by Tom Hron
What should he do? For the time being hiding in Bratsk would be good enough, but eventually someone would wonder why he never stepped outside his little apartment, looking like the same man. The babushkas sitting at the entrance of the long building, soaking up the springtime sun, would soon start questioning each other. “Who is that man over there? How come he never works? Why does he wear sunglasses today, but yesterday he could see just fine without them? If he has nothing to hide, why does he always live alone?” Then the cursed, snoopy grandmothers would leave their sidewalk benches, climb upstairs, and ask their sons and daughters and grandchildren the same things. The whispers would begin creeping around town and the Mafiya whores would tell the Mafiya cab drivers at the airport all about him. After while, the godfather would hear about the suspicious stranger and send someone around to take a look. Damn the babushkas, they were always watching, and nothing happened in Russia without them knowing it. They had been his greatest source of useful intelligence when he’d worked as the KGB’s Second Chief Directorate, in charge of domestic security for the Soviet Union back in the glory days of communism. Now the old bitches were his bitter enemies, and somehow he had to find a safe place to hide. But where, because who was as powerful as the ubiquitous Mafiya?
Suddenly, the answer struck him—the military, or at least what remained of it after so many years of neglect by Moscow. The armed forces had all the airplanes and helicopters, people and firepower he needed. What if he went to the District Guard stationed at the Bratsk airport and cut a deal with the local commandant? The poor leader and his soldiers probably hadn’t been paid on time for months and likely were eating moldy rations and wearing ragged uniforms made for the Afghanistan War 20 years back. He had heard the common solder was not to be trusted these days, often stealing weapons and equipment for the black market, even plutonium for nuclear weapons if they thought they could get away with it. The more he thought about it the better he liked the idea. He would teach the crime boss in Novosibirsk a lesson or two. Maybe he’d get the military to run a T-90 battle tank right over his home sitting so prettily on the shores of the Ob Sea. Yes . . . he would do a turnabout. He was the former Second Chief Directorate and knew damn well how to play the game. Who would dare mess with him?
He rose, turned over his chair, and screwed off the right front foot. Flipping the chair once more, he shook it as hard as he could, and saw the last diamond he had remaining fall on the floor. He picked up the tiny gem, put it in his mouth, and repaired the chair. He sat again, spit out the only prayer he had left in the world, stared at it, and remembered. . . . It had looked so simple at first. How could it have all gone wrong?
Months earlier he’d boarded the Trans-Siberian Railroad for Vladivostok, on the loose and looking for work, hoping to catch a high-paying profession suitable for a man like himself. The beautiful seaside city had started establishing itself as a hub of foreign activity in the Far East and was fast becoming a key Pacific Rim center. Industrial espionage, contract spying for the Pacific Fleet, perhaps even for the Americans, selling scrap atomic sub parts to the criminal countries of the world . . . there had been big possibilities for a master spy like himself. Vladivostok had grown cosmopolitan as well . . . wine, women, great food, and fine hotels. There would be other veteran spies there also, foreign and domestic agents who knew the profession well. Maybe he would reestablish himself as an important boss and make lots of money, he’d dreamed those long months ago.
Everyone had called him Kheeroork, the Surgeon, in his younger days, because of his love for the knife. When he’d graduated from Dzerzhinsky University, named after the founder of the Cheka, the Soviet Union’s original secret police, he’d come out as a domestic intelligence specialist who spoke seven languages, also the native dialects most common to the country. He had completed Spetsnaz too, the Soviet Special Forces training, and learned to fly, parachute, blow up buildings with common fertilizer, and, his favorite by far, kill with the knife. He got a big erection whenever he stuck his long switchblade into a victim’s stomach and watched their faces twist in agony. Except the last time. The stranger in Alaska had given him a shot he wouldn’t forget. His teeth and nose still hurt when he tried sleeping at night. He would like meeting that flyer again . . . and maybe he would because something funny was going on.
In the previous summer, minutes after he had sat in a crowded railway car, he’d noticed something very curious, an elderly, indigenous woman, an Evenki common to the Irkutsk region, sitting at the far end, sweating and squirming every time someone looked at her. He had kept a close eye on her, because withered old native women never appeared sweaty and nervous unless they had something to hide. He had wanted to find out what was going on. Later, he’d sat beside her and pretended to be a friend, winning her trust on the long trip to Vladivostok. What was she hiding? he had asked himself.
There had been little he could do on the train to find out, except stay patient and win her confidence by acting like he was a nice Russian man willing to help her on the ride to the beautiful city by the sea. Speaking her mother tongue had been the trick that had turned things his way. She had slowly relaxed and told him that she and her husband were subsistence hunters on the Angara River Delta, making their living by trapping muskrats, picking mushrooms, and shooting waterfowl.
What could she have that was so precious? he’d wondered all the way to the downtown train station. None of it had made any sense. If you stripped her, sold her leather and cotton clothing, refined her body for all its chemicals, you still couldn’t get a hundred rubles for her. The riddle had driven him crazy. After they’d stepped off the passenger car, he’d told her to walk with him so she would be safe. She had clung to him like a child. He had led her down the first lonely street he’d seen, pulled her around a dark corner, and started interrogating her at the point of his knife. She had squawked like a gut-shot bird, which had turned out to be a notable part of the fantastic story he’d heard, after a single jab of his sharp blade.
Sobbing, she had given up the rose-colored diamonds, pulling a small deerskin purse from, of all places, her panties, first lifting her native dress. She had found the six stones in a duck’s craw when she’d cleaned the unlucky bird after her shaman husband had shot it for their stew pot. Incredibly, both had come up with gems the color of rose petals, the most stunning find in the world. The person who discovered the source could be emperor of the world.
He had killed her by stepping behind her, covering her mouth with his hand, and thrusting the switchblade deep into the sweet spot below her rib cage, then waiting until her kicking convulsions told him that she was finally dead. No blood, no fuss, no mess, entirely like he’d been taught in Spetsnaz and practiced in real life. Dropping her, he’d walked away and gotten a hotel room, shaking like a bumpkin dandy on his first time with a whore. Could it be true that six diamonds lay in the little sack he’d stolen from an old lady from the Angara? Later, he’d sat in his room all night, staring at the priceless stones, wondering how to find where they had come from. Yuri Pavlov had come to mind because he’d always been magic. One knew these things when you ran the KGB on the domestic side and had ordered Akademgorodok wired with miniature microphones from one end to the other. His agents had been so thorough they’d even heard turds dropping in the toilet stalls. Damn, how he missed the good old days when real men had been KGB spies and Russia had been under his control. Now he was running for his life. What a change 20 years had made. It was either make a deal with the local commandant or die. Luckily, he had held out a gem on the Mafiya boss.
He rose, dressed carefully, like an American businessman, and walked downstairs to the street, feeling the snooping eyes of the babushkas examining him once again. Go ahead, you fucking vultures, and take a good look. With any luck he’d be living on the military side of the Bratsk airport by suppertime, setting up the second great search in the Sakha Republic for the pink diamonds. They must be near the crash site of the Mi-8 helicopter he’d chartered
from Irkutskoye Aviatsionnoye PO last year. He should have been flying, instead of staying in camp that day. The two morons up front hadn’t had a clue when the machine lost power after lift off. What a ride that must have been for everyone on board. Full-down emergency autorotations with any helicopter were, at best, one-shot affairs, but trying to squeeze the giant Hip between the woods and water had been completely crazy. Why hadn’t they remembered proper procedure and simply shot their forced landing to the open water, instead of losing the main rotor blades going into the trees. If truth be told, he supposed the captain hadn’t known how to swim and had made the worst decision of his life, the last one as well. The co-pilot and he had deserved to die, because they had spoiled the greatest chance of a lifetime.
Since the crash, he’d suspected Yuri Pavlov and the new friend of his, the weaselly shaman off the Angara, had planned an escape all along. They had somehow rigged the helicopter to quit at the worst possible time and lived to tell about it. He could feel it in his bones he was so sure of his hunch. Those two had survived and run away, no matter what the Yakutsk District Guard had said about the crash and despite the fuselage being partly under water. Both had dared to do what he’d been so absolutely sure they would never do—get themselves lost in the greatest wilderness in the world, with cold weather coming, no less. Damn them. He hoped the Siberian winter had taken its merry old time killing them. Serves them right if it had . . .
He saw a taxi coming up the street and held out his right hand, waggling his palm up and down. The rattletrap Volga swung over and he climbed in, grunting his destination to the driver. He wasn’t in the mood for friendliness—his life hung on a limb, a very slim one at that. The top boss would be screaming for blood from his hospital bed because he’d be so mad. He had to hurry. Maybe the cabby was even Mafiya. One never knew in Russia.
While he rode out of town he reminisced again, thinking how clever he’d been the year before when he’d gotten the diamonds off the Evenkis before they could sell them and alert the world, then luring Pavlov into the deal by letting him think he could take some stones for himself. Meanwhile, he’d lined up the godfather and his money and kidnapped the shaman and dragged him along under the pretense his wife was still alive. Everything had looked so great at first. Where the hell had he gone wrong?
Pavlov must have sabotaged the helicopter, the smart bastard. It had only taken minutes for him to decide which direction the duck had come from, and how it must have gobbled up the diamonds from alluvial sands somewhere along a waterfowl flyway. Ingenious. Who the hell else would have thought simply to telephone across Akademgorodok and ask a wildlife biologist for the principal migratory routes of ducks common to the Angara Delta, let alone knowing waterfowl ate gravel to help grind up their food? Sometimes people were so damn smart.
He remembered Sasha Pavlov’s visit to Alaska. He had used false papers and followed, suspicious there might be something fishy going on, despite her being the chairperson for Siberia in a silly coal conference. When he’d broken into her apartment searching for reasons why she seemed much less heartbroken than he thought an only child should, he’d discovered the unmistakable proof of the cheap trick she was trying to pull. Why had she kept her father’s clothing stored in his bedroom? That had seemed odd . . . unless she thought her father would be coming back home someday. Had he become a master spy for nothing? Fool me once and it’s my fault, fool me twice and I’ll kill you for your stupidity.
He had watched her like a hawk . . . then damn near run into the godfather’s Mercedes parked curbside on Prospect Lavrentyeva. What a fright that had been, and did he ever get out of there in a hurry. The bastard really was trying to make Sasha Pavlov his lubovnik. Would his bad-luck odyssey never end? Every place he turned bogeymen were jumping out, ones wanting to slit his throat.
The taxi splashed down the muddy driveway of the district guard base for the sectors around Bratsk and stopped at a ramshackle headquarters with a big hangar standing behind it. A row of Hip helicopters and Antonov AN-2 biplanes, sturdy troop and cargo haulers, sat on the ramp on the far side of the rundown operation.
Why didn’t the commandants of the guard ever make their men clean anything, let alone repair and paint the exterior of government structures? Was there any wonder the Soviet Union had lost the cold war so many years ago? Everyone had been too lazy to care that President Ronald Reagan of America was bankrupting the so-called evil empire in the eighties. Premiers Andropov and Gorbachev had fucked up everything for Russia with their combined stupidity. Now good men like him, old loyal communists who had worked so hard keeping the country in line, were wandering around begging for work, instead of living comfortably in Moscow as they had in the past. He shook his head in utter disbelief, paid the driver, and walked into the entrance of the shabby headquarters. Here goes my last chance to stay alive.
Ten minutes later a sergeant led him to the base commandant, a lieutenant general who looked wretched with worry. He had guessed right—there hadn’t been any paychecks or good food for weeks. But what could a commandant do? There were no jobs that paid any better, not in Bratsk, and at least there were weapons and equipment one could sell to the local Mafiya for American dollars when you got the chance. Zorkin could tell by the look in the man’s eyes that’s what he believed the visit was all about . . . another black marketeer wanting to make a purchase.
“Allo, general, I have some good news for you today,” He sat without waiting for an invitation and watched the general sit down as well, eyes gleaming with fury. Civilians wouldn’t have dared such impudence in front of a Red Army officer back in the old days. But it was important that the general see that he was unafraid.
“Give me your name before you tell me the good news. Maybe I’m not interested in listening to black-marketeers any more.”
“Nyet, Nyet, you misunderstand. I’m here to give you a precious gift . . . and maybe the opportunity to become a very rich man. What do you say to that?”
“Give me your name, please, before I lose my temper.”
“Felix Zorkin, the former Second Chief Directorate of the KGB . . .” He let his voice fade for effect.
The woeful general shot upright in his chair, started saluting, then remembered that kind of tribute wasn’t necessary since perestroika had come to Russia so long ago. The KGB was washed up and long gone. His eyes started gleaming again.
“So . . . what does it feel like coming down off your lofty perch and pecking with us chickens nowadays?” The commandant grinned.
“Not so good. Once I was rich but now I live like a beggar. You look like you could use a break, too . . .” Again, he let his voice trail off.
The commandant’s face looked melancholy, and he also remembered the days before glasnost. Openness hadn’t been good for soldiers and spies, and now the big-time capitalists ruled everyone’s lives, at least if they cut President Putin in on it. Finally, he sighed, “Tell me what you want.”
Zorkin pulled the last diamond from his shirt pocket and handed it to him. “Look at this. Tell me what you think it is and where it came from?”
The general warped his face and squinted. “A piece of pink glass.” he said.
“Walk to the window behind you, scratch that glass with my pink glass, then tell me what you think.” It was his turn to grin. He watched the commandant walk over to the window. The scraping sound filled the room, followed by dead silence.
“Where did you get this?”
“It came from Sakha.”
“Why come here?” The lieutenant general’s eyes narrowed, and he looked worried again.
“You have nothing to fear. You’re poor and I’m poor. We could work together, maybe become the two richest men in Russia.”
The commandant sat straight once more, trembling as if he were sickened with palsy. “Please, don’t toy with me, because I’ve got big problems. My soldiers hardly follow orders they are so disillusioned, and I have to give them something soon or—”
�
�To hell with them, come with me. Pick out a few good men, your best helicopter, and let’s fly to the Sahka Republic. If we find the source of the diamond you hold in your hand, your worries are over, mine too. You have the men and equipment, and I know where to look. There is an added bonus as well. I think two Americans have come to Siberia illegally, trying to find the diamonds for themselves. Can you imagine how grateful Moscow would be if you caught some Americans smuggling diamonds out of the motherland?”
The commandant’s eyes widened. “You can’t be serious. No one from America would dare come into this country and look for diamonds. You’re beginning to sound as if you’re crazy in the head. Maybe I should call Moscow and tell them that I’ve captured you instead.”
“Listen to me first, then decide. I’ve given you something worth that much, don’t you think?”
He saw the general lean back and stare at him. Now the bastard belongs to me, he thought to himself, and when I’m done with him I’ll see how long he can live with my switchblade stuck between his ribs. Straight-faced, he started telling the story about the Evenkis and Pavlovs and the godfather, adding that he wondered who had shot the crime boss. Sasha Pavlov hadn’t seemed like the type.
The commandant’s eyes got so big he looked like a freak.
CHAPTER TEN
THE TRANS-SIBERIAN RAILWAY
Molly, we must leave Akademgorodok at once. Friends at work are saying the godfather has offered ten million rubles for the person who shot him. There will be whispering soon that we purchased two pistols, and his men will question us. Most are old KGB officers who know how to make people talk.” Sasha had come home early from the Institute, and her face was white.
