Zrada

by Lance Charnes

  “Trying to fix what you did.” Carson stumbles over an idea. She knows bribery; she understands it. Apparently, the people here do, too. She says to the priest, “You said the damage happened two years ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why haven’t you fixed it yet?” She’s pretty sure she knows, but wants him to say it.

  “We have made…some repairs. The things we had to do, like patching the roof. There’s no money for the rest.”

  Score. “How much would it take to fix everything?”

  “Everything?” The idea startles him. He glances around helplessly, then shrugs. “I don’t know exactly. Tens of thousands of rubles, I expect. Why?”

  Carson slides her fingers into her left pants pocket. They brush one of her wads of cash. “How far would you get with, say, five thousand euros?”

  The priest’s jaw drops. So does Galina’s. She gasps. “That’s…375,000 rubles?” Then she whispers into Carson’s ear in Ukrainian, “That’s not my money, is it?”

  “Don’t worry,” Carson whispers. Now she’s about to bribe a priest. Is that better or worse than threatening him? She pulls the sheaf of euros and counts them out so he can see every note. “Will five thousand cover it?”

  He watches the euros flash by like it’s breakfast and he hasn’t eaten in a week. “Why would you do this?”

  He’s gotta know already. Carson holds the stack of twenty-five €200 notes at eye level. “I give you this so you can make your church nice again. Then I thank you for keeping the icon safe until I could pick it up. Then—”

  “No.” Disgust crawls all over Galina’s face. “You can’t do this. It’s wrong.”

  “Yeah?” Carson turns to the priest. “Then I walk out with the icon and take it back to its owners. You lose it a week earlier than you would. Big deal. You get something out of it other than a rifle butt to your head.” She fans out the notes so he gets the full picture. “Deal?”

  Galina folds her arms hard, grimacing. “I’m not watching this.” She grumps away toward where she was before.

  The priest tries to keep from staring at the money but can’t help himself. “This is…about…more than worldly things.” His voice isn’t as certain as his words.

  She doesn’t believe he believes this, or at least that he’s not as convinced as he’d like her to think. Still, he’s steering them back to philosophy, where she loses. What does she do with that?

  Then it hits her: Rodievsky. The Russian mafiya boss who owns her soul. She works for him when she isn’t working for Allyson (and often when she is). She recalls the things she’s seen in his offices and dachas, and in the ones his buddies own.

  She tries to run through what she wants to say, but as usual, there’s no time. If she doesn’t get this right, she may have to take the icon at gunpoint. She doesn’t want that; too much can go wrong, and a whole different bunch of people will start chasing her.

  “You asked if a museum’s the right place for the icon. We could argue about that all day. Here’s something I think we agree on. Oligarchs? Mafiya pakhani? They love religious sh—stuff. They give money to the church to clean their sins. You know this place’s infested with them, right?”

  “Yes.” The sadness and resignation written on his face show that he knows all too well.

  “So word gets out there’s a six-hundred-year-old icon here. Some thug gets it. I know these people, I know how they work. You try to stop them, you die. Then it goes on a wall behind some predator’s desk. Only people who’ll ever see it are other crooks and predators. Think they give a shit about the Annunciation?” Oops. Too late. “No. They see millions of euros on the boss’s wall. I say that’s not the right place for it. Do you?”

  The priest shakes his head like it’s made of lead. “You have no respect, do you?”

  “Neither do they. Difference is, I won’t kill you if you get in my way.” She holds out the money to him. “Fix your church. Make it nice for your people. Stay alive for their baptisms and weddings and funerals. They need you more than they need that thing.” She thumbs toward the icon.

  He stares at the money for a long time. He stares toward the icon. He focuses on a window near the ceiling that’s partly covered with cardboard. He sighs. “Render unto Germany that which belongs to the Germans.” He slides the money out of Carson’s hand. “Render unto God that which belongs to God. Take it. Keep it safe.” He looks like a kicked puppy.

  Should she feel happy or dirty? She’ll have time on the road to work that out and probably beat herself up for it. “Good decision.” Carson glances at Galina—praying intensely, it looks like—and her gut twists again. “One more thing. Explain to her why this is the right call. She won’t listen to me. Take care.”

  Chapter 18

  Carson sits on the top step of the stairs leading to the church, enjoying the warmth of the first sun she’s seen since she landed in Dnipro on Tuesday.

  She feels like a real shit—leaning on a priest so she can take away the most valuable thing in his whole church, maybe the whole town. Even if it isn’t his. Even if she doesn’t believe in the church thing. It still feels slimy. That’s saying something, given the things she’s done for Rodievsky.

  The icon’s wrapped in an old gray blanket. It leans against the wrought-iron railing around the landing. While she knows hardly anything about art, she’s aware this isn’t the best way to keep the icon safe. She’s been staring at Heitmann’s phone for the past ten minutes, a call all set up, just waiting for her thumb to start it. Finally, her thumb makes the decision for her.

  “Hello?”

  She wishes she’d rehearsed this better or longer. “Matt? Carson.”

  “Um…hi.”

  “Too late to call?” A ten-hour time difference; it’s midnight where he is.

  “Usually, but I just got back to my hotel. Where are you? The connection’s crappy.”

  “Ukraine. Where are you?”

  “San Francisco. What’re you doing there?”

  “Working. You?”

  “The same.” A pause. “Are you okay?”

  Meaning, why are you calling in the middle of the night? Especially when you never call me? That’s why it took ten minutes for her thumb to make a decision. “I have an art question.”

  “Oooh-kay.”

  What was that in his voice? Irritation? Disappointment? And why do I care? “Got an icon. It’s really old. It’s—”

  “How old is ‘really old’?”

  “Six hundred years or so. It’s wrapped in a blanket. How do I not ruin it?”

  She can hear him sit and sigh. “Wood panel?”

  “A slab. It’s heavy.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “Never mind. I gotta carry it around. What do I do?”

  Another pause. His breathing whispers over the connection. For some reason, that settles her a little. It’s a relief to use English again; she didn’t realize how tiring it is to speak Ukrainian almost nonstop. Russian’s easier for her. More recent practice.

  Matt says, “Are you sure you’re okay? You sound…I don’t know. Down.”

  He noticed? “Bad situation. I’m tired. Took a round.”

  “You got shot?” Shock? Concern? “Have you seen a doctor? How bad—?”

  “Had a vest on. It just hurts. What about the icon?”

  “Jesus. You need to worry about taking care of you, not it.”

  He sounds like he actually cares. They’ve been on two agency projects together; they got along pretty okay by the end of the second one. She didn’t expect this kind of reaction from him. She’ll have to think about what it means, if anything. “When I’m done. For now, what do I do?”

  “Okay, okay. This blanket—is it soft? Rough? Dirty? Tell me about it.”

  “It’s old. Clean. Pretty soft. Think it’s been washed a lot.”

  “That’s good. It’ll help pad the surface. Can you get a plastic trash bag, l
ike one of the big green ones?”

  “I guess. Why?”

  “Put the whole thing in the bag and tape it shut. Two bags if you can manage it. You need to keep the piece dry—a board that old can warp if it gets wet. The same can happen with big swings in temperature. Does that help?”

  The red door opens behind her, revealing a grumpy-looking Galina. She’ll keep. “Yeah, that’s good. Anything else?”

  “Don’t bang it around. The paint surface will be fragile. How did you get this thing?”

  “Long story. I’ll tell you later. Um…how’re you doing?”

  “Okay.” It sounds like a shrug. “Just a bunch of things to sort out. I’ve got a week to renovate a house. It’s gonna be intense.”

  Try getting shot. That’s not fair; she’d panic if she had to renovate a house. At least he knows how to do it. “For Allyson?”

  “Yeah.”

  Galina stands on the second-to-the-top step’s far end, leans back against the handrail, and folds her arms tight. Her expression’s about sucking lemons.

  Carson says, “Look, I gotta go. Thanks for the help.”

  “Call. Check in. So I know you’re okay. Okay?”

  She hesitates for a moment. He’s always been nicer to her than she deserves, though he hasn’t hesitated to read her out when she’s needed it. This level of concern is something new, though. Not unpleasant, just…different. “Sure. I’ll try, but…I gotta go.”

  “Take care of yourself.”

  Carson glances at Galina. Whatever she has to say, it won’t be nice. Should she try to hold onto the friendly voice a few minutes more? Not without figuring out what she’s been hearing the last few minutes. “Thanks. You too.” She disconnects, then sighs.

  Silence except for the breeze kicking around leaves. Galina’s eyes burn holes in her hair. The thing is, Carson doesn’t want to fight with this woman. It’s pretty inevitable given what happened last night and this morning. Might as well get it over with. She wrestles on her poker face and turns to meet Galina’s stare.

  Galina asks, “Boyfriend?”

  Is that what it sounded like? Back to Ukrainian. “No. A guy I know. A…friend.”

  “I won’t apologize.”

  “Won’t ask you to. You did what you thought was right. Wish you’d talked to me first. We could’ve avoided the whole thing.”

  Galina watches her feet shuffle. “I still think I’m right.”

  “Yeah. Well. You lost this one. Move on.”

  More pickle face. “Last night, you said this isn’t my fight. You are wrong. It is.”

  “Even if it is, I still can’t ask you to risk your life for me. It’s not fair to you.”

  “Fair?” Galina lunges away from the railing and crosses half the step’s length before she pulls up. “Fair? Who are you to say that? Is it fair that over a million people had to leave the Donbass because of kolorady like those men who attacked us? You come in from the outside, you don’t know how anything works around here, and you tell me this doesn’t have anything to do with me? You try to throw me away?” There’s more heat in her voice than Carson’s heard since they met…including when Galina had a shotgun aimed at her head. Galina stabs her own chest with a finger. “I get to decide. This is my place. My home. Besides, I am not doing it for you. Yes, I want you to stay alive long enough to pay me. But this is for me. Those Makiivka tarhany? They owe me, and I’m going to collect. Taking those paintings and that money from them will make them hurt. I want that…for me.”

  Carson sits stunned. She hadn’t expected this much raw emotion from Galina. Even harder to take: she’s mostly right. Carson never thought Galina’s in this for anything except the money. She never asked, either. She’s so used to mercenaries that she hardly knows what to do with a crusader.

  Galina, yesterday: You always have to do the right thing.

  She’s an idealist. Maybe the most dangerous thing in the world…because you can’t change their minds, but they can change yours.

  “I’m sorry,” Carson says as quietly as she can. All they need is for both of them to get spun up. “Having danger come to you is one thing. Going looking for it is something else. Ask how I know.”

  “It won’t be the first time.”

  “You need to tell me about that someday.” Carson meets Galina’s stare. She’s never had to work this hard to keep someone from being a bonehead. “You have a husband. You have somebody to live for. What happens to him if you run out of luck?”

  “Don’t patronize me.” Galina glares at Carson. “We both took risks. He’s where he is because of it. I am here doing this because of what I did.” She aims a determined look at Carson as she points at the icon. “You don’t want that to be here? Okay. The priest says it’s the best thing. But I will make sure it goes to where you say it belongs. No bandits will get it. I promise that to you. Yes?”

  Carson’s had a lot of experience with other people’s promises. I promise I’ll be home for your championship game. I won’t drink a drop before your graduation, I promise! I promise I’ll pull out in time. I promise you, I’ll treat you the same as the rest of the cadets. Being a woman won’t hurt your chances with the promotion board, I promise.

  Yeah. Right.

  That’s why she decided a long time ago that if she made a promise, she’d keep it, no matter how bad it got for her. Because if she didn’t, what was the point? Why say those words?

  Can she trust Galina? Will she keep her promise? Will she bug out when things get hard? The stone in her face makes Carson believe she means every word. Galina didn’t need to be told what to do last night; she just did it. She could be useful even if she might be a zealot. “If I have anything to say about it, I promise.”

  Galina edges a couple steps closer, then stops just out of reach. “I still say it belongs here.”

  “Noted. If you pull a stunt like this again, you’re not even getting gas money.” Carson slings the icon under her arm. “Might not have far to go. My people say Stepaniak’s been stopped just outside town for over eight hours. Let’s go find him.”

  Chapter 19

  Rogozhkin watches through his binoculars as the Makiivka Brigade’s patrol approaches the highway bridge across the Kalmius River. It’s not close enough yet for him to hear the vehicles—a BMP-2 and two ancient Zil six-wheel cargo lorries—but for once the weather’s reasonably dry and the morning mist burned off nearly an hour ago.

  Syrov, the bearded lieutenant in charge of the spetsnaz section sent by the 45th Guards, lounges against the tree next to where Rogozhkin stands. “No casualties, sir?”

  “If you can avoid it.”

  “We can.” Syrov shrugs. “It takes longer, that’s all.”

  “We’re not that pressed for time. We let them go when I’m done with them. Their militia will come looking for them if they disappear.”

  The BMP’s low rumble finally overcomes the river’s burbling at the foot of the grove screening Rogozhkin and Syrov. The lieutenant pushes off from his tree and raises his compact binoculars. Then he taps his radio earpiece. “Ready.”

  Rogozhkin can find only two of Syrov’s ten men when he scans the area. The mark of a well-trained team. The lieutenant and his section drove in from Russia through Amvrosiivka last night, took an hour’s rest and meal break, and are now ready to capture the patrol without having slept for over twenty-four hours. Ah, to be young and immortal again…

  The BMP noses past the gravel road about fifty meters east of the bridge.

  Syrov touches his earpiece again. “Execute.”

  Two spetsnazovtsi step onto the road shoulders about fifty meters west of the bridge. Each has an olive-drab Klyukva antitank missile launcher perched on his shoulder; both point at the BMP. They’re ten meters apart. If the BMP’s gunner decides to be a hero, he can shoot only one before the other blows the armored fighting vehicle to bits.

  The driver’s no fool. He stops in the middle of the bri
dge, exactly as planned.

  In an instant, the other eight spetsnazovtsi materialize seemingly out of thin air to surround the lorries. Moments later, the drivers are face-down on the road with their wrists bound by zip ties. The men in the lorries aren’t stupid enough to run or fight.

  No matter how many hundreds of times Rogozhkin has seen this, it never fails to impress him. I used to be able to do that. He still could if his jeep hadn’t run over a Serb landmine in Kosovo sixteen years ago.

  He steps onto the bridge’s west end just as Syrov and one of his men march a militia captain from the BMP to meet him. The captain looks younger than Syrov and his eyes threaten to burst out of his face. His head jerks back and forth as he stares at his three captors. Waiting for someone to cut his throat, no doubt.

  Rogozhkin glances at the name tape on the captain’s chest, then gives him a paternal smile. “Captain Monya. You’ve left your neighborhood. What brings you here?” He keeps his voice calm, almost gentle. So many men think yelling shows strength. To him, it shows fear.

  Monya swallows and works his jaw a few times until sounds come out. “Ehm, Colonel, I…Colonel Mashkov told me our mission is…secret. Sir.”

  “I’m sure he did. You do know who I am, yes?”

  “Yes, sir. I…I’ve seen you. At the base.” The pitch of his voice climbs with every word. At least his Russian is decent.

  “Then you should know that Colonel Mashkov has no secrets from me.” Rogozhkin steps to within two hands’ breadth of the trembling captain. “You being here causes a problem. You’re in another militia’s area. Did you know that? I’m here to get this sorted before things become complicated. So.” He tries another smile, this one cooler. “Tell me why you’re here.”

  “Y…yes, sir. We’re hunting a bandit.”

  “All this”—Rogozhkin waves over the column—“for one bandit?”

  “Well, ehm…it’s two. Sir. Maybe three.”

  “Still.”

  Monya swallows again. “They’re…they’re the ones who killed our people in Amvrosiivka.”