Zrada

by Lance Charnes

  The yelling and rustling suddenly switches off. Everybody—everybody—stares at the table. What the…?

  It’s an icon, old enough that the paint’s cracked and faded and the faces have turned dark. It looks like the same idea as the other painting, but totally different. The angel and woman are stretched, almost boneless. The flat, fake buildings behind them are a stage set, not a place.

  The Kapitán crosses himself the Orthodox way, right shoulder before left. A couple other militiamen do the same. Even the suit shuts up for a minute. Someone behind Carson murmurs what sounds like a prayer.

  Heitmann looks behind him, then all around, then dives into comparing the icon to the pictures in the binder. Carson whispers, “This famous or something?”

  “The artist is. This came from Dionisy’s studio. He and Andrei Rublev founded the Moscow School, the style of icon you see here.”

  None of those names mean a thing to her. “Shouldn’t there be more gold?”

  “This is very early. They used not so much gilding then.” Only the halos shine in the strip lights. “The fifteenth and sixteenth centuries were very difficult for the Church.”

  Okay. She checks the room’s temperature. The Kapitán’s all folded arms and stormy face. His eyes toggle between the icon and Ruslan, who’s pacing a small circle at the end of the table like a caged hyena waiting to kill something. The militia troops keep shuffling their feet and fingering their weapons’ trigger guards.

  Stepaniak’s back at the table. When his eyes aren’t glued to the attachés, they follow every twitch the German makes. He’s watching her, too. He smiles. “Is like old times, yes?” he says in English.

  Carson grumbles, “Keep telling yourself that.”

  Heitmann stands straight, shuts the binder, then faces Stepaniak. “I am satisfied these works are the pieces stolen from our museum.”

  Stepaniak puts on a big grin. “Ah, nemyets. Very good, you please me.” He shifts to Russian. “Dear Carson, please show the men”—he sweeps his hand around the room—“the gift you brought them.”

  Everybody’s watching her now. “I need Heitmann’s phone.”

  “Why?”

  “The combo’s on it.” A security measure. The museum gave her the cases locked.

  Stepaniak grumbles, then dips his hand into his car coat’s left pocket and brings out a newish Galaxy S7. He hands it to her; she passes it to Heitmann. He opens it with his thumbprint, fiddles with the screen, then turns it so she can see. In Notes: “829.”

  She draws a deep breath. Once she does this, her value to these men goes to zero. She turns both cases on end and twiddles both locks to the key code. Lays them down, pops the locks, swivels the cases so they face Stepaniak and the Kapitán. “Go ahead.”

  Stepaniak lifts the lids on both attachés. His smile turns sharkish. The Kapitán’s jaw sags. Ruslan steps around, peeks, palms his mouth.

  They’re looking at a hundred straps of used €200 notes with non-sequential serial numbers. Ten thousand yellow-faced bills. Two million euros in untraceable cash.

  Carson considered taking it herself. That’s why the German had the combo.

  Stepaniak grabs a random strap. He riffles the hundred banknotes with his thumb, then tosses the bundle into the case. He steps back two paces.

  “Dear Carson.” His grin practically glows. “Very good. You please me.”

  He cross-draws a pistol from under his car coat.

  He shoots Carson.

  Chapter 2

  No air.

  Carson lies gasping on her side. It’s like an angry draft horse kicked her in the ribs. She tries to suck in a breath but her diaphragm doesn’t work, her lungs won’t fill. She can hardly make a sound. Not that she could hear it if she did.

  Bullets rip apart the air above her.

  Who’s shooting who? She can’t tell. The four militia troops who used to be behind her are now flat on the slab, their blood oozing toward the floor drain. Heitmann’s down, dark red spreading over his polo. Carson can’t move well enough to see anything else. If she can’t start breathing again, she won’t see anything at all in a couple minutes.

  For an instant, Carson’s in a hockey game, sprawled on the ice after a bad body-check. Draws her knees toward her chest to relax her gut. (Doesn’t work; hurts like hell.) Tries to force her stomach out when she inhales to kick-start her diaphragm. But her vest, her jeans, even her compression bra are trying to keep everything in.

  Black fringes her vision. She wants to scream but has no air to do it.

  The ringing in her ears is so loud, she almost doesn’t notice the shooting’s stopped. Not that that’s her worst problem right now.

  Carson’s fingers scrabble for her fly. Top button open; unzip. A little room to shove her stomach downward in time with a stunted inhalation.

  That works, sort of: a trickle of air sneaks into her lungs. It’s like a snort of coke.

  A single gunshot. Why? Not important.

  Stomach up, stomach down. More air. The black edges around her vision melt away.

  She’s breathing again. This shit never gets easier.

  Another shot. Closer.

  Carson flips on her back, recovers from the effort, then turns her head toward the sound. Just in time to watch Vadim put a round in a fallen militiaman’s head.

  Shooting the wounded. Wonderful.

  Gunsmoke fills her nostrils. The coughing bucks her upper body off the concrete, then slams it down.

  Vadim watches Ruslan drag himself a meter. Aims his pistol, fires.

  He looks toward Carson with bored eyes.

  Oh, no, you don’t.

  Her right hand fumbles under her shirt. She’d clipped her baton to the vest’s left-hand Velcro side strap this morning.

  It’s not there.

  Vadim’s busy pulling cash out of Ruslan’s pockets. A man’s gotta have priorities.

  Carson’s fingertips trip over something round and rough just inboard of the side strap. It’s metal and warm and sits where an invisible someone is going at her body with an auger. Stepaniak’s bullet.

  I love my vest.

  Vadim’s done with Ruslan. He stands, draws his pistol, then steps over Ruslan’s blood trail to head her way.

  Where’s my baton?

  Something metal and cylindrical under her digs into her ribcage. She rolls flat on her back so her fingers can grab it.

  Vadim stops a foot away to watch her.

  She rasps, “What’re you doing?”

  Vadim shrugs. “Cleaning up.” His gun hand swings forward to aim.

  Carson’s right arm arcs up and out. There’s a zzzzzzip sound. Her baton extends an instant before it smashes into Vadim’s hand. His scream and the reflex gunshot mask the crunching of bone as Carson follows through her backhand.

  Her forehand swing destroys his left knee. She manages to roll out of the way before he crashes onto the slab where she’d been.

  Standing is a challenge—every move shoots lightning bolts out of her ribcage into her eyes—but Carson manages. She zips her jeans, retracts and shoves her baton into a hip pocket, pants for a while, then hobbles to where Vadim’s pistol landed next to a dead militia troop. A Heckler & Koch P30; nice weapon. She drops the magazine to check its load. Five rounds left out of fifteen.

  She happens to glance at the table.

  One briefcase is gone. So’s the icon. Fuck!

  Carson shuffles to Vadim. She searches him roughly, confiscates his stubby Ksyukha assault carbine, three more magazines for the HK, the wad of cash he took from Ruslan, and a Russian tactical knife and its ankle sheath. Vadim swears and groans, often at the same time. Then she crouches behind his shoulders and grinds the pistol’s muzzle into his temple. “Listen,” she growls in Russian. “I hurt like hell and I’m pissed. Answer my questions or I make you hurt worse than me. Understand?”

  Vadim keeps swearing, but there’s more groaning. He event
ually nods.

  “Where’s Stepaniak?”

  He breathes hard for a few moments, then shakes his head.

  “Stupid fuck.” Now that she’s not suffocating, she has time to get mad. Stepaniak tried to kill her and this idiot tried to finish the job. She jabs her pistol into the back of his right knee and pulls the trigger.

  People in Berlin can hear Vadim scream.

  She reacquaints the muzzle with his temple. “Let’s try again. Where’s Stepaniak?”

  Vadim pants for a while. “Driving. Get away. Rings. Tells me. Where to go.”

  “What was the plan?”

  More panting. “Take money. Paintings. Ask for. More money.”

  Of course. Asshole. “He tell you to shoot the wounded?”

  He nods once.

  “He tell you to shoot me?”

  He nods again. Of course he would. If he said no, owned what he was about to do, he’d have to figure she’d blow his brains out. Which she might do anyway.

  No. Too easy. “Guess what, Vadim. Just for being an asshole, you get to live…until the militia gets here.” Something occurs to her. “What militia is this?”

  He pauses. She can’t tell if it’s because the pain’s caught up with him, he’s pissed and has stopped talking, or he’s thinking about what happens when the militia arrives. “Makiivka Brigade.”

  Which means nothing to her. Militias are ten a penny here. Still, it could be useful to know.

  Carson groans to her feet and staggers toward the roll-up door. There hasn’t been a peep from outside since Stepaniak shot her (that asshole). She circles the table, steps over the Kapitán’s legs—it looks like he caught a round in the side of his head, probably from Stepaniak—then peeks through one of a line of bullet holes in the door.

  Bodies cluster around the cargo truck. They’re also draped over the second Range Rover’s hood (Stepaniak’s is gone, of course) and scattered around the technical. All in uniform. Stas must’ve gone with Stepaniak.

  Jesus Murphy. They were serious.

  When she turns, she almost stumbles over the fifth militia troop. He sits with his back against the door, clutching his side with both hands. Tears streak his cheeks as he watches her. He’s so damn young.

  “Hold on,” she tells him in Russian. Her voice is still husky and rough. “Help will be here soon.”

  Heitmann’s still when she kneels beside him. No pulse. He took three rounds in the center of his chest; if he wasn’t dead when he hit the floor, he was soon after.

  Carson braces her hands on her thighs and hangs her head. Fuck.

  She had two jobs here and she failed at both. The icon and half the money are gone. And Heitmann’s dead.

  She hardly knew the guy. Still, he was her responsibility and she hadn’t protected him. The frozen pain on his face makes her want to barf.

  You couldn’t even protect yourself.

  She gently closes his eyes and carefully replaces his glasses. “Sorry. I’ll get the other one.” Then she pats him down until she finds his wallet. His German driving license goes in his front hip pocket so they’ll know who he is and where he belongs. She stares at a snapshot of an average-looking woman in a floral dress staring back. The wife? Carson let her down, too. She pockets his wallet, watch, and wedding ring so the local vultures don’t steal them. The least she can do is get them to his museum.

  His phone’s on the floor by his feet. The top-left corner’s chipped, but the screen still works. She presses his right thumb against the button, turns off the passcode, then enters her left thumb as a second print. At least now she has a phone.

  The militia kid’s sobbing by the time Carson gets back to him. The right side of his utility blouse is solid rust. She checks her watch: it’s been fourteen minutes since she walked through this door. She needs to get out of here. This kid isn’t her problem.

  But he’s so young. A boy. Jug ears and a fuzz of dark stubble where hair should be. He reminds her of her kid brothers. He won’t last until help comes if she doesn’t do something.

  Sigh. “Wound kit?” she asks. He nods toward his right thigh pocket.

  Carson does what she can with the basic supplies in the little medical pouch, using his belt to strap a gauze dressing against the ragged wound near the bottom of his ribcage. He probably won’t bleed out as fast. No matter what she does to him, he doesn’t make a sound other than crying. You’re wasting time fights with why can’t I do more for him? in her head.

  When she’s done, she lays the wound kit and his canteen on his lap. The utterly lost look he gives her almost breaks her heart. She strokes the puppy hair on his scalp. “Stay there. Don’t move. Help will come.”

  Now what?

  She can’t get caught in a roomful of dead people. Nobody’ll want to listen to an explanation.

  Find Stepaniak. Get the icon. Fuck him up for shooting me.

  Carson swipes a not-too-bloody tactical belt off a dead militia troop. It holds four thirty-round magazines that’ll fit the Ksyukha—the AKS-74U she’d swiped off Vadim—a Russian-pattern canteen, and a larger version of the kid soldier’s wound kit. It’s heavy but useful. She closes and locks the Halliburton and tosses the painting into one of the black portfolios.

  Call for help? Of course, there’s no cell reception in this concrete box.

  An engine sounding like an asthmatic lawn mower clatters into earshot outside. Tinny doors slam; men yell; gravel crunches.

  The adrenaline hit that Carson had when she left the Range Rover less than half an hour ago returns for an encore. She rushes to peek through the perforated door. An olive-green Jeepish UAZ with two blue bubble lights on the roof crouches near the Toyota technical and its sprinkle of dead men. Two men in peaked caps and sky-blue shirts race from body to body. One’s on his phone. (He gets reception. Figures.) Ukrainian police, or more likely, rebels in police uniforms. Nobody Carson can afford to meet.

  She has no idea where she is or which way to go.

  But she goes anyway.

  Chapter 3

  Mashkov stops at the line of six dead men laid side-by-side, shrouded with their own ponchos. He whispers, “Bozhe moy.”

  Vasilenko stalks down the line toward Mashkov. The senior sergeant’s face is as dark as the rain clouds smothering the sky.

  Mashkov exits his UAZ Hunter—the Russian answer to the Toyota Land Cruiser—and meets Vasilenko near the last dead man in line. No salutes; they’re in the field, and it had taken ages to teach the men to not salute and show the enemy snipers who to kill. “How many?”

  “Eleven dead.”

  Worse than I thought. “What happened?”

  “Still working it out. Three shooters, as far as we can tell.”

  “And the money?”

  “Gone.” Vasilenko shakes his head like it’s made of uranium.

  Damn it! Mashkov allows himself a long growl of frustration, then stows it. He can’t start screaming and kicking the Hunter’s tires; he’s the commander and he has to set an example. “Stepaniak?”

  “Also gone, along with that scarecrow Stas. The one with no neck? Vadim? He’s still here.”

  That’s promising. “Has he told you anything yet?”

  “He hasn’t come to yet. Somebody got to him before us. His right hand’s smashed and both knees are chopped meat.” Vasilenko shakes his head. “Think it’s bad out here? Just wait until you see in there.” He jerks a nod toward the smallest of the three structures around them.

  This was supposed to be easy, Mashkov grumbles to himself as he follows his brigade’s senior NCO toward what looks like a storage or maintenance building. His men snap to as he passes, but his brain’s too busy to react. Swap money for a couple of paintings. Everyone wanted this to happen—the museum, us, the Chechen. What in God’s name happened?

  The stink hits him the moment he passes through the right-hand steel door: blood, piss, shit, gunpowder. He’s smelled all this before, though
not usually so concentrated. Maybe the close quarters are making his stomach heave.

  Two of his troops shuffle past with a body slung in a black tarp. Three more of his men sprawl in a lake of blood at his feet. Stepaniak’s man is closer to the table. A civilian—a balding man with graying hair—lies on his back nearby. “Who’s that?” Mashkov asks, pointing.

  “A German. Dieter Heitmann. Probably the museum’s man.”

  “Oh, Colonel.” Dunya—the brigade’s lead medic—pops up from behind the table. Her utilities are at least a size too big for her. “This man’s awake now.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.” Mashkov skirts the table, then halts when he sees Fedak crumpled on the floor with a hole above his ear. Mashkov’s hand slams the tabletop before he can control it, startling every living person in the room. My best captain. That bastard Stepaniak’s going to pay for this.

  The medic’s kneeling beside a bloody, pale soldier. The young woman wears running shoes. Mashkov used to be the “Donbass boot tsar,” and now his troops can’t get proper footwear.

  He crouches next to them. The wounded soldier’s face is another punch in the gut. It’s a child’s face turned old by agony. A schoolboy. Bozhe moy. “What happened to him?”

  The medic’s face is also young and aged by pain—other people’s, but a constant burden. She backhands a drift of brown hair from her forehead. “One entry wound here, exit wound here. It hit his lung or liver, I can’t tell. But…”

  “Yes?”

  She bites her lip. “Someone tried to patch him up.” She waves toward the soldier’s discarded olive web belt and a pile of bloody dressings. “He couldn’t have done it, not in his state. It probably saved his life.”

  Would Stepaniak have done something like that? Mashkov doubts it. He leans close to the boy and strokes his cheek with his fingertips. “Son? What’s your name?”

  The boy’s breath rasps. His big brown eyes try to focus on Mashkov but can’t quite pull it off. “Artem. Sir.”