“Colder,” Hollis replied.
“It is always colder in Moscow. Do you know why?”
“No. Why?”
“Eight million cold hearts in Moscow. That is why. Me, I'm Byelorussian. The Great Russians are half Tartar, all of them. We're more Western here. Did you like Moscow?”
“Loved it.”
“Yes? You're joking. I hate Moscow. But sometimes I go there for business. Minsk is a beautiful city. The Germans destroyed ninety percent of it and killed a third of the population, including most of my family. What bastards. But we rebuilt it all. With not much help from Moscow. You see? The arrogant Germans and the cruel Muscovites. And who got caught in the middle? Us.”
“I know the feeling.”
The Volga turned onto a narrow concrete road that paralleled the airport fence.
Marchenko shifted his bulk back toward the front and continued his talk. “But when Moscow gets a cold, we sneeze. Is that the expression?”
“The other way around,” Hollis said.
“Yes? When Moscow sneezes, we get a cold?” He shrugged and turned his head back to Lisa and Hollis. “We are going to the helipad of course. There was no time to disengage your luggage from the others', so it will go on to Frankfurt airport tomorrow. You can have it sent to your Frankfurt hotel. But for tonight, you have your flight bags in the trunk. If there is anything I can do through Intourist, please let me know.”
Lisa replied, “You've done enough.”
Marchenko chuckled.
The Volga turned into a wide concrete apron on which was painted a yellow X. “Ah,” Marchenko said. “Here we are. But no helicopter. We rushed for nothing.”
“Perhaps,” Hollis said, “someone has misappropriated it.”
“Yes, we have that problem here. You know about that? Too much misappropriation. But I think this is the other problem we have. Lateness.”
The Volga sat at the edge of the concrete apron, its engine running. The backup car pulled alongside, and the three men got out but stayed near their car.
Marchenko looked at his watch, then leaned forward to peer through the windshield at the sky. “Ah, there it is. You will make your Lufthansa flight,” Marchenko said, not bothering to put any sincerity in his voice any longer.
Lisa put her mouth to Hollis' ear. “Tell me not to be frightened. Tell me everything's all right.”
“I think a little apprehension might be appropriate. Let's see what they're up to. They might just want to chat.”
Marchenko said, “I don't like helicopters myself. In fact, there was a crash not far from here just today. The pilot and copilot and two passengers, a man and a woman, were killed. All burned beyond recognition. Cremated, really. How are the families to know if they have the correct remains?”
Hollis understood now how it was being done. He could hear the sound of helicopter blades beating the dank, heavy air. A black shape appeared over the bare tree line, silhouetted against the grey sky. The helicopter hung for a second, then began its sloping descent toward them. Hollis recognized the shape as that of the Mi-28, a six-seat passenger craft with a jet turboshaft, somewhat like the Bell Jet Ranger. Aeroflot, in fact, did use these for VIP service between Moscow's airports and the city heliports. However, as the Mi-28 dropped in closer, Hollis saw it had the markings of the Red Air Force. He said, “Mr. Marchenko, this is very special treatment indeed.”
“Oh, yes,” Marchenko replied. “You are very important people. In fact, I have been instructed to escort you. Please step out of the car.”
Hollis and Lisa got out of the Volga. The driver retrieved their bags and Lisa's icon from the trunk and set everything on the concrete near their feet. One of the men from the other Volga stood behind Hollis. Marchenko moved to Hollis' side and shouted over the noise of the approaching helicopter, “The gentleman behind you is called Vadim. He will accompany us.”
Hollis thought he might have had a chance to try his hand at flying an Mi-28, but apparently Marchenko thought he'd remove the temptation.
The Mi-28 set down on the yellow X, and Marchenko shouted, “Go, go!”
Hollis and Lisa moved toward the helicopter with Marchenko and Vadim behind them. A crewman slid open a small door in the side of the fuselage, and Hollis got in first, then helped Lisa up. The crewman motioned them to the two rear seats. They stowed their bags beneath the seats and sat. Vadim climbed in and sat in front of Lisa. Marchenko struggled to climb aboard, but the crewman didn't seem inclined to help, so Vadim reached over and pulled Marchenko into the cabin. The crewman slid the door shut and settled into the copilot's seat. The helicopter rose.
Marchenko fell heavily into the last empty seat in front of Hollis and tried to catch his breath. “Ah…” He turned to Hollis behind him. “I'm getting old.”
Hollis replied in Russian, “And fat.”
Vadim turned his head and gave Hollis a nasty look, confirming Hollis's suspicion that Marchenko was Vadim's boss and that neither Marchenko nor Vadim were Intourist guides.
The helicopter spun around and headed east, back in the direction of Moscow. Hollis noted that the pilot and the copilot were both Red Air Force officers. Hollis then looked at the profile of Vadim. He was a man of about thirty and looked muscular beneath his leather trench coat. He had one of the thickest necks Hollis had ever seen outside a zoo. Hollis doubted if he could get his hands around that neck, though perhaps he could garrote him with his tie and go for the man's pistol. But he knew not to underestimate fat Marchenko or indeed the two Red Air Force officers. He thought about how it could be done.
Marchenko, as though guessing at his thoughts, turned in his seat and said, “Relax and enjoy the flight. We'll be at Shereme-tyevo within three hours. You'll catch the Lufthansa flight in good time.”
Lisa replied, “You're full of baloney, Marchenko.”
“Baloney?”
Hollis noticed that the helicopter was at about two thousand feet, traveling on a due east heading, the pilot land-navigating by the Minsk—Moscow highway. Snow began to appear on the ground, and a stiffening north wind caused the pilot to tack to port to compensate for the drift. The Mi-28 was capable of close to three hundred knots, and Hollis thought they'd get where they were going very fast.
Hollis put his arm around Lisa and massaged her shoulder. “How you doing, kid?”
“Awful.” She looked down at the icon lying in her lap. “This is what real faith is all about, isn't it? The belief that someone up there is looking after you.”
“Yes.” The key, Hollis thought, was to take out Vadim immediately, then find Vadim's pistol before Marchenko drew his. Shoot Marchenko and the two pilots, then fly the Mi-28 to the embassy quad. This was all presupposing, of course, that Marchenko was not simply a helpful Intourist man who was under strict orders from the Soviet Foreign Ministry to get the American diplomats on that Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt. But Hollis had to act on what he believed, not what Marchenko wanted him to believe. He thought about how to take out Vadim quickly.
Lisa said to Hollis, “This icon has probably been kissed ten thousand times over the last three centuries. I've never kissed it…”
“Go ahead. Can't hurt.”
She brought the icon up to her face and pressed her lips to it.
Vadim sensed the movement and turned quickly in his seat. He looked at the heavy wooden icon, seeing and thinking what Hollis was simultaneously thinking. As Lisa lowered the icon, Vadim reached back with his right hand and grabbed it. Hollis brought his left knee up under Vadim's forearm and sliced the edge of his right hand down on Vadim's wrist. Above the sound of Vadim's scream, Hollis heard the wrist snap. Hollis snatched the icon from Lisa's lap and raised it, aiming the corner edge at the top center of Vadim's head where it would penetrate the coronal suture of the skull.
Marchenko had reacted faster than Hollis anticipated, sliding off his seat onto the floor, and he was now kneeling on one knee, pointing a heavy revolver at Hollis' chest. “Stop! Stop!”
Marchenko said to Hollis, “Put that down, slowly.”
Hollis lowered the icon, and Marchenko grabbed it away from him, then said to Vadim in Russian, “Put your gun away.”
Vadim shook his head. “I'm going to kill him.”
“Then I'll kill you. Put that away,” Marchenko snapped with authority.
Vadim put his pistol in the pocket of his trench coat. The Russians, Hollis recalled belatedly, like many Europeans, were not fond of holsters and preferred their pockets for their pistols, which was how Marchenko had gotten his out so quickly.
Marchenko stood and his head just touched the top of the cabin. He said to Hollis, “It has always been my experience that people will believe any little lie that will comfort them and allow them to behave well while on the way to their execution. But I see you don't believe you're going to Sheremetyevo to board a Lufthansa flight, and you're quite correct.”
Hollis replied, “I also know I'm not going to my execution, or you'd have taken care of it in Minsk.”
“Well, they want to talk to you first. And yes, I have orders not to kill you in transit under any circumstances. But I can and will kill Miss Rhodes the very next time you try something foolish.” He reached into his pocket and took out a pair of handcuffs. “We don't have much need for these here, as Soviet citizens do what we tell them. However, I took these along as I know Americans have no respect for the law. Put them on.”
Hollis looked at Lisa, who was pale but composed. She said, “I'm all right.”
Hollis snapped the cuffs on his wrist and sat back in his seat. Marchenko nodded to the copilot, who took his seat. Marchenko, too, sat down and said to Vadim in Russian, “Is it broken?”
“Yes.”
“You can inquire what can be done about it when we land.”
Hollis suspected Marchenko wasn't talking about a cast for Vadim's wrist, but a break for Hollis' wrist.
Marchenko examined the icon, which was now on his lap. “This has been desecrated. Did we do this?”
Lisa replied, “Who else?”
Marchenko made a clucking sound with his tongue. “I don't like all this destruction of cultural treasures. I have my differences with the Russians, but we are all Slavs nonetheless. This is terrible.”
Hollis felt that Marchenko meant it, but if Marchenko were ordered to burn every church in Byelorussia he'd do it, with no more moral protest than the clucking of his tongue. Hollis said, “Why don't you shut up?”
Marchenko turned his head and looked at Hollis with a hurt expression. “There's no need to be rude.”
“On the fucking contrary, fat boy. You're more despicable than the swine in Moscow because you're a traitor to your own country and a Muscovite lackey.”
Marchenko seemed to be trying to control himself. He took a deep breath, then forced a smile. You see? I tell you a little about myself, and you exploit it. A typical treacherous Westerner. And you think you can abuse me because you know you are to be taken alive. Well, let me tell you something—you're going to stand trial
for the murder of two Border Guards and perhaps a third if the one you left in the toilet dies. We don't let that sort of thing go unpunished as you well know. You will probably be convicted and sentenced to death. They will tell you to write an appeal to the president of the Supreme Soviet, as that is a right under the Soviet constitution. As you are writing your appeal, someone will shoot you in the back of the head. That's how it's done. Very humane if you don't know what's coming. But I wanted you to know, Colonel Hollis, so that if they tell you you're going to draft an appeal of your death sentence, now you know you are probably going to your death. I thought I'd extend that kindness to you. Even if you are a murderer.
“Shut up, Marchenko.”
Marchenko looked angry for the first time. He turned to Lisa. “You seem all right, which is why I don't want to shoot you. But your friend here… well, I don't meet many Westerners. Perhaps I shouldn't judge by one spy. Yes?”
Lisa said, “Will you give me my icon back? I promise not to bash it over your head.”
Marchenko laughed. “I must have your oath to God.”
“I swear to God I won't bash it over your head.” “Good.” Marchenko leaned back and handed it to her. “You see? This religious relic started all of this unpleasantness. But I respect the believers. I have a female cousin my own age who believes in God. She became a Baptist for some reason. Another Western corruption, this Baptist religion. At least she could have become Orthodox if she wanted to be a martyr. Does this religion bring you comfort even now?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Perhaps someday when I'm old, right before the end, I will talk to a priest about getting into heaven. God will understand. No?”
Lisa replied, “I think even God can get pissed off by some people.”
'“Pissed off?'”
Hollis said, Marchenko, please, I implore you, shut the fuck up.
“Yes? I think perhaps I talk too much. Not good in my job. Perhaps I should work for Intourist. I could talk all day to Westerners.” He turned to Vadim and asked in Russian, “Do I talk too much?”
“No, sir.”
“See? Well, maybe I'll be quiet for a while.” Marchenko settled back in his seat.
Hollis looked at Lisa. “Relax.”
She forced a smile and took his cuffed hands in hers. “Don't feel bad.”
“Okay.”
They didn't speak much for the next two hours, and true to his word, Marchenko didn't say much either. Vadim was in worsening pain, and Hollis could see his wrist was twice its normal size. Vadim muttered an obscenity from time to time. The copilot belatedly remembered a first aid kit, and Vadim found codeine tablets in it. He took several of them.
Hollis was certain that the pilot and copilot remembered perfectly well they had the first aid kit all along. Hollis had observed that casual cruelty in Russians before, a real indifference to the suffering of strangers. Once you drank with them or ate with them or had your little dusha dush, they'd give you the shirt off their backs, no matter how brief the relationship. But if you weren't kith, kin, lover, or soul mate, you shouldn't expect anyone to volunteer painkillers for a smashed wrist, and Hollis had even heard of that sort of indifference in hospitals. And to add insult to cruelty, the copilot offered the painkillers not to make Vadim feel better, but to let Vadim know they were available for the last two hours. Also, Hollis thought, the flight crew being Red Air Force, and the charter passengers being KGB, the cruelty was not altogether casual. Even more bizarre, Hollis thought, was the fact that Vadim was not angry with the pilots for their lack of sympathy, but was still glaring at Hollis as the source of his pain. Primitive, Hollis thought. But Russians reacted to the moment, not to abstractions. That was something to keep in mind in the days ahead.
Hollis said to Lisa in a light tone, “Well, do you want to say the words, 'I quit'?”
She looked at him and said softly so no one else could hear, “I've been thinking. You and Seth promised I would be kept informed in exchange for my help.”
“I'm keeping you informed. We've been kidnapped.”
“Not funny, Sam. I think you both knew this might happen.” Hollis stayed silent a moment, then replied, “We suspected.”
“More than suspected, I think. Do you know that Seth didn't want me to get on that flight?”
“No, I didn't know that.” But that was very interesting, Hollis thought. He said, “No one ever promised to keep you informed, Lisa. Not in this business. I'm not fully informed, obviously.”
She nodded. “He… he was trying to tell me something, but I guess I wasn't listening.”
“Nor we
re you telling me what he said.”
“Sorry.” She added, “He said you were a target and I should stay away from you.”
“But you came along anyway.”
“I love you, stupid.”
Marchenko piped in, “I hear whispers. No whispers. No secrets.”
Lisa ignored Marchenko and said to Hollis, “If I didn't love you, I'd really be pissed at you.”
“I'll make it up to you. Dinner?”
“At Claridge's.”
“You got it.”
Marchenko said, “Dinner? Yes, we missed our lunch. I'm hungry.”
Hollis said to him, “You can live a month on your fat.”
Marchenko turned and looked at Hollis. “You will be eating rats to stay alive in the Gulag.”
“Go to hell.”
“That's where we are going, my friend.”
Nearly three hours after they'd begun their flight, the helicopter began to descend. Hollis spotted the old Minsk road running along the Moskva River and noticed a dozen clusters of izbas, any one of which could have been Yablonya. Then, unexpectedly, he did spot Yablonya. He knew it was Yablonya because it was a stretch of black charred log cabins along a dirt road. Grey ash lay where kitchen gardens and haystacks once were. A bulldozer had dug a long slit in the black earth, and half the burned village had already been pushed into it. Hollis looked away from the window. To the list of scores to be settled—Fisher, Bill Brennan, and the three hundred American fliers—was now added the village of Yablonya.
About three minutes later, Hollis looked back out the window. They were at about five hundred feet now, and he saw the beginning of Borodino Field, the earthworks, monuments, then the museum. The pine forest came up, and the helicopter dropped more quickly. He saw the wire fence and the cleared area around it, then the helipad that Alevy had pointed out in the satellite photograph.
Lisa leaned over beside him and looked out the window. “Are we landing?”
“Yes.”
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