by Niles Kovach
Vasily and Louis were waiting at my apartment. They had several packages of new clothing and were busy cutting the tags out of each piece, using razor sharp knives that were not pocket knives. Louis' knife had a serrated edge. A pile of black clothing lay on the floor against the wall under the window.
The new clothing, the stuff they were sanitizing, was definitely feminine. This bothered me, because I expected them to leave now that they had the icon, or part of it. I hoped they would take the body in the bathtub with them and I was ready to say goodbye. But Louis was undeniably holding a skirt, a short, aqua, jersey knit that I was sure could not possibly be for me.
"So long, then," I said, deciding on a direct approach.
"We are not leaving," said Louis.
"Yes you are. You have the icon. Now go."
Misha leaned the icon against the wall and sat down on the sofa. "Come here, Alex," he said.
I went toward him, but not too close. He pointed to the coffee table in front of the sofa. "Sit down," he said.
I sat on the table facing him. He looked at me for a long time before he began. He made me feel as if we were the only two people in the room. He had my attention.
"You must help us," he began.
"I can't possibly help you," I said.
"You can, and you must. I will explain." He leaned forward. "There are two brothers. They are a team, like us, but they are not as skilled as we are, and they do not command the best prices. They have begun descending into terrorism for attention. And they are the worst of terrorists because they are indiscriminate. Do you remember the Paris metro bombing?"
"Yes."
"That was their work. Their trade name is Ill Wind. We call them Achim and Ahmed, for want of a better name." I must have looked puzzled, because he stopped and took the time to explain.
"We use trade names because other names are not permanent; they change with the identities we use. Some of us, like Vasily, have an advantage in people knowing our real names. His advantage comes from his father. But otherwise, we have no real names, except in police files. So you see, it is pointless to tell you the real names of Achim and Ahmed. Those are the names they used with Grayson this time, their game names for this operation.
"I also cannot tell you what their alliance is, only that they kill. They use one cause after another as a cover for their demonstrations, but their purpose is to show what they are capable of, to advertise their skill. But they are too unstable and no one will hire them or supply them. Several governments, yours included, have decided it is time for them to go, and we have the commission. It is a very large commission, because no one else can or will take the risk."
"This is far beyond me," I said. "I'm just a college kid." I whispered this last, because I was mesmerized by him and by his words. It was like an initiation, and I suspected that it was more than he had said on this subject for a long time, because he paused frequently, as if to form sentences around ideas that were not commonly spoken.
"I am getting to your place in this," he said. "Ill Wind is planning another operation. They will use the last of their explosive. But it is a very delicate operation and they need the newest technology to achieve it. They need a laser detonation system. Normally, no one will sell it to them, but one typically irresponsible government has agreed to give the system (which they stole from the Americans) to Ill Wind in return for something that their prime minister can present in Moscow on a state visit next month. They hope to impress the Soviets with an important acquisition. Besides pleasing Moscow, they want to sink a hook into Ill Wind. There is always more than one motive, more than one plan, in any move of this game."
He shifted in his seat and sighed as if despairing of my ever catching on. I must have looked pretty stupid. I felt it. He leaned forward again, held me fast in that bright blue gaze, and continued.
"The hook was to be the icon. The plan was to blow up the Sears Tower, completely. That was ten days ago. Achim and Ahmed arrived, with us on their heels. They met Grayson and he agreed to produce the icon. I do not know what his plan was, but he was desperate for money and I do not think he ever intended to pay your priest. But that is not important now. He was supposed to bring the icon, and Ill Wind would then trade it for the detonator. They would wire the building and make a very loud noise. Everything was supposed to be finished in twenty-four hours. But something went wrong. There was no icon.
"The brothers are well protected. We cannot get at them until they move. They will not move until they get the detonators. They cannot get the detonators until they have the icon. Do you see where I am leading?"
"Yes," I said.
"You have the icon."
"But now you have it. You can give it to them."
He smiled slightly, as much of a smile as one is likely to see on Misha. "They are prepared only for Grayson to give it to them," he said. "Tonight was to be his last chance to produce it. Now he is dead." He gave a side glance to Louis. "For a day or two we thought you worked for Grayson. Maybe they will think so, too."
"Maybe?" I did not like the sound of this.
"Listen carefully." He gave me a set of instructions, specific and simple. There were several important things that I had to remember, one of which was to forget everything he had just told me. I was willing to do that.
What is interesting, as I look back on it, is that he never asked me if I was willing to help in the first place. He assumed, and I never objected. I never thought to object to being an accomplice to a killing; I thought only about preventing another tragedy. I was part of a decision on who should die, but not in an affirmative way. My involvement was based on my circumstances, on the influence of the powerful man who sat opposite me, on my own moral ambiguities. My subsequent actions were not heroic because I never decided. I never chose either side or no side. But that absolves me of nothing. The "no" option was always open and I knew that. It would have meant death, but it was open all the same. Morality was a maze I could not negotiate. I did as I was told because I was not mentally prepared to object.
There was another area, though, where my moral training was explicit and indelible and we quickly came to it.
CHAPTER TWENTY