by CW Hawes
“By taking care of, you mean kill. Don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t see the Count.”
“You did. He was the old man.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I am not.”
How did I get myself into this mess? Hall sent me here to report on Stalin’s death, his successor, and how it all affects the Russian people. The Czarists want me to write propaganda pieces for them. The Americans, with British support, want me to spy on the Czarists. And then there is my love life. Bloody hell. What a disaster!
“Dru?”
“Sorry, Dunyasha. I was just thinking how different everything was in New York when I enshipped.”
“Life is like that. Given any more thought to helping us?”
"Yes."
“And?”
“I think I will.”
“Good. After what you see and hear tonight, you won’t be thinking. You simply will. I have a present for you.”
She handed me a box. I looked at her.
“Go ahead. Open it.”
I did so. Inside the box was a pistol and a box of cartridges. I laughed.
“What is so funny?”
I pulled the Pocket Positive from my pocket. Dunyasha took one look and burst out laughing. She said something in Russian to Nestor, who answered. In the rearview mirror I could see him smile.
“I told Nestor it is a good thing you only had your shoes yesterday. And he said, ‘Praise God and all the blessed saints.’”
I let out a laugh. “I guess so. I take the gun with me often, but rarely carry it on my person. Truth be told, I don’t much like guns.”
“Who does? But in this world…?” She shrugged. “You keep my gift. Now you have one for each hand.”
The Sauer und Sohn 38H was brand new. I took it out of the box and pulled back the slide, then released it.
“She knows how to work it,” Dunyasha said.
“Courtesy of my late husband.”
“The magazine holds eight rounds plus one in the chamber and you have nine rounds. Three more than your other gun.”
“Thank you very much.”
“You are welcome. Let us pray you never need it.”
“Yes. Let’s.”
Suddenly Nestor turned off the street onto a drive which wound its way amongst a large group of buildings. The drive was quite narrow and was essentially an alley.
“He’s trying to lose that car behind us,” Dunyasha said.
Nestor made a right turn and another right, then a left, a right, and we were back on the main street. Then a sharp right into an alley. Another right, a left, another left, a right, a big loop around a building, then a left. He drove a short distance following the alley’s curve to the left, then stopped the car, got out, and left his door open.
“Get down,” Dunyasha said.
I heard the hum of an engine behind us, the sound of a door opening and three soft sibilant sounds. Nestor was back in the car and we were off. Out of the maze of alleys and back on the street, flying along like a sheet of paper in a New England Nor’easter. The acrid smell of gunpowder was noticeable in the car. Nestor said something in Russian and I didn’t need Dunyasha to translate. I could surmise what had happened.
On the outskirts of the city, Nestor pulled into a warehouse area by which ran railroad tracks. He said something to Dunyasha and got out of the car.
“Nestor will check if the coast is clear,” Dunyasha said.
I chuckled at her Americanism.
“What is so funny, Dru?”
“Your use of ‘the coast is clear.’”
In a heavy Russian accent, she said, “Da. Eet eez part of cover.”
I started giggling and she did as well. When Nestor returned we were both laughing. He said something in Russian and Dunyasha laughed even harder. She tried telling me what he said, but couldn’t get the words out. Nestor was agitated. I guessed because time was important and we were wasting it laughing. Dunyasha managed to say something to him and got out of the car. I followed her.
Nestor led us snickering women to a building. He had an electric torch to light the way. The door was padlocked, but he produced a key and the lock opened. He pulled, then pushed the door open and played the torch beam around until it revealed the object of his search: Dunyasha’s red and black Talbot Lago.
“Can you bear another night of my driving, Dru?”
“I can always close my eyes.”
Dunyasha laughed. “I should let you drive.”
“No, thank you.”
“Ah, you’d rather be the critic.”
“Of course. It’s easier.”
Dunyasha and Nestor spoke to each other and then he left.
“Get in, Dru. We’re off. Nestor will follow to make sure the MGB isn’t following us.”
“But what if they’re following him?”
“He will flash his lights and lead them away if he can.”
“And if he can’t?”
“You have two handguns.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
“What’s the matter? You live in America. Pretend you are a gangster.”
“Good God.”
“He is.”
And we started laughing again, but did manage to get in the car.
Once on the road, little time passed before we were in the country.
“Dru, be a dear, please, and light a cigarette for me.”
“Sure.” I got out two, lit them, and passed one over to Dunyasha.
“Thank you.” She took a drag and exhaled the smoke while she talked. “Tonight you will hear stories and see people that will rip your heart out. And you will tell the world of their tragedy. A tragedy perpetrated by these Communist bastards.”
“You’re not cherry picking, are you?”
“My dear, Dru, there are so many. They are all cherries. Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“Nestor flashed his lights. He must’ve picked up a tail. Get your pistol ready.”
“Dunyasha, this is a short range weapon.”
“Just get it loaded. Now.”
I started putting cartridges into the magazine and I felt the luxury coupe surge forward into the Russian night.
“This is not looking good,” Dunyasha said.
“Why?”
“Nestor is weaving and I’m catching flashes of light. Which means they’re shooting at him.”
“Shouldn’t we try to help?”
“No. Nestor’s job is to prevent them from reaching us. Besides, there’s no sense in all of us dying if anyone is going to die. He’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”
“But–”
“There are no ‘buts,’ Dru. This is for keeps. Now get that goddamn gun loaded and be prepared to shoot.”
I pushed the last cartridge into the magazine, slid the magazine home and tapped it to make sure it was seated and then racked the slide to chamber a round.
“Good girl. Now remove the magazine and add another cartridge. You may need the ninth one.”
I did as she said and then turned around. The two cars were swerving back and forth. How far back they were I couldn’t tell in the darkness. Suddenly a burst of gunfire and Nestor’s car drove across the lane for oncoming traffic and off the road.
“Damn,” Dunyasha said and added, “May God preserve his life. He’s a good man.”
The car behind us was gaining. Dunyasha pushed the Talbot faster. The needle on the speedo was hovering at 140 and still the car behind us was gaining.
“What the hell are they driving?” Dunyasha said.
A burst of flashes came from the passenger side of the car behind us.
“If they scratch my paint job there will be hell to pay,” she said.
Suddenly there were trees all around us. We’d entered the forest and Dunyasha was weaving back and forth across the road to avoid the machine gun. I leaned out the window, pistol in my left hand. Dunyasha weaved to the left
. Before the car behind us moved, I got off two quick shots.
Dunyasha pushed the Talbot to 170 kph.
“They’re not gaining on us,” I said.
“No, they’re not. They must’ve reached their limit.” She pushed the accelerator to the floor and the car leapt forward up and over a small hill. The speedo needle was at 200. I looked back and we were pulling away from our pursuers. I fired two more rounds at the car coming down the hill after us.
“Oh, shit!” Dunyasha yelled.
The car swerved. I fell against the door. The horn was blaring and we were on the dirt shoulder so close to the trees I think I could’ve touched them. Dunyasha yanked the wheel in the other direction and I fell against her.
“What the hell?” I exclaimed.
“Deer.”
Dunyasha had the Talbot Lago back on the road and behind us was our pursuer.
“Oh, God!” I yelled. The deer, having fled Dunyasha’s driving and horn honking were venturing back onto the road. I could see them in the car’s headlamps. Our pursuer swerved, ran off the road, and disappeared into the trees.
Dunyasha stopped the car, got out, opened the boot, and came to my side of the car.
“Here. Hold this,” she said and handed me a machine gun.
She got back in, turned her car around, and drove back. We found the other car smashed into the trees. Dunyasha stopped.
“I’ll take the MP40,” she said. “Let’s check it out.”
We got out of the car. She pulled back the cocking handle on the submachine gun. The coupe’s headlamps illuminated the wreck. When we were about ten feet away we heard groaning.
“Someone’s still alive in there,” I said.
“Cover me, Dru.”
I moved over a bit so I had a better view of the entire vehicle. We slowly approached the passenger side of the wreck. Then it was all a blur. A door opening. Dunyasha falling to one knee. The machine gun spitting a furious stream of lead.
She stood, replaced the magazine with a new one, and walked over to the car. What I hadn’t seen but she had was the fellow who came out the rear door on the driver’s side. He had a machine gun. The fellow on our side had a pistol. We heard a groan.
Dunyasha and I looked at each other. “Someone is still alive,” she said. “Not this fellow, though.” She pointed to the man halfway through the windscreen on the passenger side. Broken glass had cut his neck and blood was all over the bonnet.
We walked around the rear of the car. Dunyasha looked closely at the bumper and whistled. “No wonder this car was so fast,” she said, “it’s a Tatra. I’ve heard of them. Very sleek and aerodynamic. Minimal wind resistance. Good gas mileage. The Czechs know what they’re doing. Of course since the take over, the company's German. But the engineering is Czech."
The fellow with the machine gun was dead. He looked like bloody swiss cheese. The driver, however, was still alive. Dunyasha opened his door. The man was barely breathing. The steering wheel was hard pressed into his chest.
“Is there anything we can do?” I asked.
“Give me your pistol.”
“Dunyasha, you can’t kill him.”
“His chest is crushed. He’s dying. I’d be doing him a mercy to put him out of his misery.”
“He’s not an animal.”
“No. He’s worse. Shooting him would elevate him to the level of an animal.”
“Dunyasha. He’s a man.”
“He’s MGB scum. He’d kill us. Although not until he and his friends here had raped and tortured us. They’re monsters, Dru, not men. They deserve a tortured death. To shoot him would be a kindness.”
“He’s defenseless. To shoot him now is murder. We aren’t animals, even if they are.”
“Animals are better than they. But if you prefer he suffers, then we let him suffer. Help me collect the weapons. We can use them.”
We gathered the pistols, machine gun, ammunition, and put it all in the coupe’s boot. Dunyasha decided to put her machine gun there as well. We got in the car and drove off.
I’d committed myself to spy on the Czarists for Kit Somers and IRIS. I was beginning to realize what I’d committed myself to was no walk in the park. This was real. A war. People were pursuing and killing each other. All for an idea. A Communist State or a Monarchist State. Neither of which I gave I fig for. Nor did I care for this cold, heartless side of Dunyasha. But could I blame her? The Communists had destroyed her family. Would I be any different in her shoes? I had no idea. And to be honest, I didn’t want to find out. This was evil. Pure and simple. Dunyasha was right: the Czarists were simply the lesser evil.
“Do not hate me, Drusilla.”
I was surprised to hear my full name. I seldom use it or have anyone call me by it. “I do not hate you, Dunyasha. I’m saddened at the ugliness this life engenders.”
She reached out and hesitantly touched my arm. “I am too.”
I took hold of her hand and gave it a squeeze. “We’re still friends.”
“Thank you, Dru.”
“In your shoes I’m not sure I’d feel or do anything differently. We do what we must to survive.”
“Very true. And sometimes what we do scares the shit out of us.”
I took out two cigarettes, lit them, and passed one to Dunyasha.
“Thank you. You are such a dear.” She took a deep drag and exhaled the smoke. “God, I needed that. The good thing in all this is they didn’t scratch the paint.”
For some reason, the surreal absurdity of it all struck my funny bone and I started laughing and Dunyasha started laughing and we laughed for miles driving on that lonely Russian road in the wilderness.
TEN
You Are One Of Us Now
The dawn was far advanced. The horizon looked on fire. Mikhail’s arms were around me and my head was on his chest. My fingers played with the curls of hair there. His hand stroked my hair. This man, now my man, let his fingers trace a line down my cheek. The muskiness of our lovemaking still hung in the air, clung to the sheets of the bed.
He murmured, “Overboard. Gladly.”
I whispered back, “Heart and soul.”
Yet in the hazy afterglow which wrapped itself around us, I felt a sadness. I had taken Dunyasha’s place. There was also the pain of realization that someday someone else might very well be in his arms. I forced those gremlins away. Right now he wanted me and the force of his passion was an icebreaker smashing the pack ice of my loneliness. Forever. I wanted this man forever.
I heard his heartbeat. His passionate Slavic heartbeat. The light touch of his fingertips on my skin. The wetness of his tongue on my nipples. His teeth nipping my earlobes. His gentle thrusting becoming wild and frenzied driving me to grasp his arms and cry out his name, the little death seizing me while he poured his love into me.
This was a part of me I had not known existed. The drunkenness of love. And it was oh so better than a martini. He was warm. His skin soft, muscles hard. There was nothing icy in this man on whom my head lay.
“You sleep, my Dru. I have some things I need to do.”
“Must you go?”
“I must. But I will return to you, my heart.”
The words ‘my heart’ were my mantra into slumber.
I woke. I looked at my watch. It said twenty-seven minutes after three. I sat up. The fog of sleep slipped away. The previous twenty-four hours came crashing in on me. Where was I? Did anyone know I was here? Wherever ‘here’ was. I was on a large canopied bed. But where was the bed? The bed curtains were open. On a table I saw food and a samovar and I realized I was famished. I was naked, but lying on the foot of the large bed was my neglige and jacket. A fire was burning in the fireplace. I put on the lacy, filmy outfit, poured myself tea, and sat by the fire.
If today was Saturday, in the span of two days, Thursday and Friday, my life completely changed. No. In actuality I had to go back five days ago. To that fateful early morning tryst, followed by my disappointing conversation with Karl.
My pressing him and his refusal to be pressed brought me to this moment in time. Brought me to being here with Mikhail. To being his woman, his correspondent. Do I dare say it? His partner in the cause?
There was a knock at the door and it opened.
“Ah, at last our Sleeping Beauty is awake.”
“Good afternoon, Dunyasha.”
She came to me and kissed my cheeks and forehead. She sat next to me.
“It is no wonder he is so taken with you,” she said, letting her eyes roam my neglige clad body and her fingers touch my arm. “You are so very beautiful. You are exactly the woman for him.”
“But I thought you said…?”
“I was with him? Yes. I was. But I think I was too independent for him. You, on the other hand, will give yourself to him. Heart and soul. He needs that loyalty. That devotion. I follow him in this cause. But I question too much.”
“I don’t want this to affect –”
“Our friendship? It will not. You and Mikhail have my blessing.” She leaned over and kissed my lips. She stood and went to the food, filled a plate, and brought it back to me. She went back to the samovar and poured herself a cup of tea.
“Now eat. Everything has been brought from your hotel room. You have this room and the adjoining room.”
“Wait. What did you say?”
“You have –”
“No. Before that.”
“Everything in your hotel room has been brought here.”
“But Karl. Mr. Hall. They –”
She touched my arm. “Little kitten. Do not worry. You will write a note to Mr. Weidner telling him you are well and have a special, once in a lifetime opportunity to interview the Russian people. Tell him you are well taken care of and will return soon. He can inform your Mr. Hall. The stories you write will be sent by courier to Hall Media offices in Berlin for publishing. The newspapers will love it. Everything has been thought of. You are one of us now.”
“One of you? What does that mean?”
“Do you not remember? Did fucking Mikhail give you amnesia? I know he’s good, but –”
“No. Wait a minute. Dunyasha, I agreed I would write the stories of those poor people and thereby help your cause. But I’m not a partisan. I’m a writer.”
