by Cap Daniels
“I’ve never seen your Georgia,” I said, “but I went to school not far from here, and that’s where I played baseball.”
She slipped her hand into mine as we walked across the parking ramp and past a dozen other parked airplanes. That was the first time she and I had ever walked while holding hands. We’d never done anything normal like typical young lovers, but our relationship wasn’t the same as most people in their twenties.
I saw Dr. Richter emerge from the mirrored glass door and stroll onto the tarmac. It was a great feeling to see him again, but I couldn’t decipher the look on his face. He was staring directly at Anya with both hands cupped over his mouth and tears streaming from his eyes. I couldn’t imagine what could be wrong with him. I’d never seen him show any emotion, especially not tears. He never glanced at me. His eyes were locked on Anya.
Anya noticed him and froze in her tracks. She gripped my hand. “What is wrong with that man? Why is he looking at me like that? You have gun, yes?”
Dr. Richter approached with his chin trembling, and he reached to touch Anya’s face. She stepped back and assumed a fighting stance with her fists raised in defense against the stranger.
“That’s Dr. Richter,” I said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
Dr. Richter’s mouth was agape and tears poured down his cheeks. He reached for Anya again and took her delicate face in his palms.
Anya spread her feet and clenched her hands into fists. She glared at me from the corner of her eyes. “Chase. What is happening?”
“My God, those eyes . . . and those cheeks. You are your mother a thousand times over. My God!”
Anya’s eyes glistened, and she took a step backward. “How do you know I look like my mother? Is not possible you know my mother. She is dead for many years.”
Dr. Richter wiped the tears from his eyes. “You must come with me. There’s something you have to see.”
He reached for Anya’s hand, and to my utter disbelief, she placed her hand in his and let him lead her across the tarmac. All I could do was follow. Anya glanced at me several times as we walked. I don’t know if she was looking for reassurance or an exit strategy, but I had neither. The man I trusted more than anyone and the woman I loved were walking hand-in-hand toward some unknown destination.
We stopped in front of Dr. Richter’s hangar. He turned the key and unlocked the door. Anya and I followed him through the heavy steel door, neither of us saying a word. As the lights came to life inside the hangar, we stood beside the gleaming P-51 Mustang. Dr. Richter had the palms of his hands pressed firmly against the fuselage behind the propeller blades. The painting of the woman with irresistible eyes and delicately crossed legs adorned the side of the plane above the script “Katerina’s Heart.”
Dr. Richter admiringly looked up at the painting and then at Anya. “This is your mother . . . Katerina Burinkova. I’ve loved her since the first time I saw her over thirty years ago, and you Anastasia Burinkova . . . you are my daughter.”
Anya’s knees lost the strength to hold her, and she clung to me. Tears trailed down her face as she stared at the painting of her mother on the nose of the Mustang. “This cannot be. What is happening? This cannot be true. I cannot be this man’s daughter. My father is dead. My father was Russian soldier. This cannot be.” Her body shuddered as she sobbed and gasped in my arms.
Dr. Richter led us across the hangar floor to a sofa and knelt on the hard, cold floor at Anya’s feet. He wept like a child as he held her hands. I watched the two of them stare at each other, speechless, and overwhelmed with emotion. I finally noticed he had the same smoky blue-gray eyes that were Anya’s. I saw the way her nose tapered at the tip, just like his. It was unmistakable. She was his daughter, and he was her father.
I never imagined seeing Anya so vulnerable. Her tears of disbelief seemed to give way to tears of acceptance, and she collapsed into his arms. Breathlessly, she pleaded, “Tell me about my mother.”
Dr. Richter wiped his nose and cleared his throat. “Wait here. I promise I’ll be right back.”
Anya melted into the sofa and watched her father bound up the wooden stairs of the hangar and disappear into a doorway. She never took her eyes off his path until he returned with a tattered shoebox under his arm. He pulled a small table from beside the sofa and dumped the contents of the shoebox onto it. From the box cascaded dozens of envelopes with jaggedly torn tops and delicate notepapers exposed from each. Alongside the envelopes came a stack of photographs banded together with an aged rubber band that was nearly shredded.
Anya reached for the stack of pictures, and the rubber band crumbled at her touch. She held each picture in her hands so gently that the slightest breath would’ve blown them from her grasp. Through puffy eyes, she pored over the pictures. Occasionally, she’d hold up a picture and compare the man beside her mother to the face of Dr. Richter.
Watching the two of them cling to each other was an unimaginable scene for me, and both of them in tears was beyond my comprehension.
Anya pulled each letter from its envelope and read every word. It appeared most of the letters were written in Russian, but a few were in a combination of Russian and attempts at English. She closed her eyes and held each letter to her face, seemingly trying to recall her mother’s scent through the worn pages. She carefully returned each letter to its envelope and placed it back in the tattered box.
After some two hours of tears, letters, and photographs, Dr. Richter finally turned to me. “Chase, my son, this is the greatest gift anyone could’ve ever given an old man. I love you, my boy.” He pulled me into his arms and hugged me as if I’d just saved his life.
When we parted, he clenched my shoulders in his powerful grip. “Chase, never let her go. Never. She is your life’s treasure and your salvation . . . and maybe mine. You are to never let her go. Do you understand me?”
I had to come clean. “Look, Dr. Richter, I had no idea that Anya was your daughter. I brought her here to meet you and to ask for your advice. She’s the woman I told you about.”
“There’s no way you could’ve known. Only God and fate knew. I could never thank you enough for bringing her to me.”
I’d never been good at anything emotional. I knew how to catch a baseball, land an airplane, trim sails, and kill people. That was the extent of my useful knowledge. I wasn’t sure how to react or behave in the midst of such an emotional experience for the two most important people in my life.
“Coach,” I said, “Suslik is a twin, at least, and probably a triplet. I killed only one of them. There’s at least one more and probably two. I’m going to find him, or them, and kill them . . . or him. Anya wants to defect and help me do it.”
He patted me on the shoulder. “Slow down, Chase. First, of course Suslik is a twin. We all knew that. You’re a little late coming to that party. Second,”—he paused and looked at Anya—“she cannot defect.”
“Yes, of course she can. You know exactly how to make that happen. You know everything we need to do. You have to help us.”
“She can’t defect because she’s my daughter and I’m an American. Her American citizenship is just a formality. Defection isn’t necessary. It’s in an obscure, old document. I think it’s called The Constitution. Don’t be fooled, boy. It isn’t going to be easy, but we can do it. Pennant will get her a temporary visa and we’ll go to work getting her naturalized. Very soon, Anastasia will have an American passport and maybe even a birth certificate.”
Dr. Richter was clearly planning every detail of turning his daughter, my Russian SVR agent, into an American. It had been my intention to introduce Anya and Dr. Richter, have a pleasant dinner, discuss the Suslik operation, and return to Florida. That should’ve taken less than eighteen hours, but that’s not at all what happened.
Instead of building the operational plan with Grace back in Key Largo, we found ourselves at Dr. Richter’s house where I sat idly by as he and Anya, father and daughter, pieced together the past thirty ye
ars. He told her endless stories of how he and her mother met, fell in love, and were forced apart by a great number of forces, including Dmitri Barkov.
Sometimes they laughed. Sometimes they cried. And sometimes they spoke conspiratorially. Occasionally, one or both of them would turn to make sure I wasn’t within earshot before the whispering resumed. I wasn’t afraid of anything they would tell each other, but I was curious about what was so secretive.
When two full days had passed, I insisted that we return to Florida to start planning the operation. Instead of protesting when I made the declaration, Dr. Richter stormed from the room then returned moments later with a backpack slung over his left shoulder and an ancient leather case in his right hand. I knew it would be a waste of time and effort to try to convince him not to come with us, so I made no such attempt.
Anya smiled. “Look at me. I am newest American girl, and I am going to Florida with my two favorite spies.”
As if rehearsed, Dr. Richter and I replied in unison, “We’re not spies!”
We climbed into Dr. Richter’s VW Microbus and headed for the airport. When we arrived, he thumbed the button and we drove through the sliding gate and onto the tarmac. We rolled to a stop beside my borrowed Bonanza.
“Anya and I will meet you at the Ocean Reef Club,” said Dr. Richter. “I’m quite sure you won’t be able to keep up. Now, get out . . . out! You’re going to need all the head start you can get.”
I kissed Anya and slid from the seat. I wasn’t looking forward to the long flight alone.
Dr. Richter was right. I heard Jacksonville Center hand off North American 555, Dr. Richter’s P-51, to Miami Center on the radio. That meant he and Anya had passed me in his much faster airplane and would be waiting for me on the ground.
When I landed at the private airport at the Ocean Reef Club, the Mustang was already tied down and covered with her custom canvas cockpit and wing covers. Katerina was still visible on the nose.
I parked the Bonanza and checked in with my friend, the manager. He told me that my “girlfriend and that old bastard, Richter” had landed over an hour ago, and they’d meet me on the boat.
What have I gotten myself into?
36
Some Things Never Change
I didn’t expect the scene I found when I made it back aboard Aegis. Dr. Richter and Grace were sitting in the cockpit with half a dozen maps spread out in front of them. They had notepads, pencils, and calculators scattered about the deck, but Anya was nowhere to be seen.
Instead of a snide remark about how much faster his airplane was than my borrowed Bonanza, Dr. Richter took me by the arm and led me onto the foredeck. “Chase, I had to tell Anastasia about her mother’s death. She’s spent the past twenty years wanting the truth, and as terrible as the truth is, she deserved to know.”
I stared into the water. “I know, Coach. You had to tell her. I just wish you would’ve waited until I was here. I’m going to check on her.”
What I saw in my cabin tore my heart into pieces. Anya, the strongest woman I knew, was curled in a ball on my bed, her shoulders rising and falling in a sobbing, sickening cry. I felt like I was being gut-punched over and over. My insignificant pain couldn’t compare to Anya’s agony.
I lay down behind her and took her in my arms. She wrapped her arms around mine and pulled my hands close against her convulsing chest. I burned with the desire to ask how I could help, but sometimes not asking offers more empathy. I held the woman I loved and waited until she was ready to speak.
When her weeping finally gave way to deep breathing, she faced me. Her face was streaked with tear stains and her eyes were blood red. Seeing her in so much pain left me feeling powerless but aching to do anything to soften the unthinkable blow she had endured. I brushed a strand of hair from her face and tried to wordlessly reassure her that I’d never let her go.
“He killed my mother. That bastard cut out her heart so she could not give it to the man she loved—my father. Dmitri Barkov murdered my mother and now I will cut his heart out of his chest and hold it in my hands while he dies at my feet. I swear it to your god and to my mother.”
I knew Dmitri Barkov had killed Katerina, Dr. Richter’s love, but until two days before, I didn’t know that Katerina was Anya’s mother. The irony was inconceivable. Any attempt I would make to talk Anya out of avenging her mother would be futile. I would never try to stop her, but I would try to delay her. I needed her help to find Suslik, and I needed her to be focused and on her game. I prayed that she’d be capable and willing to find and eliminate Suslik before we set out after Barkov.
I held her until her breathing became deeper and more regular, and she fell asleep in my arms, surrendering to the exhaustion of her emotions. Unwilling to move and risk waking her, I drifted off, joining her in slumber.
* * *
Before the sun rose above the banyan trees, I heard pots and pans rattling in the galley and smelled the wafting scent of coffee brewing. Anya kissed me lightly and slipped from the bed, quietly making her way to the shower. I joined Dr. Richter in the galley and accepted an offered mug of coffee.
“Is she okay?” he asked.
“No, but she will be. She’s going to kill Barkov.”
“Yeah, I know, but it wasn’t right to keep the truth from her any longer.”
“You’re right,” I said, “but it must’ve been terrible having to be the one to tell her.”
He took a long drink of the dark coffee. “I’m the only one who could ever tell her. It had to be me.”
I placed my hand on his forearm and looked into his smoky eyes. “When did you know she was your daughter, Coach?”
He looked to make sure Anya was still in the shower. “I suspected it when you described her to me and told me how Barkov had taken her under his wing. He wants to believe that she’s his daughter, but he would never tell her that. He’s filled her head with lies about who her father was and kept his thumb on her since she became an SVR agent. Her mother was KGB and one of the best operators I ever met. She could tear a man’s throat out with one hand while smiling and whispering in his ear. She was mesmerizing and deadly. Her beauty made her almost invisible. She could walk into any room and catch the attention of every man there, but when seven of those men ended up gutted and dying on the floor, no one seemed to remember the Russian who had floated through the room with such grace. She was the most remarkable woman, Chase. You can’t imagine.”
I smiled as Anya walked silently into the galley in a t-shirt and a tiny pair of shorts. Droplets of water from her wet hair ran down her t-shirt. She brushed her hand across my shoulder and down my arm.
“Yeah, Coach,” I said. “I think I know exactly what you mean.”
He smiled his crooked smile. “Yeah, son, I suppose you do.”
Anya leaned against Dr. Richter’s shoulder and kissed him gently on the forehead. “Dobroye utro, otets.”
He kissed her cheek. “Good morning, my beautiful daughter. Sit here with Chase and have coffee. I’ll finish making breakfast.”
“No, father. You sit. I will cook.”
She looked about the cabin. “Where is Grace?”
Dr. Richter answered, “She’s gone for a run and swim. She’ll be back soon.”
“Ha, a run and swim,” Anya murmured as she turned to the stove.
Breakfast was delicious. It seemed to be some sort of fried sweet cake with syrup and blobs of something brown. I decided not to question her about it. Anya and Dr. Richter spoke mostly in Russian, so I was able to decipher most of it, but there were many details that I missed. Grace had returned and spent the meal looking at me as if I should translate.
Anya reached across the table and took both of my hands in hers. “Chase, I want you to know I am focused on finding Suslik and killing him with you, but when that is done, I will find Dmitri Barkov and I will gut him like pig. You understand?”
I definitely understood. I appreciated her willingness to prioritize the missions and focus
on Suslik first. I couldn’t stop her from going after Barkov, but I could certainly make sure she didn’t go alone. I would do everything in my power to see that she never had to do anything dangerous alone ever again.
Grace said, “Okay, so here’s what I’m doing. I’ve put out some feelers for intel on Suslik throughout Europe. I’ve pieced together that there have been no mysterious double sightings for the last six weeks. This leads me to believe that there’s only one left and diminishes the potential that he may have been a triplet. I don’t think it’s safe to completely rule out that possibility, but for now, I think we should proceed under the general assumption that we have one target.” Grace tapped her fingers against her lips and seemed reluctant to share a secret.
The three of us echoed, “What?”
“I know I’m not an analyst, but I have a theory,” she said.
We gave her our full attention.
“Okay, this is just a theory, and it’s not really based on anything other than what’s going on in my head. Obviously, somebody sent Boris and his comrade to find Anastasia.”
Anya immediately cut her off. “You will not call me Anastasia. That is my name only for my mother, and now my father, but never for you. You will call me Anya and nothing more.”
“I’m sorry, Anya. I didn’t know. I’m really sorry,” Grace said with obvious sincerity.
“Is fine. Continue.”
“Okay, so I think it’s safe to assume that the two Russians were sent here to either kill her or bring her home. Do all of you agree?”
Dr. Richter and I nodded, but Anya sat stoically. “No. They were not here to kill me. They are what you call in this country bounty hunters. They are not assassins. So, you are wrong. There is no probability of them being here to kill—only to bring me back.”
I found it childishly amusing that Anya was jealous of Grace and took verbal jabs at her even when she agreed with Grace’s theory. I just wrote it off as more tree pee.
