Rogozhkin pats her hand on the thin bedspread. “You did fine. Is there a man?” He pauses for a moment. “Or a woman?”
Totally flirting. “Nothing regular. And you? Will you go for some nice grown-up Greek woman, or find a twenty-year-old blonde to play with?” If he can ask, so can I.
He chuckles again. “I doubt a twenty-year-old blonde would put up with me for long. She’d probably kill me if she didn’t spend all my money first. As for the mature woman…” His smile fades. “It’ll be hard to find someone who’ll tolerate me explaining what I’ve done over the past thirty years. Someone who won’t run away in disgust afterwards.”
Carson knows exactly what he means. She’s learned how much she can tell other people without driving them off immediately. It’s why cops marry nurses or other cops—nobody else can deal with the crazy hours and the shitty world they work in.
This is nice. Just talking, no pressure, no race to bed. Wish I didn’t have to end it. “While you’re finding yourself, I’ve got a job for you.” Both his eyebrows tick up. “Remember I told you I’m supposed to get those pictures back to their museum? That still needs to happen. There’s something I need to do here, but I want those things gone. So you’re taking them to Bonn.”
Rogozhkin falls back against his pillow and crosses his arms. His mouth opens to say something, then closes.
“A guy who goes by ‘Piotr’ will get here around noon tomorrow. He’s another associate with my company. He’ll take you and the pictures to Dnipro. A private jet will fly you direct to Bonn. The two of you take the pictures to the museum. There’s some other stuff I need you to give them, too.” Heitmann’s wallet, ring, and watch. “Then you get back on the jet and go straight to Cyprus. You’ll get a passport for whoever you want to be. Tell Piotr the name and nationality tomorrow and the passport’ll be waiting on the other end.”
“Why are you doing this?” He doesn’t bother to hide his confusion.
“You promised to get me and Galina across the line. You did. If you weren’t there, we’d both be dead. I promised to get you out of here. This is how I keep my promise.”
He nods slowly. Then he leans forward and wraps his hand around Carson’s. “Come with me to Cyprus. I don’t know you very well, but what I know impresses me. You handle yourself well. You keep your promises. You’re healthy and strong. And…what was it you said to me when we met? You understand me? I believe you do. We both know what it is to do what we have to, whatever the price.”
Carson watches their hands nestle together. He wants me to run away with him? That’s a new one. Not even Ron did that. The men she finds are usually satisfied with a weekend of fun and a goodbye kiss. There hasn’t been a serious proposal for more since her ex.
Don’t lose your head. He wants you to come play, not marry him.
What would that be like? Yeah, he’s over a decade older, but she’s no girl anymore, either. He’s not bad-looking, good shape, speaks well, a nice smile. He probably has a really complicated past. Then again, so does she.
A few weeks? A few months, until the sex gets old and they drive each other nuts?
It could be a mess. Or it could be fun.
“I promised Galina I’d help get her husband out of prison. I have to keep that promise, too.” She squeezes his hand. “Thanks for asking.”
“Thank you for not saying ‘no’ right away.”
Carson gets halfway to the door before she stops to turn his way. “By the way, if a woman named Allyson shows up one day to talk to you, listen to her. She’s my boss. She may give you a way to pay for your retirement.”
“You’ll give me a good reference?”
“We’ll see.” Carson smiles. “Take care of yourself, Edik Gregorivich.”
He returns the smile. “Until we meet again. Which I hope is soon.”
Chapter 56
THURSDAY, 19 MAY
Carson wraps an arm around Galina’s shoulders and squeezes. “You’ll recognize him. Don’t worry.”
Worrying is what Galina’s done most since they left Volnovakha Wednesday morning. She worried about being turned back after the endless wait at the Marinka crossing into Donetsk. She worried through their drive across the surreal calm and normalcy of Donetsk itself—street-food vendors, visitors snapping selfies at statues and fountains, people crowding cafés and busy shops, as if the war was on a different continent. She worried at each of the four checkpoints they navigated, spilling money into pockets belonging to cops and militias and a civilian group they didn’t try to identify. She couldn’t wind down in the hostel they found in Shakhtarsk. “How can you sleep?” she demanded. “He’s here. Right here. Just two kilometers away.”
This morning, Galina tried on every piece of clothing she had with her until she settled on a simple white mid-calf cotton dress covered with tiny blue dots. She brushed her hair compulsively until Carson took the brush away. “You look fine. He’s not gonna care what you look like. You’re gonna be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.”
They’ve been standing for almost half an hour at the iron-barred gate into a run-down industrial compound on the eastern edge of Shakhtarsk. Two shabby office blocks to their right; two large, rust-stained workshops to their left; battered shipping containers on the cracked cement slab; armed guards by the doors; concrete-block walls and concertina wire all around.
“What if he’s not here anymore? If they sold him again?” Galina’s voice is shaky verging on broken.
“Then we’ll go there. We’re not leaving without your husband.”
Carson’s had more physical contact with Galina than she has with any other woman in her adult life. Holding hands, hugging, letting Galina cry on her shoulder; it’s a little uncomfortable, but she knows she needs to do it. She promised she’d help Galina get her husband back. If that means giving her someone to hold onto, Carson will do that.
Two figures appear from the larger of the two workshops. One wears a shiny gold track suit and polished Doc Martens; the other one’s draped in a ragged, colorless smock, the remains of camouflaged trousers, and what look like shower scuffs. Track Suit saunters toward the gate while Smock shuffles behind him with zip-tied wrists.
Galina breaks away from Carson, grabs two of the bars across the gate, then presses her face against the metal mesh. As the two men come closer, her breathing sounds more like weeping. “Bohdan?” she whispers. “Oh no oh no oh no.” She rattles the gate and screams, “Bohdan! Bohdan, it’s me! Bohdan!”
Smock—Bohdan—seems to snap out of a coma. His nearly-bald head swings up and his eyes open wide. “Galya?” It’s more a croak than a voice. “Galya?” Tears start pouring down his filthy cheeks, leaving tracks of cleaner skin behind.
Track Suit reaches the gate and pauses to light a cigarette. He shows Galina a big smile. “Pani Demchuk. This is the one you want?” His Ukrainian is so chunky, even Carson notices.
Galina struggles to breathe. “Yes. Yes.”
“You are sure? I have others, not so worn out. Maybe—”
“No! This one. He’s my husband. Please let me have my husband.” The edge of hysteria on her voice worries Carson. They need to be well clear of here before Galina can lose it.
Track Suit unlocks and swings open the squeaky gate. He laughs. “Look at you. So pretty for your man. You must love him very much. Enough to take him as a scarecrow, yes?”
“Yes. I…I brought the money.” She tears a bundle of bills from her purse and holds it up. When Track Suit reaches for it, Galina almost throws it to him.
Carson pushes off the car’s nose and steps closer to the gate. She doesn’t like handing over the money before the hostage is free. She takes a quick inventory of Track Suit: skinny (no bulk under the loose material); probably a pistol in his right jacket pocket; lots of chunky finger jewelry that’ll tear her up if he gets in the first punch.
Track Suit riffles through the sheaf of €200 notes, then puts on a frown. �
��I am so sorry, Pani Demchuk. This is not nearly enough.”
Oh, you bastard…
Galina looks like the wall kicked her. “But…but your man said five thousand. It’s all there, every—”
“But that was so long ago.” Track Suit gives her a fake-disappointed look. “We have spent so much more to keep him alive. We need you to reimburse all that money, you know. You must give us ten thousand.”
“What?” Galina’s shriek nearly shatters Carson’s sunglasses. “You can’t! It took until now to get it! Please, please don’t do this!” She starts sobbing. “Pleeeeeease. I’ll give you money, I’ll—”
Bohdan rasps, “No! Please, no!” Track Suit backhands him onto the ground.
“Galya, shut up.” Carson hates doing this, but the last thing they need is for Galina to shovel all her money at this little shit. She grabs Galina’s hand as it dives for her purse.
Galina looks at her like Carson hit her, which she essentially did. “I have to!” she sobs. “I can’t lose him, I can’t, not now—”
Carson crushes Galina’s face into her shoulder. She whispers, “Shhh. You won’t lose him. I promise. I won’t let that happen to you. You’re…you’re a friend. I don’t have a lot of friends. People I can trust. I…don’t do trust well. But I trust you. Do you trust me?” She gently peels Galina off her shoulder.
“I do.”
“Okay. Let me deal with this khui. Stay here.”
Track Suit’s face twists like he just stepped in dog shit when Carson marches to the gate. He stabs a finger toward her. “Pani Demchuk, this is who?”
“She’s…she’s my friend.”
“You should tell your friend to stay out—”
“You.” Carson steps in front of Galina and aims a loaded finger at Track Suit. “You want money, you talk to me.”
Track Suit gives her an up-and-down scan. She knows he’s seeing a woman, but only a woman. Her new long-sleeved blue tee covers her arms and is loose enough to hide her body armor, and her black crepe traveling slacks fit loose on her hips and thighs.
He snorts, then swaggers to within a couple hand’s breadths. “You have a name…friend?”
“Not one you need to know.” She grabs the front of his track suit jacket, hauls him through the gate, then drives her forehead into the bridge of his nose. He yelps and staggers backward as blood spatters his jacket. While he’s busy, Carson takes two quick steps forward, squats, wraps her arms around his knees, then yanks his legs out from under him. His head bounces off the slab with the sound of a sandbag falling.
In an instant she’s on top of him, a knee in his diaphragm, yanking a tiny PSM pistol from his pocket. She racks the slide and jams the muzzle under his chin. “Are you listening?”
Track Suit moans. He tries to tilt his head back to get away from his own weapon, but Carson presses harder.
“Are. You. Listening.”
He pants, “Yes. Yes.”
“Good.” She cranes over her shoulder. “Galya, get Bohdan out here. Now.” She turns to the skinny, squirming asshole under her. “Know what I like about these little pistols? They’re great for close-in work. The little slug won’t leave your skull. It bounces around and chews up what little brain you have. Did you know that? Shake or nod. Show me you’re listening.”
Track Suit shakes his head like he’s being tased.
“Good. I work with people like you. You disgust me. I’d rather pull the trigger now and make the world a better place. But your people made a deal with my friend. A shitty deal, but a deal.” Galina and Bohdan are murmuring to each other behind her, but she doesn’t try to eavesdrop. “The best you get is to go with the original deal. Your other option—the only one—is that I drag your sorry ass with us. We go to the nearest field. My friend gets her shotgun and turns you into chopped pork because of what you and your asshole friends did to the man she loves. So, you want to live?”
His eyes have grown huge during her speech. If he’s looking, he’ll see in her eyes that Carson is dead serious—and she’s hoping he’ll go for the second option.
“Go,” he gasps. “Go away. Don’t come back.”
She and Galina hustle a sobbing Bohdan into the cobalt-blue Suzuki Grand Vitara SUV parked a few steps away, facing the street. Galina follows him into the back seat while Carson climbs behind the wheel. The tires chirp when she stomps the gas pedal.
They’re knifing westbound on the H21 motorway—here a glorified two-lane city street—by the time Galina and Bohdan pull themselves apart. Galina grips Carson’s shoulder. “Bohdan, this is my friend, Lara. Lara, my husband.”
A thin, dirty, calloused hand pushes between the front seats. “Lara…thank you for bringing my wife to me.”
She shakes his hand with her left. “Glad I could.” And she is. Watching them in the rear-view mirror, seeing the relief and love and yearning in their faces, how they cling together and try to catch up on almost two years of kisses all at once, nearly breaks her heart. Nobody in the world would ever be that happy to see me. Her own fault, she knows, not that it makes the thought any easier to take.
Bohdan blinks at the baggage piled behind him. “These are our things?”
Galina’s still trying to stop the tears sluicing down her cheeks. “Yes. Yes, my darling. It’s all we have left.”
“But where’s your car?”
She strokes his cheek. “This is my car. Lara gave it to me.”
Actually, Olivia did. She found it in Dnipro on a used-car website. An all-cash offer in euros brought the price down considerably. Piotr bought it and drove it to Volnovakha. Galina cried when Carson handed her the key on Tuesday.
“If you’re going to drive all the way to Krakow,” Carson says, “you need something better than that tin can you had. New life, new car.”
Bohdan gently squeezes her shoulder. “Thank you for our new life.”
Carson takes a good look at him in the mirror. Under the dirt and sunken cheeks and red eyes and buzzed-off hair, she can just about see the smiling man in the photo at Galina’s house.
After all the bad things I did here…I did something good. Made things better for someone. And I made a friend.
Is it enough?
It’ll do for now.
Five hours later, once they’d crawled through the Marinka crossing again, Carson pulls over at a crossroads just outside of town and shuts off the engine.
Galina yelps, “What’s wrong? Why are you stopping?”
“Relax. Nothing’s wrong.” Carson hauls a bottle of Bulgarian champagne from under the driver’s seat. She opens her window, pops the cork outside, lets the overflow soak the spotty grass they’re parked on, then hands the bottle to Galina. “Congratulations. You two are out of the Donbass. Back in Ukraine. Your new life starts now.”
Galina takes a huge swig from the bottle, then passes it to Bohdan. Her grin takes over her face. “What about your life?”
Carson shrugs. “We go to Dnipro. You guys have a suite waiting for you at the best hotel in town. I’ve got a room there, too. I get some sleep, then get on a plane and go home.” Or to her next project. Whichever comes first, or pays better.
Bohdan coughs after his drink of the sparkling wine. He holds out the bottle to Carson. “We will not forget you.”
The wine’s swill, but it’s the best swill Carson’s had for a long time. “And I won’t forget you.”
About the Author
Lance Charnes has been an Air Force intelligence officer, information technology manager, computer-game artist, set designer, Jeopardy! contestant, and is now an emergency management specialist. He’s had training in architectural rendering, terrorist incident response and maritime archaeology, but not all at the same time. Lance’s Facebook author page features spies, archaeology and art crime.
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Zrada Page 33
