by Frey, James
“Do you need help administering his lesson?” one asks.
Yuri laughs. “Get your own student, Kirill,” he barks.
I can tell that the men relish the idea of being allowed to hurt me. Their hunger is evident in the way they leer and joke. I can’t even imagine what it must be like for the prisoners who have to live here. Especially ones like Falkenrath, who have so little fight left in them to begin with. The years here must have been hell for him. I hope that our plan to get him out works.
Yuri manhandles me down more stairs and into a small storage room, where he shuts the door. “Good,” he says, switching to English. “Falkenrath should be on his way to infirmary. Sorry about nose. Now we get Brecht.”
“Where is he?” I ask, wiping my nose on my sleeve. The bleeding has mostly stopped.
“Other wing,” says Yuri. He takes a bag out from behind a stack of boxes. “Put these on. You just promoted from prisoner to guard.”
The bag contains a uniform like the one Yuri is wearing. I quickly put it on. Then Yuri hands me a pistol. I put it into my pocket. It feels good to have a weapon other than the knife, which anyway was left behind in the cell upstairs. I stuff my prisoner clothes into the bag, which Yuri tosses into a trash can.
Yuri takes out another bag, and we bring this one with us as we head for the part of the prison where Brecht is housed. I keep my head down, in case anyone recognizes the prisoner who came through earlier, but nobody pays any attention to me. If they do, we’ve prepared a story about my being a new guard Yuri has been charged with showing around Taganka.
The area where Brecht is looks exactly like the one where Falkenrath was. Cell after cell is filled with prisoners. Now, though, they are waking up. Somehow, word of the events in the other wing has reached here, and there is an undercurrent of unrest. The guards who are ending their shift are anxious to leave, and the ones coming on are not pleased to be here. It’s exactly what we hoped for.
“They will open the cells soon for morning showers,” Yuri says. “We must be ready to go.”
We’ve decided that the best time to act is while the prisoners are going back and forth to the communal bathroom at the end of the hall. The bag Yuri carries contains a small, simple explosive device that he and Tolya have made. It’s designed more to make noise and smoke than to destroy anything. Once we light the fuse, we have a short time to get away from it.
A guard blows a whistle indicating that the first group of prisoners should file into the corridor and walk to the bathroom. We know that Brecht ought to be among them. We pretend to patrol the hallway, looking for him. When he appears, coming out of a cell halfway down the hallway, Yuri nods at me. We walk toward his cell but do not address him in any way.
The line of men shuffles toward the washroom. When they have passed us, we slip into Brecht’s cell. Yuri takes the bomb from the bag and tucks it underneath the bed. He lights the fuse, and we walk quickly out of the room, heading back in the direction of the bathroom. We are almost to the door when there is a loud noise and black smoke billows out of Brecht’s cell.
Immediately, people begin running and yelling. Guards come rushing down the hallway, both to see what has happened and to keep control of the prisoners. They’re yelling for them to get back in their cells. Many comply, but others are refusing to go. The guards grab them and push them. Soon the hallway is a confusion of bodies.
Yuri and I duck into the bathroom. A few men are already in the showers and haven’t heard the racket. Others are lined up, waiting their turn. They look at us as we walk among them.
“Back to your cells!” Yuri shouts. “Now!”
The men are used to obeying, and most obey. Brecht is one of them. As he walks by us, I take him by the arm. “Not you,” I say in German.
He startles, surprised to hear me use his native language. I lean in and say, “Come with me. Your daughter sent me.”
These are apparently the magic words, as Brecht doesn’t hesitate to walk with me and Yuri as we leave the bathroom and press into the crowded hallway. Fighting against the tide of bodies, we manage to get to the end and into the stairway. There Yuri removes his coat and puts it around Brecht, who is swallowed up in it. He is not at all convincing as a guard, particularly as he is not wearing shoes, but it will have to do.
We hustle him down the stairs. Either because most of the guards are upstairs, or through sheer luck, we make it without encountering anyone. Yuri pushes a door open, and we’re in a courtyard where there is a GAZ-55 ambulance waiting. Ott is sitting in the driver’s seat. We usher Brecht to the ambulance and push him inside.
“You stay here,” Yuri tells me. “Wait for Falkenrath.”
He turns and goes back into the prison. I climb into the back of the ambulance and pull the door shut. One side of the interior is filled with a stretcher and the sole passenger seat. Brecht is sitting on the seat. Ott, in the front, is turned to him. Their hands are clasped.
“Is it really you, Tobias?” Brecht asks.
“Yes,” says Ott. “It is good to see you again, Oswald.”
“Are we escaping?” Brecht says. “What are we waiting for?” he asks.
“My father,” Ott tells him.
“Helmut?” he says. “You’re getting him out as well?”
“We’re trying,” I say.
I wonder what’s happening inside Taganka’s infirmary. By now, Falkenrath should be there, and Ariadne should be playing her part in the operation. It’s a risky part, for everyone involved, and a lot could go wrong. There’s nothing I can do about it, though. Nothing but wait.
As Ott and Brecht talk, I sit with my eyes glued to the door to the prison. If all goes well, it should be opening at any moment. If it doesn’t, we will leave with Brecht, and Ariadne will be on her own. I stare at the door, willing it to open. Come on, I think. Come on. Get out of there.
The door opens, and someone comes out. But it’s not someone bringing Falkenrath to the ambulance. It’s someone I’ve never seen before. And he’s holding a gun.
Ariadne
Helmut Falkenrath is not a good patient. A quick glance at his wound tells me that Boone has not injured him badly. But there is a lot of blood, and the scientist is frightened, which probably contributes to his hysteria.
“I’m dying!” he wails in German as I clean the cut with antiseptic wash.
“You’re not dying,” I tell him, also in German.
This calms him somewhat, although he continues to moan and gasp with every touch of the cotton on his skin. I wish I could inform him that, if all goes well, he’ll soon be out of Taganka Prison and reunited with his son, but the risk of exciting him further is too great. And if he knew what he’s going to have to endure before that reunion, he would likely get up from the bed on which he’s lying and run screaming from the infirmary.
The syringe containing the drug that will “kill” Falkenrath is in my pocket. Before I administer it, I want to tend to his wound. This also gives Boone and Yuri time to liberate Brecht and get him to the ambulance as well. When Falkenrath was brought into the infirmary by two guards, it was a great relief to know that the first part of our plan had worked so well.
The nurse in charge of the prison hospital is a sour, pinch-faced woman who is more concerned with drinking her morning tea and eating the vatrushka sitting on a plate on her desk than she is with attending to the patients, so I have been left alone to do all the work. There are eight men in the beds that line both sides of the room. Most have wounds from fights of various kinds, although two have deep, rattling coughs that suggest something more serious. From what I’ve been told, it is our job to patch them up and get them back into their cells as quickly as possible.
I take a needle and pass the catgut through its eye. Clamping the needle between the jaws of a driver, I prepare to begin sewing Falkenrath up. This should take only a few minutes, after which it will be time to give him the injection. I still don’t know exactly what is in the syringe, but Yuri has assu
red me that it will be effective at mimicking the symptoms of cardiac arrest, after which Falkenrath will go into a coma state and appear dead, at least to anyone who does not examine him carefully, which I don’t believe the nurse in charge will do. She has made it clear by her indifference that the lives of prisoners are not valued commodities at Taganka, even the lives of men like Helmut Falkenrath. I think of all the scientists, writers, dissidents, and other intellectuals who are living inside these walls, imprisoned here because of supposed crimes against the powers in charge, and how most of them will simply disappear, never to be heard from again. It’s such a waste of life, and it saddens me.
I am about to push the needle through Falkenrath’s skin to make the first stitch when a male voice behind me says, “Be careful with that one, Strekalova. We would like for him to live.”
I start to respond that I will do my best, when I realize what he has called me. Strekalova. My name when I was undercover with the MGB. My blood runs cold. I turn slowly and look at who has spoken.
I recognize the face. He is someone who worked in the MGB office in Berlin, although we never had occasion to work together. It takes me another moment to recall his name, but I am able to retrieve it. “Morozov,” I say.
He smiles. He is not holding a weapon that I can see, but his hands are in his pockets, and so it is possible he is armed. More important, he is blocking my way out of the room, standing between me and the only door. The head nurse is seated behind us, and she does not appear to have heard what he’s said to me.
“I am surprised to see you here,” Morozov says. “I did not know you were a nurse.”
I smile even as every nerve in my body tenses for action. “You learn many things when you serve in the army,” I say.
“Indeed,” he says. He takes a few steps closer, until he is standing beside the bed across from me, with Falkenrath between us. The scientist is listening to our conversation, but he says nothing. “I was greatly surprised when I heard that you had left Berlin,” Morozov continues. “It was very sudden.”
So, he knows. But what is he going to do about it? Perhaps he thinks that he has me trapped in the room with nowhere to go, and so he is not concerned. This would be a mistake on his part. Still, it is not only myself I am worried about. I am supposed to be getting Falkenrath out of this place. Now I don’t see how I can do that without a fight. A fight I don’t have time for.
“It is too bad what happened to Utkin,” Morozov says. He lifts his hand and draws an extended finger across his throat. Then he laughs.
Falkenrath is looking from me to Morozov. He senses that something is going on, although he has no idea what it is. He is also still in pain from his wound, which I have not sewn shut. The needle remains in my hand, poised above his abdomen. Now I hold it up to show Morozov.
“If you will excuse me, I have a patient to attend to.”
Morozov’s face hardens. He reaches into his pocket. “I think perhaps someone else should take over for you,” he says. “Nurse! Come here.”
The head nurse looks up. “What do you need?”
Morozov turns his head to answer her. As he does, I leap out of the chair I am sitting in. At the same time, I draw the loaded syringe from my pocket. Before Morozov knows what’s happening, I jab the needle into his arm and depress the plunger. He roars and pulls his arm away, the needle still stuck in it. But it’s too late. Whatever is in the syringe is now coursing through his body.
“Get up!” I say to Falkenrath.
“I’m wounded!” he objects.
“You’ll be worse than that if you stay here,” I tell him, pulling him out of the bed.
He comes with me, clutching his stomach. Morozov attempts to grab us, but already his body is racked with spasms. His face reddens and contorts, and his mouth opens in a silent roar as he clutches at his chest. Falkenrath and I slip past him and head for the door as the nurse screams behind us.
Unfortunately, her screams draw the attention of the guards in the hallway. They turn and look as I leave the infirmary with Falkenrath ahead of me. When they see a prisoner they think is attempting to make an escape, they draw their guns.
“Get down!” I tell Falkenrath.
He doesn’t listen. What’s happened in the infirmary has frightened him, and he panics. He runs toward the guards yelling for them to help him. They ignore him, firing their weapons. Falkenrath falls to the floor, blood pooling out from half a dozen wounds. I can tell that he will not get up again.
It hits me with full force that I’ve lost Ott’s father. But I have no time to waste mourning for a man I’ve never met before today. I have to think of my own survival. For the moment, the guards think that I am a nurse chasing an escaping patient. They lower their guns as I approach Falkenrath’s body and kneel beside it, pretending to check for a pulse.
“Are you all right?” one of them asks as another runs to the infirmary to see why the other nurse is still shrieking. I have only a few seconds.
I do not have a gun, but there is a knife tucked into the pocket of my nurse’s uniform, and I’ve always preferred fighting with a knife. I draw it and throw it at the nearest guard. It enters his eye, and he falls. I pull the knife out, get up, and run down the hallway. I know that Ott is waiting in an ambulance in the courtyard. That’s where I need to get to. I have memorized the map Yuri drew of the prison, and I have only to run down this corridor, turn left, and go to the end. There the door will open into the outside.
As I turn the corner, I see someone else running. It’s a man. He’s ahead of me, and he hits the door to the courtyard and goes out. I hear him yell. I don’t know who he is, but I know he’s bad news for me and for whoever is waiting for me in the courtyard.
I run hard for the door, waiting to hear shots. I do not. Behind me there are shouts. The second guard has discovered his friend dead, and now his booted feet pound on the floor as he comes after me. There is nowhere to hide. I have no cover if he starts shooting. I have to get out.
The first shots are fired from behind me just as I reach the door. They hit the wall over my head as I push the door open and burst into the courtyard. There I find the man who was ahead of me, standing with his gun pointed at Boone, who is climbing out of the ambulance with his hands raised.
The man with the gun turns. I kick out with one foot, pivoting at the hip, and connect with his arm. The gun fires, but I’ve thrown him off balance, and the bullet strikes the building behind me. Before the man can collect himself, I’m on top of him, using my knife to make him no longer a problem.
“We have to go!” I call to Boone. “There are more coming.”
“Where’s Falkenrath?” he asks.
“Dead,” I tell him.
Boone looks shocked. So does Ott, who has gotten out of the ambulance. He looks around, as if perhaps his father is somewhere and he just hasn’t seen him. “Dead?” he says.
“The guards killed him.”
Before I can say anything else, Ott gets back into the ambulance. It starts up just as the door behind me flies open and the guard who has been chasing me comes out. I turn to meet him, and hear the ambulance roar away. Boone yells something, but I’m too busy with the guard to hear what it is. I make quick work of him, then turn my attention back to Boone.
“That wasn’t part of the plan,” I say, every doubt I’ve had about Ott’s loyalty now ringing like warning bells in my head.
“He was probably afraid and wanted to get Brecht to safety,” Boone says, but he sounds unconvinced.
The door to the prison opens once more, but this time it is Yuri who emerges. He looks at the two dead guards and says, “You must go. Now. Return to apartment. I will be there when I can.”
Boone and I don’t wait for him to tell us twice. We run out of the courtyard. Thankfully, it is still dark, and we are able to hide from the flashlight beams that shortly begin sweeping the area. We hear the voices of the guards calling to one another, but they don’t know where we’ve gone, and we’r
e able to slip away from Taganka and into the streets without being seen.
It takes us some time to return to the building where Yuri and Oksana live. When we get there, Tolya lets us in. When we ask him if Ott has been there, he shakes his head no.
“Where do you think he’s gone?” I ask Boone.
“I wish I knew,” he says.
“Do you think he’s crossed us?” I ask. It’s what I’ve been wondering since hearing the ambulance drive away.
“I wish I knew that too,” Boone says. “For right now, let’s just assume he was afraid that Brecht would also be killed if he waited.”
I can’t help noticing that Tolya seems edgier than usual. He’s walking around the small apartment, fidgeting and looking nervous. I suppose he could simply be worried about his friends, but this seems to be more than that.
“What do you know?” I ask him in Russian.
He glances at the door, as if he is thinking of running.
“You won’t make it out,” I say. “I promise you that.”
Surprisingly, he laughs. “None of us will make it out,” he says bitterly. He looks at me, and now the shy boy is gone, replaced by something with a harder edge. “Do you know what they did?” he asks. “Stalin’s army? During the war? They sent children to fight. They sent dogs to fight. Dogs with bombs strapped to their backs. They starved them, then tossed meat underneath German tanks so that the dogs would go to get it and the bombs would explode.”
He looks haunted, as if he is remembering something unspeakable. “I was only eleven when I was taken to fight,” he says. “Given a rifle and told to shoot anything that didn’t look like a Red Army soldier. Then they assigned me to the dogs, because I was good with them. They liked me. When I saw what they were doing with them, I cried, so I was beaten for being weak, for caring about dogs more than about my countrymen. And so I learned not to cry. Instead I was kind to the dogs, because I knew they were going to die, and I wanted them to know that someone loved them.”