For Duty and Honor

by Leo J. Maloney

  “Put your suitcase down and sit,” he said.

  “Thank you. You have a lovely home.”

  He burst out laughing, which transitioned into a hacking cough. “I do not. Agrafena is a worse decorator than I am.”

  “Is that your wife?”

  “What did you come here for?” Dobrynin asked her.

  “I told you,” she said. “I need your help. I need to help my father.”

  “And who took your father?”

  “I have a name,” said Alex. “Suvorov.”

  Dobrynin whistled. “That is quite name. If this is true, then your father is in heavy trouble, little girl.”

  “Who is he?”

  “General. Very nasty man. Not known for being polite to prisoners.”

  Alex felt a lead weight in her chest. “Do you think he’s dead?”

  “Most probably.”

  “I need to know for sure,” she said. “If there’s even a chance—”

  “Will you die for a chance?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “If I have to.”

  He stood up from his seat and turned his back on her. “Foolish girl.” He turned on the faucet and rinsed the dishes.

  “Either you help me, or I’m going on my own.”

  He circled his way around her and opened a cabinet behind her back. She watched the dripping faucet, thinking of what she was going to do if he sent her away. And then his thick arm was around her neck, and the point of a thin knife touched her neck. “Do you know what they do to little girls in Moscow?”

  Alex squirmed, gasping for air.

  “You will be gutted like a pig, girl.”

  Alex calmed her panicking lizard brain and assessed the situation. His form was sloppy, and sloppy meant vulnerable.

  She kicked herself back in her chair, knocking her head into his chest. The chair tipped over and she fell back, on the chair, on top of him. Before he could recover his bearings, she took the knife that he had dropped on the ground and swung to her right, landing on her feet. She held the knife inches from his face.

  “I’d like to see them try.”

  “I am old,” he grunted, pushing the knife away from his face and standing up. “Others will not be so easy.”

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  “You are not. But I will help you with what I can. Daniel Morgan deserves this much.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Morgan pulled his weight and more in the mines. It was backbreaking work, long hours of breaking and hauling, to the steady sound of pickaxes echoing through the tunnels. Guards would patrol, passing every so often to make sure no one was slacking. Getting caught not working warranted anything from a cuff to the back of the hand to a summary beating, but Morgan, like the others, quickly learned the tricks. Work as slowly as possible while still keeping the quota, listen for the sound of the guards’ boots on the ground, get whatever rest you can when you can.

  Weeks passed, although Morgan did not keep count of how many, and Bortsov’s men kept their distance, except for bumping into him on occasion, or pushing him when the guards weren’t looking. One day, they knocked a bowl of stew out of his hand and it went clattering to the ground, spilling its precious contents on the dirt. There were no do-overs at the camp. Morgan went hungry that night.

  But Morgan didn’t want to start trouble, and they didn’t seem to want to escalate, for fear of Nevsky’s retaliation. That was a fragile détente, and a reckoning was coming.

  One night, the lights went out. It was nearly completely dark by this time, the sun having disappeared in the horizon. There was a commotion among the prisoners, who had been lined up for the evening count, and Morgan’s mind went to escape. But the guards were ready, flashlights in hand, and circled the perimeter, carrying automatic weapons and loosing the dogs, still tethered to their chains but with free rein to run the length of the perimeter fence.

  The prisoners were made to kneel with their hands on their heads—Morgan was well familiar with the procedure.

  Men were going into the building that housed the generator. Ten minutes passed, then another ten. Nevsky emerged from his building and walked across the yard, swearing in Russian.

  “Hey!” Morgan called out to him. “Hey! Is it the generator?”

  “Shut your mouth, prisoner!”

  “I can fix it!” Nobody responded. “Grushin, tell him I can fix it.”

  Grushin did, calling it out in Russian to the warden, who changed his trajectory to stand before Morgan.

  “Are you a mechanic, American?”

  “I know my way around an engine.”

  Nevsky waved him over. “Okay, you try it.” He waved Morgan inside the shed. “If you screw it up any worse, it’s your ass.”

  “I need a flashlight,” he said. Nevsky took one from the nearest guard and handed it to Morgan.

  The generator reeked of diesel. The make wasn’t one that he recognized. It was Russian (along with any instructions or identifiers) and old. The panel was already open. He went through the troubleshooting checklist, starting with gas and coolant levels. Next he checked the breakers.

  “Jesus H. Christ, who’s your mechanics guy? These wires are a goddamn mess.”

  “Are they the problem?” Nevsky asked.

  “No, electrics look like they’re working. They’re not the issue this time.” He found the problem soon enough. “Fuel line’s blocked. I need to replace it. You got supplies?

  “Whatever there is in here.”

  He found an old hose that seemed in one piece. It was a simple substitution, something he’d done plenty of times before.

  “That should do it,” he said. “Let’s start her up.”

  The generator came to rumbling life. The lights in the camp flickered on.

  “American,” Nevsky said. “You’re out of the mine. You’re now on mechanic duty.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Morgan and Grushin settled into a routine of sitting together at dinner. It was mostly Grushin who spoke, but it made Morgan feel good to talk to him. The journalist reminded him of Alex, who was just as idealistic and headstrong. He missed her so much it hurt physically.

  “You got yourself a cushy position,” Grushin said.

  “Same as you.” Grushin was on the rotation to work laundry.

  “I get to work all day in the stink of men,” he said. “And then the stink of chemicals. They burn my hands and make my eyes water. Not very pleasant.”

  “Well, it ain’t the mines.”

  Grushin chewed absently. “You know, I think I would actually murder a man for a cigarette and a cup of coffee.”

  “I’ve seen some of the inmates with cigarettes,” Morgan said. “I guess they get ’em from the guards.”

  “Yeah. And you should hear the things they’ll trade for ’em.” Grushin emitted a hollow laugh. “I would kill a man. But I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Can’t say I sympathize. About the coffee and cigarettes, I mean. I don’t partake.”

  “What about vodka? Whiskey? My God, a tall glass of German beer.”

  “Never been much of a drinker,” Morgan said.

  “So what do you miss?”

  “I miss my daughter,” he said. “Every single goddamn minute of my existence here. And I miss my wife. I miss how warm and soft she was. The idea of our bed—it seems like another world. Another life.”

  “To women,” Grushin said, raising his bowl and clinking it against Morgan’s. “That we might see one again someday.”

  “God hear you.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes. Grushin looked off into the setting sun. “I’m not going to die here.”

  “Careful with that,” said Morgan. “They say hope’s what kills you faster. You don’t have hope, despair is just a dull ache. But if you keep that fire alive, it’ll burn you.”

  “I’d rather blaze bright, even if it consumes me, than turn to ash in this place.” He stood up, raising his voice. “Look around, Morgan! All these
defeated men. All fed and being slowly digested by this place.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m going to escape from this place.”

  “You sound like you almost have a plan.”

  “I almost have a plan,” Grushin said.

  “You’ll die,” said Morgan. “Look.” He gestured to the wastes of the tundra.

  “I can’t do it alone. But I wanted to know if I could trust you. I think I can. And you’ve shown yourself to be very resourceful. Seem to know what you’re doing. The kind of guy I’d want at my side for this. You can handle yourself in a fight. You’re quick on your feet. Plus, you’re a good man. Not many to be found around here. And you got one big thing going for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The cars,” Grushin said. “You have access to the motor pool. It might be the only way to escape far enough along the tundra not to get caught by the dogs or the guards coming after us. If we disable the other cars, we got a good shot at getting away.”

  “Into the Siberian wilderness, with no food or shelter and one full tank of gas.”

  “One step at a time,” said Grushin. “First we get out, then we think about how we survive. I like our chances out there better than in here anyway. Hell, I like the idea of dying out there better than another day in here.”

  “Maybe I can do it on my own,” said Morgan. “Maybe I’m the one who doesn’t need you.”

  “You can’t,” he said. “Trust me. You need me for this.”

  “What makes you think you’re such hot shit?”

  “I’ve got a way out of the prisoner barracks,” he said. “Secret way. None of the guards know about it, or, as far as I know, any of the other prisoners.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “I’ll keep that one close to my chest, thank you very much. Plus, there’s something else. A kind of trump card.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “Two sticks of dynamite, hidden away safely somewhere here in the camp.”

  Morgan raised his eyebrows. “No shit?” Grushin nodded. “And you know where they are? You can get to them?”

  “Yeah, I know where they are, and I have access to them any day. They’ve been there a while. No one’s found them, and no one’s going to.”

  “How did you happen to come by two sticks of dynamite?”

  “There was a prisoner here who was in charge of detonations, down in the mines. Dangerous job. They give it to the people they really don’t like. Anyway, he lifted these two from two separate detonations where they wouldn’t be missed. Tucked them into his uniform, marched all the way back to camp with them, along with a length of detonator fuse, without any of the guards noticing, and then put them away.”

  “Won’t he miss them?”

  “Wouldn’t think so,” Grushin said. “He died a couple weeks before you got here. Got into some trouble with Bortsov’s men and met with an unfortunate accident in the mines.”

  “I see,” said Morgan.

  “He never knew how to use them to get out. I don’t either. But I think you might come up with something.”

  “Yeah,” said Morgan. “I got some ideas.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Working in the garage changed Morgan’s life at the prison. He went from the empty, monotonous drudgery of breaking and carrying stone to something he loved. And the cars needed it. As little as he liked helping his captors, working out clever solutions, fixes, and enhancements with limited materials and tools was a welcome distraction from daily life at the prison.

  But as he did, Morgan also compiled a mental inventory on their condition. There were three trucks and two jeeps in the garage, all military, in varying states of disrepair. One of the trucks was broken down. It took Morgan a few minutes to figure out the problem. The fix was simple enough, but no one else needed to know that. One jeep was in good working order, although it was some five years old, and the other was held together with duct tape and a prayer.

  The thought of escape filled Morgan with a hopeful energy that he hadn’t had since he’d arrived at the prison. Watching and planning took up every waking moment as he studied the rhythms of the prison, its procedures and inner workings, the dogs that circled the perimeter, the guards in the towers, the patrols. The outlines of a plan were slowly forming in his mind.

  But there was one thing he had to talk to Grushin about.

  “All right,” said Morgan. “Let’s game this out. We get out of the barracks your secret way. That gets us out in the yard. I can make the generator give out at a crucial moment. This throws us into darkness. Let’s say we have our opening in the confusion. We’re left with two problems.

  This was over their morning meal, before work, one of two times they were able to talk with any kind of privacy.

  “First, we have to clear the perimeter fence. The gate’s guarded, and the guards have flashlights, and the gate is where they’ll concentrate their force. Plus, they’re going to loose the dogs. Darkness gets us some cover, but not much.

  “Second, we need some means of transportation. If we try to run for it, they’ll just come after us as soon as they notice we’re missing. We won’t get twenty miles out.”

  “The solution to that is obvious,” said Grushin. “We take one of the cars. You have access to the garage. Can you sabotage the rest so that they can’t follow us?”

  Morgan nodded. “Piece of cake. I can make it so that none of the engines have any hope of starting. But we need to get past the gate. That’s where the dynamite comes in.” Morgan ran his fingers through the short bristles growing in on his head. “There’s something I wanted to talk about. I want to get someone else in on the plan. Badri.”

  “The Arab?”

  “Yeah.”

  Grushin frowned. “I don’t want to bring anyone else into this,” he said. “Every person we add to the plan makes it more likely that we will be caught.”

  “Let me ask you this. Do you know how to deal with dynamite? Do you think you can get it to do what you want it to do, with certainty, without blowing both of us up?”

  Grushin had nothing to say to this.

  “I want to bring him in,” Morgan insisted. “We can’t do this without him.”

  “I don’t like it,” said Grushin.

  “I don’t think we have a choice.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “I trust he wants to escape as much as we do. And I trust he wants nothing to do with his interrogators.”

  Grushin furrowed his brow, trying to resist the conclusion. “Shit,” he said. “Okay. You’re right. Talk to him. Feel him out first. Don’t reveal more than you have to. But see what he has to say. And I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next day was shower day. Grushin told him that parasites had once grown to be a serious problem in the camp, which the guards wouldn’t care about except lice, ticks, and bedbugs weren’t too good about telling who was a prisoner and who was a guard. So they made the prisoners shower every week, along with shearing off all their hair and dusting them with chemical powder. It wasn’t enough to keep the barracks from smelling like a month-old gym sock. But it kept the critters in check.

  The men tossed their uniforms and shoes into a series of plastic tubs, to be taken away for laundry, and waited, naked, as men scrubbed themselves under the cold showers with rough lye soap.

  Morgan approached Badri there, as they waited in line. The sound of the showers provided cover so that no one would hear them.

  “Goddamn smell, huh?” said Morgan.

  “In all my time in this prison, this here remains my least favorite part of it.”

  “Aren’t you glad you can experience it for the first time again through my eyes?”

  Badri chuckled. “Truly, it is like regaining my childlike wonder.”

  “So how bad do you wanna get out of this place?”

  “You mean the showers? Very, very much.”

  “I mean this prison.”


  “Who does not want to get out of this prison?”

  “Well, let’s suppose we had a way.”

  Badri’s eyes narrowed. “Are you making conversation or do you have an actual plan?”

  “The beginnings of one,” said Morgan. “Plus a confederate with some cards up his sleeve.”

  “Grushin.”

  It was obvious, of course. The person Morgan spent most of his time with in the prison. Who else would it be?

  “What do you need from me?”

  “We might be able to get our hands on some explosives. Dynamite. I want to know if you’d know how to use it to help us get out of here.”

  Badri thought about it. “A distraction, of course, could be useful. We could take down the towers. Perhaps open the gate. Yes, I could help with that.”

  “Think about it. This isn’t going to be easy, and more likely than not we’ll end up dead.”

  “I don’t have to think about it. And perhaps there is more that I can help you with.” Their turn was coming up to shower, and they would be separated, sent by the guard under different shower heads. “We will talk more about this later. But count me in, Morgan.”

  * * *

  They powwowed with Grushin out in the yard at dinnertime, going over the general outline of their escape. Morgan kept an eye on the guards, but mostly they just looked bored. They were just three prisoners talking, after all.

  “I was thinking,” said Badri. “We can lay down explosives to bring down the posts holding up the fence, about two hundred meters north of the gate. That way, we can drive the car right over the chain link.”

  “I think that’ll work, if you can get the detonation right.”

  “There is something else,” Badri said. “A car by itself won’t get us far. They’ll see us from a hundred miles away and come after us. They can send helicopters to smoke us out. It may take a few hours, maybe a day or two, but they will certainly find us if we are in any kind of vehicle.”

  “So what do you suggest?” demanded Grushin.

  “I have people,” he said. “Friends on the outside. They could bring in transportation. Maybe a small airplane. If they get it within a hundred kilometers or so of the prison, over by the mountains in the horizon, we can drive there and escape before they are able to catch us.”