The Thin Wall: A POW/MIA Truth Novel

by R. Cyril West

  Next he scanned the bedroom. The room was lit by a bare lightbulb that dangled by a cord from the ceiling. To his left, a wooden easel with an unfinished painting, a small table, and some art supplies. Against the far wall, forty feet away, the bed. To his right, near the door, an antique armoire.

  He turned his attention back to Johnston. Although malnourished, he seemed physically okay. A good thing. Because he would have to be strong enough to climb the ladder and make his way back through the tunnel, not an easy task──especially for someone who had been held captive for over a year and was likely frail and nagged by unhealed injuries.

  Even though it was too late in the game for questions, Milan had them: what was Johnston’s state of mind? How would he respond to a stranger emerging from the closet? Would he panic? Call for help?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Milan grabbed the Steyr-Hahn from the backpack, swallowed once and then slowly pushed open the closet door.

  Right away, Johnston turned to him with furrowing eyebrows.

  Milan put a finger to his lips and held his breath. He tried to smile but was nervous. The best face was a friendly face. Someone he could trust. It seemed to work. The stunned Marine just sat there with a playing card frozen in his hand. A second seemed like an hour. With music blasting on the other side of the door, Milan took a knee, and whispered, “I’m here for you, gunny.”

  “Who are you?” Johnston asked.

  “An American.”

  “No shit?”

  “United States Army. First Infantry Division. I helped kick Hitler’s ass back in the day.”

  “Don’t mess with me, sir.”

  “It’s true.”

  “But you sound like a foreigner.”

  “I’ll explain later. For now, I’ve come to get you out of this mess.”

  “Sir. Thank you.”

  Milan looked at Johnston’s ankles and realized he had a problem: the Marine was in leg irons. The irons were secured to the bed’s footboard by a long hunk of chain. Chained up like a damn dog! He had not planned for this. He had to think of something. And fast.

  But what? From the onset, even after Father Sudek had given him the Steyr-Hahn, he had hoped to avoid a gunfight. He did not want to take life. In his profession, and in the aftermath of what had happened on the battlefield, he had sworn to save lives. His plan was to slip into the room, grab Johnston, and then retrace his steps back through the tunnel without spilling any blood. But how stupid of him to think this way. Then again, he was plotting this rescue on the spur of the moment and was amazed he had even gotten this far undetected.

  He handled the Molotov and stuffed the rag inside the bottle top. He placed it near the armoire. At this point, he had no choice but to use the pistol . . . the bomb . . . his fists . . . whatever it took to free Johnston from his captors.

  He gave the Marine the Steyr-Hahn, the extra stripper clip, and asked, “Who has the key.”

  “Mazur, know him?”

  “Yeah, the big guy.”

  “He keeps the key in his front pocket.”

  Milan quietly grabbed a stool and unscrewed the light bulb, splashing the room into darkness.

  “You’re serious about this,” Johnston said.

  “Damn right.”

  “Sorry I doubted you.”

  “No worries.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’re in for the fight for our lives.”

  “Sir.”

  “Know any good Russian insults?”

  “Does Brezhnev look like he’s got Stalin’s ass hair growing on his upper lip?” Johnston held the pistol with both hands. “I studied Russian in the Corps, sir. Insults were the first words we Jarheads learned.”

  “Good thing. When I give the hand signal, give it all you got.”

  “Sir.”

  “You take the first soldier to enter the room. I’ll handle the next.”

  Milan held the stool and positioned himself behind the door. If he struck his target square on the head, he would knock the unsuspecting soldier out. He took a breath, the blood surging through his veins. Seconds later, he waved a hand and mouthed, go!

  . . . and Johnston was ready, finger on the trigger, unleashing several months of pent-up anguish, calling their mothers “Estonian whores” and their fathers the lowly “sons of inbred Tartars.”

  Milan grinned. “C’mon,” he whispered, “step inside this room. Let’s see what you bastards got.”

  The laughter in the hallway ceased right away. It was followed by the music turning off. He heard grumblings and the harsh sound of Mazur’s voice, “What the hell did the American just call us?”

  The soldier’s voice was replaced by a click of the door handle turning and then the door opening up.

  Milan gripped the stool.

  The first to stumble into the room was Horbachsky, chased by Mazur.

  Milan swung the stool toward Mazur’s head, but the alert soldier deflected the attack and knocked the piece of furniture from his hands.

  Both men went into a defensive posture, hands up.

  Milan saw the Ukrainian’s grizzled face plain as day: his blood thirsty eyes and crooked nose, his square jaw connected to a pillar of a neck. A neck, he sensed, that was as strong as the pillars holding up the ancient Greek Acropolis.

  This was bad. Really bad.

  He realized how much trouble he was in after the first collision, when he landed a punch that bounced off Mazur’s granite-like jaw.

  Milan ducked and weaved, giving him a shot to the kidneys.

  Mazur countered with a fist that missed wildly and with several jabs that breezed past his chin.

  Milan dodged to one side, backing into the easel and knocking it to the floor.

  “Where are you going?” Mazur asked, pulling a jackknife from his pocket. “Now I finish you off.”

  Instead of going in for the kill, Mazur toyed with the knife, swiping it back and forth with a grin. The delay allowed Milan a second to reach down and pick up the easel. With a firm grip, he swung the easel like a baseball bat against the Ukrainian’s hand and then followed with a firm kick against the side of his kneecap. Mazur staggered.

  Milan swung the easel again.

  This time the Ukrainian soldier dropped the jackknife and fell to the floor in agony.

  Milan pounced on him with a flurry of punches, each blow landing with the force of a sledgehammer, shattering Mazur’s nose, cracking his jaw. He gave a cry of rage, somehow having the wherewithal to grab the fallen jackknife and attack, slicing his shoulder.

  Pinned on his back, and bleeding, Mazur seized Milan’s hand. “Ubit’ vas,” he shouted, pushing back on the knife. “It’s over for you, doctor.”

  Milan covered the jackknife with two hands and leaned into it, moving the tip closer to Mazur’s throat. “This is for the Americans you abducted, you son-of-a-bitch. For the lives you helped destroy.”

  Inches now, inches . . .

  “I will kill you!” Mazur warned.

  But Milan had his way, plunging the sharp blade firmly into Mazur’s neck, the blood squirting in his face.

  He withdrew the knife and savagely jabbed again, thrusting the blade to the hilt, so deep into the soldier’s neck artery that it came out the other end and stuck into the wood floor. Mazur’s mouth opened to speak, emitting a gasp of breath.

  Milan slid off Mazur’s body. During the fight, he had heard the bang of the Steyr-Hahn and now saw Horbachsky lying in a pool of blood. The key, he thought. Get the damn key. With the knife stuck firmly into Mazur, he searched his pocket, found the key, and then raced to free Johnston.

  The plan was to set the hallway on fire. Thus preventing anyone from following them into the tunnel. He knew there were at least two more enemy combatants──the pock-faced Gurko and the physically-cut Potapov. Were they on the premises? The gunshots were an alarm. If the soldiers were nearby, they had heard the multiple blasts.

  Milan held the Molotov and flic
ked the cigarette lighter several times. “C’mon light . . .” he said impatiently. “Light dammit.” The silver lighter was a gift from the Party on the tenth anniversary of his membership. He knew it worked. He had used the lighter last month to smoke a cigar.

  Suddenly a burst of gunfire erupted from the doorway.

  It was Gurko.

  Milan rolled back into a safe position against the wall and set the unlit Molotov on the floor. Bullets zapped the armoire, narrowly missing his head. He grabbed the AK near Mazur’s feet, pressed against the armoire, and then fired the assault rifle in the direction of the doorway. Bullets shredded the walls, forcing the Russian to retreat into the hallway.

  After a second, Milan did a turkey peek toward the door and was nicked in the shoulder. He gripped the warm rifle and fired again until the trigger clicked──out of bullets.

  Milan pressed against the wall and pointed to the empty magazine on the assault rifle. No ammo, he mouthed to Johnston. No fucking ammo! The Marine, who was hunkered down inside the closet, leaned out and shot cover fire.

  Gurko ducked away.

  Milan tugged on Mazur’s body, took a magazine from his pocket and jammed it into the rifle.

  After a few seconds of ear-ringing silence, Gurko appeared at the doorway and attempted to reenter the room. As he did, Milan jerked the trigger to ack, ack, ack, ack.

  The sergeant went down.

  Milan snatched the lighter and flicked it twice. He let the rag catch on the Molotov, before hurling the bomb into the hallway. There was an explosion, followed by a whoosh of sudden fire. He shielded his face from the heat. When he looked again, Gurko was flailing his arms wildly, trying to douse the flames.

  Milan got to his feet and took a step.

  The severely burned Gurko was on his knees, somehow holding the pistol. He made a threat in Russian before Milan fired three rounds toward his chest. The sergeant fell forward heavily and landed on his forehead.

  By then the flames were spreading across the wallpaper and lashing into the bedroom. Johnston came up beside him, shielding his face in the V of his elbow while rushing into the burning hallway.

  “What’re you doing?” Milan removed his finger from the trigger. We’ve got to go. Now.”

  Johnston picked up a briefcase that Gurko had dropped and then returned to the room. “Sir,” he said. “We need this case.”

  Milan grabbed him by the shoulder and gave him a shove toward the closet. As they made their escape into the passageway, down on their knees and crawling, he wondered: where was Potapov?

  THE STRING QUARTET launched into a quirky piece, blending Franz Josef Haydn’s Emperor Quartet in C with Bedrich Smetana’s Quartet No. 2 in D minor. It was masterfully performed. The skilled violinists used a tremendous amount of bow, unafraid to bottom-out, while reserving their best artistry for the closing stages of the song. The brilliantly arranged piece, which Father Sudek had assembled the previous winter, put a smile on the judge and prompted a spontaneous applause from the audience.

  Josef Novak was first to stand, and roar, “Bravo.”

  Dal was enjoying it, too. His foot dancing. His head swaying. He was hypnotized by the seamless melody, put under a kind of trance. A man lost in his passion for classical music, he was no longer fixated on Ayna Sahhat or plotting for control of the village or feeling the angst of being a traitor to the Motherland. An uneasy truce had been reached. Like everyone in the church, he was riveted by the strings, rooting for the quartet’s triumph. Had the KGB envelope not fallen from his lap, the magical lure of Smetana would have captivated him for the remainder of the recital.

  He picked the envelope up from the floor and tapped it against his leg. Even here, seated in the nave, listening to the breathtaking works by Smetana, it was impossible to escape his administrative duties. He moaned. He had grown frustrated with the constant interruptions, the steady flow of paperwork on his desk, the round the clock phone calls from the KGB director in Prague, and the locals who visited the villa daily to complain about their lives. Had he reached a point in his career where a post like this was intellectually beneath him? Most likely.

  Of course, some at the Lubyanka would call him lackadaisical these last few days, maybe even a detriment to security, certainly worthy of a demotion. And there was truth to such claims. He had slipped up. He was slightly horrified to admit it. But true. However in defense of his recent behavior, the fever, the nausea, and the horrendous throbbing in his head had made it difficult to concentrate on the day-to-day work, especially the bureaucratic aspects of managing the district.

  Perhaps he did have dengue.

  He had spent much of the last 48 hours drinking vodka to cope with his sickness, when really, he needed medicine.

  Then again, Dal could argue that ignoring medical attention and attending the recital had been the correct decision. If anything, he was certain of his good judgment. Today’s recital served as a peaceful outreach, an opportunity to build upon his shaky relationship with the citizenry. There was need for peace now that he had finally broken their headstrong resistance. He deserved a break from the Devil Dog stress. After all, the entire operation had fallen into an anxious waiting game. What more could he possibly do until next week when the prisoner transfer took place?

  Dal took a silver flask from his pocket and had a sip of vodka. Damn headaches. At times, they were intense, much like the brain experienced after consuming a frozen drink too quickly.

  It was only after Tad Kriz had seized command of the audience by slicing up his solo piece that he opened the envelope and had a read. He was expecting a routine update, word on Zdenek Seifert, or perhaps a report concerning the roadblocks. But bad news? And of this caliber? His bloodshot eyes zeroed in on the words printed below the official KGB seal:

  FARMER KILLED IN AUTO ACCIDENT WAS CIA

  His neck stiffened. He had suspected the man was State Security police. Not CIA. How was it even possible? How could the Americans have discovered the events in Moravia and tracked them to this tiny, insignificant village near the Austrian border so quickly? Given the turbulent state of affairs in Czechoslovakia, it was nothing short of an intelligence miracle.

  The CIA agent, according to the message, was conspiring with officers in the military, possibly members of the government in Prague. Among documents found in the man’s hotel room was a list of clinics located in Bohemia and a photo of Dr. Milan Husak.

  Dal’s hands trembled.

  He recalled the Chicago Tribune and how easily Milan had caught the baseball. All along he had believed the Czech doctor was hiding something. Never been to the United States? He should have pursued that claim days ago. No doubt the American culture piqued the doc’s interest. But was he a spy? He remembered passing the Škoda near the bridge. Why was Milan’s car parked there? And why wasn’t he at the recital?

  Dal jolted to his feet. “Dear Lenin,” he whispered, distraught Devil Dog may have been compromised. “What have I done?” AYNA WAS the type of person who could read Kafka in the tavern on a Saturday night, amid drunken shouts and cheers and fights, never needing to reread a page. As a consequence, it was no surprise, really, that she pressed into her bow without looking up from the sheet music, unaware that the colonel was charging across the pew, that he was pushing people out of his way, and that he had sent Emil tumbling to the floor. Her ears told her the quartet was in the midst of a dazzling performance, a rare, magical moment. Sascha, she thought happily, must be looking down from heaven, and very proud of this day.

  . . . and then all at once everything changed.

  She lost her timing when instrument by instrument the music fizzled away and she heard Tad whisper, “oh, fuck.” Her eyes drifted from the music stand and she heard a collective gasp of shock from the audience. Dal was breaking for the door.

  Her face loosened with disbelief. The dream of playing in Prague had turned into a nightmare. She might have been the last member of the quartet to stop playing, but she was the first to l
eave her seat. “Don’t disrespect us,” she shouted, charging after the colonel with a firm grip on her bow. “This is our day . . .”

  She slipped abruptly between a throng of bewildered people, including the judge, and sprinted for the doors.

  She smelled smoke.

  Outside, a black fire cloud billowed over the rooftops.

  Someone screamed, “The villa is burning.”

  The street resembled a war zone. She stood for some moments longer and watched the concert goers scramble in the confusion. Had a plane dropped a bomb? Her eyes hardened like steel, searching for Jiri, before she came to her senses.

  No, this was not an attack.

  What then?

  A second later, a sound like a swarm of killer bees grew to a deafening growl. Milan’s Škoda was speeding toward the square. Oh, god, what had he done? He promised not to get involved. Her stomach was in knots. Her eyes flashed on the colonel. He was already on the cobble with his pistol drawn──his target Milan’s Škoda. He shouted something in Russian and knocked off several rounds at the passing vehicle.

  People screamed, ducked, and ran for cover.

  She placed her hands over her ears.

  At that point, anything might have happened, like Milan crashing or Dal turning his gun on her. She was terrified, then relieved when Milan drove safely away from the square. The bullets appeared to have missed him.

  She stood motionless while Dal dashed toward his sedan.

  Her impulse was to stop him.

  She kicked off her clogs and ran stumbling through the crowd. He had already slipped in behind the wheel and turned the ignition when she approached the driver’s side window.

  A pig farmer stood next to her. The man was pounding on the windshield and his swine was blocking the vehicle. “I have a grievance,” he shouted.

  Dal rolled down the window and thumped the farmer on the chest. “Idiot,” he said. “Move your pigs.”

  She wanted to get in a word.

  “Soldiers came to my farm,” the farmer yelled above the revving engine. “They shot five of my livestock.”

  “Shut up.”

  “What are you going to do about this crime?”