The Mercenary Read online

  Natalya tapped her temple. “It makes for a good story. If only it were true. It’s time to go.”

  “I hope you got what you came for,” he said. “Stay for dinner. The road to the E109 is dangerous in a storm.”

  * * *

  LATER, FALLING SNOW laid a false peace on the two-lane road. Garin had seen a black Volga follow them from Moscow, but it was gone when they started back. They were twenty minutes into their journey, and Natalya was driving slowly on a back road that she claimed was a shortcut. He’d seen her glance ahead nervously when she turned off the main highway.

  “That is Golukov,” she said. “He spent ten years in a psychiatric clinic diagnosed with schizophrenia before he became a sought-after portrait artist. Now he is cantankerously prosperous.”

  They drove in silence. The snow was falling heavily, but Garin saw the fresh tracks of a car that had preceded them. Garin heard the hypnotic rhythm of the wipers, and from time to time he glanced at her, judging her driving and the worry on her face. She clutched the steering wheel tightly. Garin glanced behind to see if they were being followed.

  “We will be fine,” she said bravely. “Did you get what you wanted?”

  “What I wanted? No. I wanted to talk with Posner.”

  “He’s a busy man.”

  “What does he do?”

  She frowned, her eyes ahead, and didn’t answer.

  “Who does he work for?” Garin asked.

  “His boss.”

  He saw that her abrupt manner and vague answers were the limit of her pleasantness. “I don’t trust Posner.”

  She glanced at him again. “We have something in common. He knew this would be a long drive. If he’d come, Golukov would have pressed him for money.”

  The car hit a pothole, and Garin was thrown against her. The physical contact startled them both. Garin sat back in his seat, and there was a moment of quiet as they composed themselves. Their shoulders had touched, and they’d been close enough to smell each other’s breath. Her face was blanched with embarrassment.

  It was an unpaved section of road, and the car bounced again. When it came down, his thigh brushed hers. And then it happened a third time. He scooted over and held the door handle, but the road didn’t improve, and he kept falling against her. He did his best to ignore the contact, and then the road improved. He closed his eyes to shut out the tedium.

  They traveled that way for some time. Garin was lulled by the wipers moving across the windshield and the mechanical hum of the car’s engine. He found a spot for his head against the cold window, and his eyes closed while looking at dense darkness of the passing forest. It was then, in the twilight of sleep, that he felt her fingers on his hand. Her gentle touch was warm, and when he turned to look, she had withdrawn her hand to the steering wheel.

  Garin turned away and looked out the window, speechless. The silence between them became intolerable, and his mind fretted what she had been thinking, until he could stand the quiet no longer. “What was it like?” he asked, making conversation. “The life of a ballerina.”

  She glanced at him nervously and then peered out the windshield, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. “My injury was a gift. I left with my dream intact. I wasn’t the best, but I was good enough.” She grew more contemplative. “I don’t regret leaving ballet. The daily regimen, the scrutiny, the vicious jealousies. I enjoyed the stage, and it was fun to perform in London and Paris and to be prima ballerina, even if only briefly. That was special. But I have that memory. Now, I have a new life.” She looked at him kindly. “Why do you ask? You have no interest in ballet.”

  “Ballet doesn’t interest me. But you do.”

  “There is nothing interesting about me. But ballet is interesting. I will take you, and you will change your mind. Swan Lake is at the Bolshoi. You must come with me.” She smiled. “I was lucky. There is nothing so sad as a prima ballerina who is too old for the stage and too vain to see she’s an ordinary person. She shits like us, and she’ll die like us.” Again, she looked at him and held her gaze there for a moment, before turning back to the windshield. “And what about you? What’s your talent? Everyone has one thing they do well.”

  “What am I good at?” He threw out an answer. “I know people.”

  She scoffed. “Really?”

  “People show themselves in ways they aren’t aware—impatience, anger, nervousness.”

  “What do you know about me?”

  “I make you nervous.”

  She smiled confidently. “I don’t think so. Maybe it’s the other way around.”

  “You were nervous in the cemetery. You’re nervous now.”

  She shot him a glance.

  They were approaching a narrow bridge that crossed a deep ravine. Far ahead, beyond the bridge, in the darkness of the winter storm, he saw a Volga and two UAZ military vehicles blocking the road.

  “I’ve made a mistake,” she whispered to herself. Gray apprehension washed her face, and she moved to stop the car.

  Later, Garin remembered the moment vividly. The radio had been playing something vaguely like music—mostly static, but calming in the storm for its connection to the world. Then her comment to herself, odd at the time, which drew his attention, and he saw her try to pull over. He felt the brakes lock, and the car entered a sideways skid, turning in gentle rotation, and then came the deafening bang and jolting force of the collision. A sudden explosion of sound that hours later still echoed in his ears.

  Their conversation had distracted him, but a premonition came to him as they drove that this was the night he would die. Death would come for him on the remote road she’d taken for no good reason. Fear gripped him, but then the idea settled in an old song. That was when his head hit the windshield.

  * * *

  THE FIRST SENSATION was an excruciating pain in his neck, which traveled the length of his arm until his fingers tingled from numbness. He willed movement in his fingers, slowly clenching and unclenching a fist, working the hand to prove he could use it. He felt an old fear trying to get his attention, and he felt death lurking nearby, angry and cheated.

  The car had slammed into a guardrail and was tipped forward. Beyond the bridge he saw the three parked vehicles, headlights illuminating the forest.

  Natalya was slumped over the steering wheel, unconscious. Her head had struck the windshield, cracking it, and she bled from her lip. His first thought was that she was dead. He placed two fingers on her carotid artery and found a weak pulse. He was suddenly alert.

  The car’s engine was stopped and the wipers were frozen, but one wheel spun freely. His door was badly sprung, but he forced it open with his shoulder, exciting a screech in the metal. He circled the car, and when he came to the driver’s side, he saw that one front wheel hung over the embankment, rotating slowly. It was a long drop to the frozen river below. Snow was falling heavily, and river water breathed out cold in the narrow channel cut into the pack ice. Gentle snowflakes softened the violence of the moment. He listened for more danger, but there was only gurgling water. He looked again at the Volga and military vehicles. They seemed unaware of the accident. Garin considered running to them for help, but instinct told him to stay where he was.

  “Natalya.” He looked at her face. Nothing. “Natalya!”

  She needed medical help. He got her to the passenger seat with some careful lifting and sliding over the stick shift. He was close to her face, and he felt her weak cooperation, but her eyes remained closed. When she was seated, he wiped blood from her split lip.

  The Lada started on the third turn of the key. He kept the headlights off, rehearsing gear movements in the dark, until he found reverse. The engine warmed up, and then he eased his foot onto the gas pedal. It surprised him that the wheels didn’t spin. He applied more power and eventually coaxed the car backward until he felt the front wheel top the embankment. He stopped the car when he was off the edge. The immediate danger was gone.

  For several minutes, he drove
without headlights, leaning his head out the window to discern the road. Their earlier tire tracks were already disappearing in the falling snow. When he was certain they were beyond view of the parked vehicles, he turned on the headlights and increased their speed, following the tunneling beams through the dark night. He understood that everything that day, and the day before, had been arranged. Stupid, he thought. Foolish.

  While he was trying to make sense of things, Natalya stirred, her eyes opening. She seemed confused and tried to speak.

  “Don’t talk.”

  “Are you okay?” she whispered.

  “Me? You’re the one who’s hurt.”

  She touched her mouth and saw blood on her hand. He gave her his handkerchief.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “You braked. We skidded. The car hit a guardrail.”

  She clutched his arm and sat up. “I remember.” But he knew that she didn’t.

  “Your head hit the windshield.” He pointed to the cracked windshield. “Dizzy?”

  “No.”

  They had arrived at the intersection where she’d turned off the main road. “Which way do I turn?” he asked.

  “It will take hours to reach Moscow in this storm. We must return to the village. I’ll drive.”

  “You’ll kill both of us. Which way do I turn?”

  They were the only car on the road during the hour-long drive. The crash, her injuries, the entombing storm, and a near-death experience shattered all pretense of formality between them. Her head lay on his shoulder in a fragile truce, and they settled into a quiet that stretched on with the distance they traveled.

  After a long stretch, Garin looked over and saw that she had slumped forward, blood leaking from her nose. He called her name and got no response. There would be trouble if the car was stopped and they found a dead woman. Questions would be asked, and his cover would combust. How could this happen, his life transformed by events that he failed to foresee? He slammed the steering wheel with his palm. Shit.

  Garin put two fingers on her carotid artery and found a pulse. It crossed his mind to leave her in the snow, but his heartlessness didn’t extend to murder. He drove faster and took the turns recklessly.

  The village of Koltsovo appeared first as a faint glow through the curtain of snow, but then there were houses on either side, and he found himself moving through unplowed streets. Garin roused Golukov, who came to the front door in a long robe and cotton nightcap with a candle. The two men helped Natalya to a bedroom off the kitchen that had been hastily prepared. Garin waited at her side, angry and resentful, as the housekeeper buzzed about excitedly. Water was boiled for aromatic potions made from herbs, and black tea was brewed. The housekeeper was sent into the storm to fetch the doctor, who had gone to attend a pregnant neighbor.

  Through all of this, Natalya lay on the bed under a deep comforter, her pale skin jaundiced by the flickering candle. Electricity had been knocked out by the storm.

  * * *

  GARIN HEARD A cock trumpeting dawn outside. Then he opened his eyes to sunlight that pierced the treetops and streamed in the window, blinding him. Bit by bit, he became aware that he was slumped in a hard, wooden chair and in the moment of waking his unpleasant dream took wing and vanished. He sat up.

  The room smelled of woodsmoke. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. He saw the Lada parked outside and remembered the drama of the storm.

  “So, you are alive.” Natalya sat on the large bed, gingerly holding a hot cup of tea. She sipped. “You’ve been restless. I called your name twice, but there was no response.”

  Garin was cold, and his breath fogged. He was still dressed in his clothes from the day before, and an old blanket lay across his legs. He heard voices outside the room, and then he turned his attention to Natalya. There was a small bandage on her lip and her forehead had purpled, but her eyes were fixed on him.

  “You look better,” he said.

  “I’m fine. It was nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.” She tapped her head. “A bump.” She saw his skepticism. “Would I be drinking tea if I was hurt? Would I be making jokes? Do you notice any difference?”

  “Same voice. Same ingratitude.” He saw her mouth open, aghast. “Remember what happened?”

  “I stopped the car.”

  “You crashed the car. I drove us here. Golukov found a doctor who stitched your lip and examined your head. He said you were lucky.” He looked at her. “Maybe the blow knocked some sense into you.”

  “Insults!” She threw off the covers.

  He pointed out her clothing, which lay folded on a dresser. “The housekeeper put you in a nightgown.”

  Natalya had begun to undress, but she stopped and shot him an angry look, nodding at the door. “If you don’t mind.” She added, “We should return to Moscow. People will be asking questions.”

  “Who?”

  “We have been gone overnight. Questions will be asked.”

  “Who?”

  “People,” she snapped. “There are people whose job it is to ask questions.” Her hand swept the room. “This will interest them. Are you naïve?”

  Garin gazed at her for a moment. “There were two Soviet Army jeeps parked across the bridge.”

  Silence. “I saw them,” she said. “I recognized the Volga. We need a story for what happened. It is better if we have the same story.” She touched her forehead. “We should say that a tree had fallen across the road. I didn’t see it in the storm. The car skidded, and we drove here.”

  “Is that to protect me or you?”

  Her eyes flared. “Does it matter?”

  Garin agreed the details with her without asking for further explanation. It was easy for him to be complicit. The story was believable. In substance, it was true. Natalya’s stitched lip was real, the bruise on her head was visible, her worry was evident. All that was false was the tree and the omission of the vehicles.

  The morning was still young when they left Koltsovo. Diamond-bright sunlight sparkled on the freshly fallen snow, and the clear sky burned pale blue. Plows had cleaned the road, and the warming sun was melting snow from the pine branches.

  “Who were in the vehicles at the bridge?” Garin asked.

  “Shitheads. Second Chief Directorate. They are looking for Afghan war deserters. Pashtun and Uzbek conscripts who don’t want to fight.”

  They were coming up to the intersection where she had turned off. He glanced down the unmarked back road, remembering. The sudden turn and her excuse for a shortcut.

  He looked at her. He knew. Posner’s absence. The turnoff. Her hand on his. Her lies. He played out the puzzle pieces in his mind, trying to make sense of what she wanted of him. She was young and inexperienced, and he had seen those qualities before, but there was something else he saw in her amateur performance.

  11 MOSCOW STATION

  SHE’S KGB.”

  Garin offered his judgment the next day to Rositske in Moscow Station. Mueller had joined the conversation by secure telephone link from Langley. Garin waited a day to make his report. He wanted to let his suspicions settle overnight, hoping he’d make sense of what had happened, but the opposite occurred when he shaped his thoughts in his notebook. The incident made no sense unless he saw everything through the lens of entrapment. Her invitation to the Bolshoi. Her insistence that they have a story to cover up her mistake. But entrapment didn’t explain the vehicles waiting across the bridge.

  Garin waited for Rositske’s response. He couldn’t gauge Mueller’s reaction except by the silence on the phone, but he saw Rositske’s neck redden and his fist clench.

  “Your cover is blown. She’s a sparrow,” Rositske said.

  The door opened, and Ronnie Moffat walked in. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Garin was startled to see her.

  “She works here,” Rositske said. “She knows what’s going on.” He motioned for Ronnie to sit. “He thinks the woman is KGB.”

/>   Garin looked from Ronnie to Rositske and felt suspicion begin to corrupt his thinking. But paranoia was the real enemy, so he moved on. He spoke carefully, measuring his words. “Nothing fits together. Why was the Volga there to meet us?”

  “It makes sense if your cover is blown,” Mueller said, his voice tinny through the speaker.

  “George, hold on,” Rositske said. “It was dark. How do you know it was a Volga?”

  “Three vehicles,” Garin said. “Their headlights illuminated each other. There were four men inside. A Volga with radio antenna and two UAZs.” He met Rositske’s eyes. “I could be wrong, but the danger of being right outweighs the risk of being wrong.”

  There was crackling static on the telephone. “George?” Garin said. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you make of this?” Garin asked.

  “I don’t know. What’s your guess?”

  Garin had folded his hands on the table, and his face was gray. “Something is off. She seems too untrained. Too indecisive. Too naïve. She may be a sparrow, or a sparrow in training. They may be using her to see what she can do.”

  “Your cover is blown,” Rositske repeated.

  “I don’t think so. Something doesn’t make sense.”

  “What, then? Coincidence?”

  “Maybe.”

  “A coincidence?” Ronnie didn’t try to hide her skepticism. “You tried to get close to Posner, and you found yourself alone with her.”

  Garin met her challenge. “If they doubted my cover, I’d have surveillance on me when I leave the embassy. I don’t. No one follows me. I’m clean when I meet GAMBIT. Something is off, but I don’t think my cover is blown. They’ve targeted me for another reason.”