maybe it’s not me. It’s them. Everyone had lied.
The bus enters the Garden Ring Road, turning into a busy junction. In its middle, there’s the statue of Mayakovsky. Luka had lent me one of his books before. He told me the poet had praised life here, had claimed everything was the best it could be, but that didn’t stop him from killing himself a few years later. His statue stood in the square, a bronzed spirit, waiting patiently for this world to end.
Don’t be dramatic, a cold wind flicked my ear, chiding me, teasing me. Just kill them all and be done with, it laughs.
I pulled out my laptop and opened Luka’s email. It led to a series of dead drops in the cloud we’d set
up before, each link leading to the next to the next. Luka had spent a lot of time setting these up in case we got into trouble and needed to communicate anonymously. He had needed even more time convincing Anton and me to memorize the passwords. I secretly thought him paranoid. Anton openly mocked him. Now, only I was left.
I pieced together a dozen fragments of ASCII text into a long string. That was the key to the final cloud cache. I logged on, entered it, and something unexpected happened: What’s 2+2?, a last challenge popped out, as if Luka had sprung a last trick.
5, I entered. I knew the correct answer from long ago, but only now, did I appreciate its lesson: in a world that didn’t make sense, Luka had felt free to make up whatever answer he wanted.
Inside the drive, I found a folder. Project Silence. Whatever Boris wanted was here. All I had to do was access it…and do what?
The bus jerked to a stop as a police motorcade throttled by. They weren’t coming for me. The three policemen on the motorcycles were waving furiously, parting the traffic.
As the bus idled, I thought everything through, bit by bit. Luka’s wife is dead. Luka is dead. Anton’s dead. I could reboot my laptop and delete everything. I could throw my phone away, wipe the cloud drives. I could cancel all the credentials we used, the logins that represented two people who’d pretended to be my family. I could sever everything that bound us and forget the memories. Of us. Together.
There was nothing I could have done to save them. Nothing.
A loud roaring made me look up. A black limousine sped down the road at breakneck speed.
“Stupid official on a joy ride.” The bus driver made a rude sign.
Nobody answered him. Nobody cares here.
I should delete whatever Luka stole. Or send it to Boris so he’d stop hunting me. There’s no reason to hold on to something so dangerous. Trade it. Bargain for my life back.
The cursor blinked, biding my decision.
Be careful. No good would come of opening the folder, I imagined Luka telling me.
Then again, I didn’t feel like doing anything good. I’m done with that. I’m free to do whatever I want.
As the bus turns, I begin typing furiously.
1.95
In Yaroslavsky railway station, a dusty, ragged crowd mills under the beige vaulted-ceilings, waiting for their train. My nerves had been x-rayed into calm at the checkpoint scanner. I’m past that. A backpacker walks towards the exit leading to the yard outside, his ponderous backpack swinging like an elephant’s rear. I wait by a pillar, trying to see if anyone was looking for me. You are here, a map on the pillar informs me.
Every time someone comes close, I lower my cap. I gaze up at the train schedule in slow-flickering blocky red letters on the wall, then look down at the map again. X marks the spot. I am X, an unknown variable, a catalyst. I study the layout of the station, then take a deep breath.
Time to do this.
I join the queue for a ticket. As I do so, a group of slant-eyed Mongolian traders with colorful canvas bags swarm the middle of the station. Across them, a soldier turns, his hand patting his submachine gun like he’s bringing a dog to heel. His flinty eyes look through me. X is one-dimensional, almost invisible. He elbows his partner, and I see him grin. I don’t like the look.
“Hey,” he calls out, “you.”
My heart does a somersault.
“Papers,” the soldier calls out to the traders, who began buzzing like frenzied bees, their many hands reaching into this waist pouch or that bag for the required paper, maybe a bribe.
When I reach the counter, I see the attendant chewing gum in a slack-jawed way. “Ticket for one?” Her chewing slows when I lay out the cash. She blows a bubble, then pops it deliberately, as if she’s trying not to be impressed. “You never heard of a credit card? Where to?”
I want to go home, but I’ve no home now.
Earlier, in my apartment, I didn’t waste time. I had thrown clothes into my bag. My passport. I shoved half the money Luka gave me under Old Nelya’s door, along with a note, then ran down the stairwell. That was when I saw Anna sweeping the stairwell. When she saw my bag, she knew. “Where are you going? You’re leaving.” Her eyes suddenly became hopeful.
“I’m…” the lie began, and stopped. She’s the only one who’d never deceived me.
She grabbed my wrist. A strong grip, the callused finger tips of a pianist. “Wait for me.” She turned and headed back into her apartment.
I can’t even take care of myself, I wanted to cry while eyeing the stairs desperately. My plans wavered. It was safer for me to go alone. It’s best for her.
Then, I made up my mind.
At the ticket counter, I finger my destination on the printed train schedule.
“That’s a long ride.” The attendant eyes me, proffering an unusual look of concern. When I say nothing, her bureaucrat mask slips back on. “One ticket?”
“Two,” I answer, holding Anna’s hand in mine.
2.00
On the train, a middle-aged couple in matching t-shirts slowly set up their bags on the other side of the cabin. Anna’s head rests on my shoulder. The excitement has sapped both of us.
“Don’t worry, I’m strong,” she tells me, then her tone wavers. “Are you sure this is ok?” She presses my hand again, as if to ask whether we have permission to escape.
I squeeze her hand back. We don’t need permission for anything. Not anymore.
The woman who shares our cabin eyes us. She clears her throat as if about to try something. “We’ve always wanted to be here.” Her tone is halting, her accent all wrong. Their chunky camera announces they are tourists. “We are happy to visit. It is a nice city. A beautiful place.”
The man, her husband judging from their wedding bands, points at Anna. “Girlfriend?”
I shake my head.
He frowns, snaps his fingers while fumbling for another word. “Sister?”
I pretend not to understand. The two retreat to their translation book. Finally, the woman pulls out a large box of biscuits. She mimes an eating action. I take one for Anna and they relax, assured we’re harmless locals.
Outside, the afternoon wanes and the attendants at attention start harrying passengers to board. A flurry of hugs, waves, goodbyes. A woman is kissing a man as if she would never let go. A bearded man struggles with his luggage.
Suddenly, a wild-eyed man peers into our cabin from outside the porthole window. He looks at me, then the others, then at me again. I tense. Is he one of Boris’ men? Is he looking for me? I don’t know. I do know what he sees: four people sharing cream biscuits, my fake and happy family.
“Who do you think he was looking for?” Anna asked me after the man darts away.
“It doesn’t matter now.”
The whistle blows twice and the train kicks to a start. It curves on its tracks as it pulls out. As we slide beneath a bridge, gaining speed, the couple heads off with their camera to capture the last sights of Moscow. I take a deep breath and relax. Soon, we’ll be out of the city and done with it.
But not yet. I pull out my laptop and put the finishing touches on my last project.
Anna presses against me, and I feel the heat of her thigh against mine. Cozy. “Do you remember that promise we had long ago?”
“I do. We’ll find a place like that. I have money to get us there. We’ll do it.”
There’s doubt in her eyes, as if she doesn’t quite believe what’s happening. “We can celebrate your birthday there. It’s tomorrow isn’t it?” A slight pause. “You still haven’t told me why you’re—”
“Later,” I interrupt her. “Later, we tell each other everything.”
She rests her head against the window just as a pair of crows swoop low, then soar away. That’s the way to go, fast and far. “Do you think anyone will look for us?” Our lives and its troubles ran parallel to each other now, like the paired rails of the train track. “We are doing the right thing, aren’t we?” There’s a naivety in her
doubt, and it feels precious, a fragile flower to be protected from the gale.
“It’s this place that’s messed up. That’s why we’re leaving it. We’re doing the right thing.”
I know because I grew up. Once, I thought I’d change the world, but Moscow remade me.
Anton and Luka used to tease me, calling me Andrei 1.0. I’m not that anymore. Anton, Luka, look at me! I’m a different version now, a 2.0!
But that joke died with them.
I open my laptop and begin programming a simple timer. Outside, the train clashes and screeches against the tracks. I set the timer forward, to the next scheduled stop outside Moscow. As I put the package together, I think back to the first time I met Luka, the childish prank I played then.
Knock knock, who’s there?
Hello, Moscow, it’s me again. Last time, I offered you music, I wanted everything to sing. Now, I have something else for you, a delivery on behalf of Luka. It’s not music this time. This will shut you up and shut you down.
“What if…” Anna begins again.
“Don’t worry. No one will follow us.” I try to smile at her, to reassure her. “I’m sure of it,” I repeat, my finger stroking the keyboard, I’m waiting for a sign.
Then, I see it.
In the distance, on the roof of a dinghy mid-rise, the emblem of Moscow Telecom gleams, a metallic array of panels angled towards the skies like heads turned up in prayer. The train barrels towards it, as if nothing can stop its momentum. My finger is poised, waiting for the building to come, closer and closer.
Send.
Note from author
The book would not have been possible without the support of many. I am deeply grateful to the following for their help and support: Patrick McGrath, who gave me invaluable advice about writing; Susan Shapiro, who taught me perseverance; to those who spoke to me about the dark arts and allowed me glimpses into their community; and my many test readers (especially Maron Anrow.)