The Complete Fugitive Archives (Project Berlin, The Moscow Meeting, The Buried Cities) (Endgame: The Fugitive Archives)

by Frey, James

  He seems so unnerved that for a moment I almost pick up the towel again. Have I made a mistake? Is he not interested in me this way?

  Then another thought enters my mind: Maybe he’s never been this close to a naked woman.

  I sit down next to him and take the weapon piece from his hand. I put it back in the box, then close the lid, pick up the box, and set it on the floor. Boone is reclining against the pillows, just watching me.

  I lean over and kiss him, softly at first, then more deeply. Again he hesitates, but only for a moment. Then he kisses me back. His hands grip my arms, and he pulls me down beside him. I feel like I’m falling, tumbling through space after letting go of a lifeline that has tethered me to something safe and familiar. Now I’m floating in unfamiliar territory, where the rules no longer apply and I don’t know what will happen. It’s frightening, but at the same time, I’ve never felt so free.

  Boone

  The village has a very old church, built centuries ago and dedicated to Saint Roch, who Lottie tells me is the patron saint of, among other things, dogs. This explains the half dozen mutts curled up on blankets below a statue of the saint that is surrounded by lit candles. One of them opens an eye as we walk by, then goes back to sleep.

  “The villagers bring them food,” Lottie says. “They consider them good luck.”

  We continue through the sanctuary, then down a set of stone stairs into a room beneath the church. It’s bitterly cold here, and our breath fogs the air. In the room are several wooden tables, on which rest simple coffins. There are three of them.

  “They store the dead here during the winter,” Lottie tells us. “The ground is too hard to dig, of course, so they rest here until the spring.”

  We’ve come to see Jackson. Well, not to see him, as I’m not about to open the coffin. But I do want to pay my respects to my brother. Not wanting to upset Bernard, we’ve left him playing with a neighbor’s boy. The woman whose house they’re staying in, who I’ve learned is Lottie’s friend Bérénice, is watching them.

  “Jackson’s is the middle one,” Lottie says. “I’ll be upstairs.” She turns to go.

  “I’ll go with her,” says Ariadne.

  “No,” I say. I reach out and take her hand. “Stay with me.”

  I can’t help but think about what happened between us last night. I haven’t told her that it was my first time, but I’m pretty sure she knows. Even though I might not have been as good as I could have been, it was still absolutely amazing.

  I feel weird thinking about this in a church and in front of my brother’s body. Then again, I think Jackson would be happy for me. There’s so much going on right now. So much uncertainty. Ariadne is one thing I can count on. One real thing that I can touch and hold. One person I can believe in.

  I no longer worry that she’s playing me. She’s taken a huge risk by helping me, and by taking the weapon from her own line. She’s trusting me not to hurt her, which for someone who was trained as a Player is the biggest thing she can do for someone else.

  Ariadne keeps hold of my hand as I walk to Jackson’s coffin and put my other hand on it. I stand between them, my brother and my—what, girlfriend? That seems like such an inadequate word to describe how I feel about her, like we’re just two normal people who go to the movies together. We’re more than that. Much more. I don’t know what the word for it is, though. I do know that she’s my future, and Jackson is my past. The living and the dead, with me in between them.

  I want to say something to my brother. But what? I’m sorry? I love you? I wish we hadn’t lost so much time, and that we had more now? All these things are true, but saying them out loud feels weird, like reciting lines written for a play. I feel them, but my mouth can’t bring itself to say them.

  “Where do Minoans believe we go when we die?” I ask Ariadne.

  “It’s said that heroes go to Elysium,” she tells me. “A kind of paradise where they’re rewarded for their bravery in this life.”

  “And everyone else?”

  “It depends who you ask. Some think there’s an underworld. Some think we just die. What do Cahokians believe?”

  “Different things,” I say. I think about my mother, who spends every Sunday morning at the Methodist church, while my father only goes to Christmas Eve services or if someone’s getting married. Jackson sometimes went with my mother on Sundays, but I don’t know what he actually believed. We never talked about it.

  “Wherever you are, Jackson, I hope you’re happy,” I say, and touch my fingers to my brother’s coffin. “Maybe I’ll see you again someday.”

  I’m done talking, but I’m not ready to leave, so I stand there for a while longer, my arm around Ariadne. We have a long, difficult road ahead of us, and for the moment I want to just stand in this quiet room, far from the world of Endgame and everything associated with it. As soon as we leave, it’s all going to become more and more complicated.

  We stand like this for a while, not talking. Then I take Ariadne’s hand and walk back up the stairs. With each step, I feel the weight on my shoulders grow heavier. At one point I pause on the stairs, and Ariadne moves ahead of me, gently pulling me along with her. It’s as if she’s leading me back into the world. I could hold back, fight against it, but I go with her, and together we enter the church. Lottie is sitting in one of the pews, waiting. She has a strange look on her face, and is staring at something. I follow her gaze and see that she’s looking at the crucifix on the wall. Christ hangs on it, his sad eyes looking heavenward.

  “I tried to pray,” Lottie says. “I couldn’t. I don’t think God is there. Or if he is, he isn’t listening.”

  I want to say something to make her feel better, but I can’t think of anything.

  “If it’s true what they say,” Lottie continues, “about Endgame … If it’s true, then where is God? Where is the hope?”

  Ariadne squeezes my hand. I think about the conversation we’ve just had in the crypt below the church. These are big questions. Questions I haven’t given a lot of thought to, honestly. Mostly because they’re hard, and I don’t know that there are answers, or at least not answers that will bring anyone any satisfaction.

  “These creatures that made the weapon,” says Lottie. “Are they gods?”

  “It’s said they can be killed,” Ariadne replies.

  Lottie snorts. “Many cultures have gods that can be killed,” she says.

  “Does that make them any less gods?”

  Again I have no answer for her, and this talk is only making me more uneasy.

  “We should be getting back,” I remind them.

  As we leave, a dog enters the church doorway, covered in snow. It shakes, then trots by us to join the other dogs at the feet of Saint Roch. It was snowing when we left the house, and now it’s begun to fall more thickly. We walk through the streets, returning to the house. The visit to the church has made us all quiet, and I wonder what Ariadne is thinking about. I don’t know much about Minoan religion, about their gods and beliefs, except for what she’s told me about the afterlife. I want to ask her more about it, but Lottie seems upset now, and it’s important to keep her calm given what we have left to do today.

  When we get to the house, Bernard is outside with the neighbor boy and Bérénice. They’re making a snowman. Already the bottom and middle balls of the body are in place. Now they’re setting the head on top of these. They’re too short to reach, so they’re being helped by a man. It’s Karl Ott.

  “Ah,” he says when he sees us. “There you are.”

  Lottie goes to him and hugs him. Ariadne and I are less enthusiastic. I extend my hand, which Ott accepts. Ariadne does the same. I’m surprised when he takes it, as they have been at odds since their first meeting.

  “I did not expect to see you again,” Ott says. “At least not so soon.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “You disappeared pretty quickly during the fight at the factory.”

  His smile doesn’t waver. “It was important to g
et my family to safety,” he says. “You understand.”

  I think about my brother, lying dead in the church, and say nothing.

  “Let’s go inside,” Lottie suggests, perhaps sensing the tension.

  “Bernard, you and Paul can finish the snowman with Bérénice. I’ll bring you a carrot and some coal for his face.”

  We go inside, where we take off our coats and go into the kitchen.

  Lottie busies herself getting the carrot for the snowman’s nose, and I fill a kettle with water and put it on the stove to get hot. Then I join Ariadne and Ott, who are seated.

  “We spend a lot of time around kitchen tables, making plans,” Ott says.

  “You got here quickly,” Ariadne says. “You are living nearby?”

  “Not far,” Ott says, but offers no details. “Lottie says that you want to go to Moscow.”

  He’s not wasting any time. This is fine with me. My deadline for contacting Kenney is coming up in two days. I want to be in Moscow by then. Preferably with something to show for it, although I don’t think that’s possible.

  “Yes,” I tell Ott. “We’re going to get Oswald Brecht out of Taganka.”

  Ott laughs. “You can’t be serious.”

  “We’re very serious,” I say. “We’d like your help to do it, but we’ll do it on our own if necessary.”

  “What makes you think I can help you?”

  “Your father is there,” I say. “I think it’s safe to say you’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how to get him out.”

  Ott shrugs. “Of course. But my methods would be less—how should I put this—direct than yours.”

  I nod. “I understand. I bet you’ve been cultivating relationships with people who might be able to help.”

  He doesn’t respond, so I know that I’m right. “We don’t have that kind of time,” I continue.

  “What is the rush?” he asks.

  “Brecht has become of interest to other parties,” I tell him. “Parties that might prefer he never leave Taganka alive.”

  I know Ott understands my meaning. I also know that he very much wants me to tell him who these other interested parties are. I don’t. I’m bluffing, at least in part. I don’t really know that anyone else knows about Brecht, but it’s plausible, and having Ott think that the scientist’s life is in jeopardy might be incentive for him to help us.

  “This is of course connected to the weapon,” he says. “I assume that you have it in your possession once more.”

  “We know where it is,” I say. “And it’s safe. For the moment.”

  He smiles. He knows how the game is played. “And I’m supposed to help you because, in return, you will help me get my father out of Taganka as well.”

  “That’s about it,” I confirm.

  Ott drums his fingers lightly on the tabletop. Behind us, the kettle whistles. I get up and attend to it, giving him time to think. When I return to the table and set a mug of tea in front of him, he takes it and drinks. He still hasn’t spoken. I give a mug to Ariadne, and our eyes meet. She raises her eyebrows, and I shrug slightly. I don’t know what’s going through Ott’s head, or which way he will go.

  “Do you know who my father is?” he says.

  I wasn’t expecting this, and I shake my head. I don’t know. I haven’t had time to find out.

  “His name is Helmut Falkenrath,” he says.

  Ariadne, who has been quiet throughout the conversation, says, “The scientist who headed up Uranprojekt?”

  “That’s what he was accused of,” Ott says. “And yes, he worked on the project. But he was not the leader. In reality, he was just the only one left to blame.”

  “Uranprojekt was a Nazi attempt to develop nuclear weapons,” Ariadne tells me. “Many of the scientists who worked on it defected to other countries when the Nazis rose to power. Mostly to the United States.”

  “That’s correct,” Ott says. “My father helped many of them do so, but he himself remained behind for too long, and then it became impossible to leave. Those men went on to help the Americans complete the Manhattan Project. But after the war, the Americans allowed my father to be blamed. They did nothing to stop the Soviets from putting him in prison. He was deemed expendable.”

  He’s looking at me as if this is somehow my fault because I’m American. Before I can say anything, he adds, “And you don’t even know his name.”

  “Look,” I say. “If you don’t want to be part of this, that’s fine. We can do it on our own. But let’s get something straight—I’m not responsible for things my government did.”

  “No,” Ott says. “You’re not. And I will help you.”

  He says help as if we’ve begged him to come along. As if we can’t possibly do this without him. It makes me angry, but the truth is, we do need him. And right now I’m just relieved that he’s said yes, even if it all seems to have happened too easily.

  “You are correct that I have some contacts within the Soviet Union. Some even within Taganka itself. Still, this is no simple matter. Do you have resources available to you?”

  I understand that he’s asking about more than whether we have access to weapons, or cash. He wants to know whether the Minoans and Cahokians are working together. I don’t want him to know that Ariadne has fallen out with her line, and so I say, “We have enough.” I don’t know if this is actually true. I have money, but not weapons, at least not enough to break into a prison. I’m hoping Kenney will be able to help with that once I contact him.

  “And the weapon?” Ott asks again. “Where is it?”

  “Safe,” I say, in a tone that makes it clear he won’t get any additional information.

  He smiles but says nothing, and I wonder what he’s thinking.

  “This is not much of a plan so far,” he says. “Go to Moscow. Break into a heavily guarded prison. Extract two high-profile political prisoners and get out of the country.”

  “Sounds pretty straightforward to me,” I say.

  Ott sighs. “And then what?”

  “Then what what?”

  “What do you expect Brecht to do for you? Build the weapon?”

  “At least tell us what it is and what it does,” I say.

  “Of course,” he says. “Your interest is purely scientific.”

  “Perhaps your father can help too,” I say.

  “Perhaps he can,” says Ott. “Provided he has sufficient incentive to do so.”

  I’m not sure if he’s talking about money or about control of the weapon. At this point it doesn’t matter. I’m not promising him anything. The possibility of getting his father out of the Soviet Union has to be enough right now.

  “There are two ways to get to Moscow,” he says, not pressing the issue. This actually worries me more than if he had made demands, as it suggests he’s planning something of his own, or holding a winning hand that he’ll reveal when I’m not in a position to counter. “Car or train. Plane as well, although that is much more difficult. I suggest we drive. It gives us more control.”

  “Great,” says Ariadne. “More time in the car.”

  “It will take two days,” Ott says. “If we don’t stop.”

  Two days. That means if we leave soon, we’ll be there sometime on January 5, the day I’m supposed to contact Kenney.

  “All right,” I say. “Let’s get going.”

  Ariadne

  Listening to the conversation going on around the table, I’m reminded how much Russians enjoy arguing, particularly about politics. And how much they enjoy drinking, which makes the arguing even more impassioned.

  The journey to Moscow was long, and I am tired. All three of us are exhausted—myself, Boone, and Ott. I still call him Ott, even though I know his real name; he prefers it, and it’s how he is known by the people we are now with. We are in an apartment in one of the city’s overstuffed tenements, where spaces built for two people are inhabited by four, six, eight, sometimes more. Smells of cooking food—cabbage and onions and boiled meat—fi
ll the stairwells and seem to seep right through the walls along with mumbled conversations and the occasional shouting.

  Moscow has been gripped by a killing cold, with temperatures dropping at night to the point that just breathing hurts and exposure of more than a short time invites death. The building’s heating system is inefficient, and it wheezes like an old man with not long to live. Most of the residents wear coats, scarves, and gloves even inside. The apartment we are in is heated by a small gas cooktop, the burning blue rings performing double duty as they heat the kettle and pot of simmering soup seated atop them.

  “Stalin cannot last much longer,” says a man named Yuri. He is a bear of a man, massive and hairy, his black beard a thicket on his cheeks and chin. He pounds his fist on the table, making the glasses and plates clatter. “His popularity is falling after what he did in Poland and Hungary.”

  A woman seated across from him and to my left, whose name is Oksana and whose eyes are the bluest I’ve ever seen, points a finger at Yuri and says, “Yes, but look at what is happening in China. The Communists will win there, mark my words. The people are desperate to believe the promises made by these so-called leaders. Just as happened here.”

  I tune them out and try to relax. These people are Ott’s friends, and I am wary of them because I am wary of him. I understand the necessity of working with him for now, but I am not happy about it. Even though he was nothing but pleasant during the trip here, I do not trust him. I especially don’t like having to depend on him for anything. I wish, as I have more than once over the past few days, that I had my Minoan connections to call on. That, of course, is impossible, however. It’s unsettling to me how nearly every aspect of my life was tied to my line, and how without them, I have to rely on others. It is a position of weakness, and not one I enjoy being in.

  I sense someone looking at me, and look up to see Ott watching me from across the table. When our eyes meet, he gives me a little smile, lifts the glass of vodka in his hand, and takes a sip. The voices of the two Russians flow between us like a river, and we stand on opposite sides. I pick up my own glass and drink. The vodka burns my throat, but it also warms me a little. I set the glass down, and almost immediately Yuri fills it from the bottle that sits in front of him.