The Mercenary Page 19

  Garin lifted his head from the table, where he pretended to rest, and looked at the guard’s face through the grated window. “Fuckhead,” Garin growled. “Look at me. So quiet.”

  “Come to the door,” the guard said. “Snap to it.”

  Garin heard the door bolt slide free, and his hand went to the club. A quick blow to the head, drag the man inside. Garin had mentally mapped the turns he’d taken in the old mansion’s basement tunnel when he’d been returned to this cell, so he could reverse them.

  The door opened with a great, aching screech of hinges, and the guard pushed against the rusted resistance until it was fully open. “You have a visitor.”

  Natalya stepped from behind the guard. She was dressed as she had been in the courtroom—smart KGB uniform, hair in a bun—and her face was grim and unsmiling. She carried a notebook in one hand and a small duffel bag in the other.

  “I will be fifteen minutes,” she said to the guard. “Stay close by. When I’m finished taking his statement, I will knock.”

  “Be careful of him. He bit a guard’s ear. He’s a shit.”

  “Don’t go far,” she said.

  The guard closed the door, locking it.

  Natalya stared at Garin. She hadn’t slept, her dark eyes were nervous, and she made a great effort to look composed. Her lips were pressed tight, which gave her expression a hint of menace. “You look like an animal,” she said.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Yes, what?!” She looked at the cell’s interior doors. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  She placed the duffel bag on the table. “I am here to take notes on your case so there is a record for your trial. That is what I have told the guard. If he comes back, that is what I must be seen doing.” She unzipped the duffel bag. “I don’t feel responsible for you. This, you brought on yourself.”

  His notebook and travel documents were inside the bag. She pushed them aside to pull out a Soviet Army captain’s uniform, which she presented to Garin.

  “You are Luca’s size. Put it on quickly. If you walk confidently, no one will ask questions of a Soviet captain wearing the Order of the Red Banner. Afganets.”

  Garin stripped his smelly clothing and pushed his arms in the sleeves of the wool jacket and thrust his legs in the pants, buttoning the tunic, his hands shaking. He swept his hair back and placed the high-crown cap on his head. “Why are you doing this?”

  She scoffed. She looked through the barred window and turned back to Garin. “What happened in the courtroom after I left?”

  “His defense was rejected.”

  “What will happen to him?”

  “You know. He’ll be executed. He may already be dead.”

  She flinched, and her mouth opened involuntarily at the sudden, shocking news. She covered her surprise with a deep, calming breath and fortified her expression with false bravery.

  “Why haven’t they let me go?” Garin asked.

  “Why would they? You know too much.”

  “And so do you.”

  She shook her head. “I am not under suspicion.” She looked at Garin accusingly. “You conspired against Dmitry.”

  “I did what I had to do.”

  Her eyes were fierce. “You lied. Everything you said was a lie.”

  “He betrayed your father. He is the one who informed Talinov of the border crossing.”

  Color left Natalya’s face, and she stared at him, confused and disbelieving, but she knew the truth. Her face remained tough, but her hands began to tremble.

  Garin had a great urge to comfort her, but he didn’t. He felt the club in his hand, which he gripped threateningly, but there was dangerous sympathy in his heart. “That is what you need to know,” he said. “Yes, I lied. You want to know? I will tell you. But it is dangerous for you and dangerous for me.”

  Garin heard the guard approaching. “We set up Posner from the beginning,” he said. “We used you. We used him. We needed to shift attention away from GAMBIT. Posner once worked for us—he worked for everyone, if it paid—but he was no longer useful. Or reliable. We used you to set him up. Now you know everything. It won’t make things easier. The truth never makes things easier.”

  She looked like she’d been punched, and she gasped audibly.

  The guard was approaching. Garin lowered his voice. “Are you coming with me?”

  She handed him her nine-millimeter Makarov. “You will need this.”

  “You’re not coming?”

  “For what?” She stared at him. “This is my country, my home. Leave for what? An immigrant’s life in a strange place? Chernenko is dead. Things will change.”

  Garin heard determination in her voice, and he knew nothing he said or did would change her mind.

  She smiled—an insolent smile. “To be like you, a man without a country? I prefer to stay. I can be miserable here in my own home. I don’t have to be miserable in Brighton Beach with the zadroty, still talking and plotting against what they left.” Her expression softened. “Kiss me.”

  “What?”

  “You shouldn’t leave believing I don’t care for you.”

  Garin heard the guard yelling at the man in the next cell. Urgency made a claim on him, but he did as she asked. He kissed her briskly, with urgent emotion that she returned.

  She broke away, frightened by the power of the moment to change her mind. She presented her wrists. “Tie me up. There’s a car outside, a red Lada. Bogdan is driving. He is excited to play his part, so make him think he’s important. He will drive you where you tell him.”

  “This is stupid. Come with me.”

  “It’s not possible. The door is opening.”

  Garin had stepped to one side so when the door opened, he was able to bring the club down on the unsuspecting guard’s head, sending him to his knees. A second blow put him on the floor, and a low moan came from his throat. Garin tied his hands behind his back with his belt and wound a cloth over his eyes. A towel went in his mouth to silence him.

  Natalya stepped forward. “Now hit me.”

  He was appalled.

  “Do you want me to be tortured for being your accomplice? They won’t be as kind as you. Hit me,” she snapped. “You’re an idiot. Do it.”

  Garin was startled and numb, but he summoned courage. He stared at her pleading eyes—earnest and angry and ready. He fought against his horror. When he opened his eyes, he looked away, but his pistol struck her jaw. Her face contorted in pain, and her scream resounded in the small room. Blood gushed from an obscene gash on her lower lip and sullied her uniform. More blood came from her broken nose. She fell to the floor beside the guard, drawn into a fetal position to protect against the next blow.

  Outside on the street, a light rain had begun to fall, and somewhere there was the sound of briskly marching soldiers following their commanding officer’s tyrannical bark.

  Garin looked down at Natalya with pity and regret. Her pain was real; the blood was real; the loud cries for help were real; all that was false was her outrage.

  Garin stepped from the room and looked both ways down the empty passageway. He walked in the direction that he knew would take him to the street.

  25 ON THE TRAIN

  BELORUSSKY STATION WAS THE PERFECT place to vanish. A main highway to the south started nearby, and there were always cars outside waiting to pick up or drop off relatives or friends. There was also an underpass from the street to the metro station, and a man could easily be anonymous in the crowd that moved to the train platforms. Northbound trains went to other principal stations in Moscow and ultimately to Leningrad and the Finnish border. Southbound trains traveled past towns dotting the countryside outside Moscow and then continued their long overnight journey to Uzhgorod.

  Garin waited by a pillar, away from passengers pushing forward to board the train. He was chilly without an overcoat, but the Soviet Army uniform gave him the comfort of knowing he wasn’t of interest to the trio of militiamen who sca
nned the crowd for deserters. Twice strangers had seen the Order of the Red Banner on his chest and smiled, and he’d looked back indifferently. He rubbed his hands together for warmth. Spring had arrived on the calendar, but temperatures fell sharply at night.

  When he heard the clanging bell announce the train’s departure, he stepped forward and took three steps into the carriage. He didn’t look left or right. No innocent man needed to survey the platform to see if he’d been spotted. Then he was inside the train.

  Almost immediately, the carriage shuddered and lurched forward, and the train picked up speed and settled into a comfortable rhythm. Garin headed toward the first-class compartment in the front of the train, moving down the aisle packed with travelers arranging their baggage in overhead compartments, who moved aside when he begged to pass, and in this way Garin arrived at the end of the car. He was stopped by a conductor who demanded his ticket. “You’re in back. Third class.”

  Garin turned around, politely obliging the conductor, looking grateful for the direction, but once the conductor had passed through the carriage, Garin proceeded to the front of the train and Compartment 12. Garin moved his hands from one seat back to the next to steady himself, and twice he inadvertently touched a passenger. Each time the person’s indignant expression vanished when he saw the red-and-gold pinned medal. No one seemed to care that he hadn’t shaved in several days; no one noticed his insurgent stubble with wisps of gray, and no one recoiled at the swollen lip or his rank odor. He was a war hero returned from the front. He accepted the respect and let passengers think what they wanted. If asked, he had already decided that he would say he was on home leave and fuck off if he was unshaven and smelled.

  He ignored family groups who settled into their seats for the thirty-two-hour journey, undoing twine from small boxes of bread, sausage, cured meats, and dried apricots, laughing or complaining in loud voices. His eyes picked out single men or a man with a male companion. KGB operated in teams of two on trains to the border. Sometimes the men were together, and sometimes they split up. Undercover teams rode most of the trains, and they remained unseen unless something came to their attention.

  Garin moved slowly, lurching from one seat back to the next, apologizing to a passenger if he needed to but always keeping an eye out. His escape had surely been reported by now and an alarm raised.

  He spotted Petrov in the second of the two first-class carriages, sitting in Compartment 12 with his family. They acknowledged each other, and Garin continued along the aisle until he reached the end of the car, where he lit a cigarette. Petrov joined him, and the two took a smoke together.

  “So, you made it,” Petrov said.

  They faced each other across the swaying, shuddering platform between carriages, which was open to the rails underneath. The rhythmic rumble of the train’s wheels rolling along the railbed reverberated loudly in the narrow space. No one was there to hear them, and they spoke loudly to be heard.

  “What about Posner?”

  “He’s out of the way.”

  “Mudak!” Petrov spat.

  Garin nodded at the compartment. “Any problems?”

  “She’s okay. My rowboat will have been found overturned, and right now her parents will be fretting the possibility that we’ve drowned. You look official,” he said, nodding at the uniform. “Some medal. You could be shot if you’re caught wearing that.”

  Garin nodded but did not smile. He confirmed the details of the plan, which he’d previously laid out. Repetition saved even the best plan from failure. Garin described the plan and then he did it a third time, demanding that Petrov repeat each step. The car would be waiting for them two blocks from the train station. The car’s hidden compartment, Petrov’s invitation to a sporting competition in Prague, the track suits he and Olga would be wearing. The smuggler’s name. There would be a team of Americans waiting on the other side of the frontier. He would carry his film inside the lining of his leather jacket.

  Garin looked directly at Petrov. “A woman might join us.”

  Petrov’s eyes flared. “You never mentioned a woman. Who is she? Does she know who I am?”

  “If she boards, she’ll get on at the next station. She will be no trouble.”

  “If she boards?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Petrov wasn’t happy.

  * * *

  GARIN JOINED PETROV, Olga, and the boy, Aleksey, in their first-class compartment, taking the fourth ticket.

  Olga looked at him with nervous trepidation, which she masked with an awkward smile, and he responded with a pleasant nod. He wondered how much Petrov had told her and how much he had lied. Garin smiled to reassure her and make her feel at ease, and he looked at the boy, openly admiring a plush doll he held.

  “He’ll get a sedative when we get close to Uzhgorod,” Olga said. She turned to her son. “Remember what I told you. When we get near the end we’ll give you something to help you sleep.” She leaned over to her son. “Darling, do you remember the game we’re playing?”

  “Yes, Mama, we’re pretending that I’m a girl and my name is Nata. But how will anyone think I am a girl? I am a boy. Can’t they see that?”

  “Of course you’re a boy,” she said.

  “Oh, so you’re a boy,” Garin said, playing along. “I couldn’t tell. I will keep your secret.”

  “See?” Olga said. “You are playing the game well. Let’s see how many people we can fool. You have a doll, a girl’s name, and a girl’s hat. You’ve already fooled this soldier, and he isn’t easily fooled. Do you see his medal? He’s a hero.”

  “What if I don’t want to play anymore?”

  “We’ll give you a pill to help you sleep.”

  “This doll isn’t my type,” he said.

  Olga smiled. “Pretend it is an action figure or an alien in disguise. I’ll tell you a story about how much fun it is to fool people into thinking you are one thing when you are really a different thing.”

  Garin saw that Olga had her son’s attention.

  The door opened, and a stocky conductor entered. He wore a dark blue uniform, a large leather belt across his chest, and the smugness of a minor official proud of his authority.

  “Tickets.” He turned to Garin, who produced the fourth first-class ticket Petrov had bought. “You’re in the third-class car. I already sent you back. Are you a troublemaker?”

  “He’s with us,” Petrov said. “He has a ticket.”

  “He has two tickets. You can’t have two seats. It’s not permitted. We’re sold out. I need to report this.”

  Petrov produced several rubles from his pocket and added to the amount until the conductor was satisfied.

  “Don’t worry,” the conductor said. “You’re safe in this seat. Our patriotic soldiers deserve to be treated well.” He patted the child’s head. “Cute little girl you’ve got.”

  * * *

  KALUGA. THE FIRST stop on the Moscow main line south was two and a half hours into the journey. There was a large train station that was used for local traffic and passengers traveling to and from Moscow. The station was a two-story, rose-and-cream stucco building from tsarist times that sat astride the railbeds. Garin had risen from the compartment when he heard the conductor announce their approach.

  He wasn’t surprised when he didn’t see Natalya among the small group waiting for the train. They boarded quickly, and when the five minutes allotted for the stop were up, the train lurched forward, and continued toward Uzhgorod.

  “Well?” Petrov said.

  “It is just us,” Garin replied.

  “That’s better. We don’t need complications.” He gazed at Garin. “Somehow you look disappointed.”

  “No.” He pointed to his face. “This is never what you think it is.”

  “Be careful,” he said, and turned to his wife, who was alarmed at what she’d heard. “Don’t worry. Sometimes he doesn’t know that his humor is lost on people.”

  It was a long train ride. Garin knew h
e would have to sleep, but he found it hard to put Natalya out of his thoughts. He believed that she might change her mind, drive her car, and join him as they had discussed. She knew the plan, had agreed on the town, and had reasons to leave, even if she claimed she would rather stay. There was the possibility that she could escape the Soviet Union on her own and suddenly appear in the West asking for asylum. And there was another possibility. She had been arrested, now in Lefortovo Prison, or already dead.

  He didn’t dwell on the thought. She was gone from his life and that was the same as death—a type of death. The same as his wife. Garin took one last long pull on his cigarette and ground it into the arm’s ashtray. Fuck it. The curse slipped from his lips.

  Early-morning darkness was upon them, and he knew he had to sleep. Just when he was drifting off, a baby somewhere began to cry in another compartment, and when the child quieted, he heard riotous singing of two troublemaking drunks who pounded on each compartment door as they made their way through the carriage, exciting angry howls from sleeping passengers, and the noise woke the infant, who started to cry again.

  Garin turned in his seat, adjusted his head against the headrest, and made a determined effort to ignore the noise. Once inside the quiet of his mind, he again began to fret the details of the coming day.

  Sometime in the middle of the night, he drifted off. It wasn’t sleep as much as it was the suspension of wakefulness. He was aware of things entering his consciousness. He was aware of sounds, alert to the change in the train’s rhythm. He heard the tapping of hammers as maintenance men tested the Krupp steel wheels for fractures. There was the explosive sound of air pressure slapping against their carriage as a high-speed train passed. He had wild dreams that he did his best to ignore.