Dark Eyes

by William Richter

  “Yeah, I do,” Wally said, and she did. She’d been feeling it herself for some time but never thought it out loud. She and the crew had worked out how to survive on their own, so what were they supposed to do next?

  Wally could feel that Tevin had something to say, something important, but didn’t know how to begin. Wally searched his eyes, but Tevin broke her gaze. The moment passed.

  “G’night,” he said. He rose and headed back down the walkway.

  “’Night, Tev,” Wally said after him, and all at once Wally was exhausted. She wrapped herself tightly inside her wool and flannel bedroll and lay on her back, gazing up at the dark ceiling. A memory crept in slowly, vaguely … maybe sparked by the Russians conversations she had heard in Brighton that day. There had been a song, a lullaby. She had once known it by heart, but now it lurked in the distance, teasing her. Where had she heard it? What were the words? The idea of summoning them frightened her, but the impulse was irresistible. She moved her lips and the lyrics stumbled out uncertainly, “Puskai prïdet pora prosit’sia. Drug druga …”

  Wally stopped after those few words, frustrated that she was unable to remember more and left clueless about what the lyrics meant. In the end, she was lulled to sleep not by the song, but by her own exhaustion.

  First thing the next morning—Monday—Wally came down from her walkway and woke the others, kneeling down on the floor of the bank beside them.

  “I left something out before,” she said, and brought out the smaller envelope with the odd, glittery stone inside. Tevin, Jake, and Ella looked at the unremarkable stone on her hand.

  “I don’t get it,” said Ella.

  Wally shrugged. “Neither do I, but there’s gotta be a reason she put this in with all the rest, right?”

  “I guess,” said Tevin. “Yeah. Gotta be.”

  “Anyway,” said Wally, “it’s a place to start.”

  The others agreed sleepily. Once they’d gotten their shit halfway together, they took the A train south to the Drop-In Center on 30th Street and 8th Avenue, where they got free coffee and scrambled eggs, then hiked back uptown on Avenue of the Americas to 47th Street. Looking east, they saw the Manhattan Diamond District spread out before them, dozens of gem dealers stretching for blocks. To Wally and the others, all the shops looked the same.

  “Where do we start?” she asked.

  Ella pointed to a storefront that read HAMLISCH BROTHERS.

  “I have always preferred Hamlisch Brothers,” said Ella, dramatically raising her hand to her forehead as if she was about to execute a royal swoon. “I simply will NOT wear jewels from any other.”

  The others agreed and headed for Ella’s preferred diamond merchant, ignoring the suspicious looks they received from a klatch of Hasidic merchants gathered on the sidewalk out front, sipping coffee and gearing up for a day of commerce.

  Wally tried to open the door of the Hamlisch Brothers shop, but it was locked. At the counter inside, the young proprietor looked up toward the door, appraising Wally and the others and apparently not liking what he saw. He shook his head no.

  “Asshole!” Jake said, insulted on behalf of all of them. He grabbed the door handle and rattled it loudly, sneering at the guy. “Open the damn door!”

  Wally saw the merchant reach under the counter—for a gun? An alarm button?—and she pulled Jake back.

  “Easy, big dog,” she said.

  “Screw him,” said Jake. “There are a hundred other shops here.”

  “And all their doors will be locked, like his.”

  Jake heard her and reluctantly shrugged in agreement.

  Wally reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the small brown envelope from the Brighton file. She opened the flap and let the single stone roll out into her hand, then rapped lightly on the glass door. When the merchant looked up again, Wally held the stone up between her thumb and forefinger for him to see. The man squinted, then moved to the door for a closer look.

  “Please,” Wally said, just loud enough for him to hear from behind the thick glass door.

  The merchant considered for a moment, taking another dubious look at the crew, but then made a choice. He opened the door and let the crew in. Once inside, the crew was taken aback by the sheer mass of riches on display, protected by thick glass cases.

  “Holy shit …” said Jake, and nudged Tevin. “Am I right?”

  “Damn,” Tevin said in a half whisper. “It’s like a museum or somethin’.”

  Ella pointed out a necklace with a massive emerald mounted on its pendant, surrounded by a halo of identically cut diamonds.

  “Was that thing made for me, or what?” she said, without irony.

  Facing the merchant at the main counter, Wally held on to the stone. The man was obviously intrigued, looking eager to get his hands on the object of curiosity.

  “You appraise stones, right?” Wally asked.

  “I do not buy stolen things,” he said in a Hasidic accent, almost contemptuous. But his eyes never left the stone.

  “I didn’t say anything about selling,” Wally said to the man evenly. “I asked about appraising.”

  “Yes, fine,” he said, and held out his hand. Wally reached out to place the stone in his palm but at the last moment hesitated—a little taunt—and he gave her an impatient look. She smiled, and finally passed it to him. He put a jeweler’s loupe to his eye and held the stone up for close inspection.

  “Huh,” he said.

  The merchant took one more quick, suspicious look at the crew—as if to confirm that they weren’t stealing from him while he was distracted—then stepped away from the counter, taking the stone with him to a small, closet-sized work space in the corner of the room. There, he turned on a grinding stone and set to work on the pea-sized stone. The crew waited in expectant silence until the jeweler shut down the grinder and returned to the counter. He now wore a little smile on his face—the smile of an enthusiast who has just solved an interesting puzzle—and looked at Wally with new eyes, reappraising her now, as if trying to reckon the provenance of a mysterious gem.

  “May I ask how you obtained this stone?” he asked Wally.

  “My grandmother left it to me,” Wally answered flatly.

  The jeweler gave Wally an arch look.

  “What you have here,” said the merchant, “is a gemstone called alexandrite, quite rare. Named for Tsar Alexander II when it was first discovered in the Ural Mountains in Russia. When this stone is cut, it will be of green color during the day and red at night. Green and red, the colors of Russian royalty. You see? Some consider it the national stone of Russia. They are quite beautiful when finished properly.”

  “What else can you tell us about it?” Wally asked, starting to get excited—it felt like her search really was beginning.

  “They are produced by small output mines mostly, and often the stones from a particular mine will have a signature composition. There is a barely noticeable thread of amber color through this stone. If I am correct, it is from the Lemya Mine, closed now for over twenty years. I am quite sure there have been no Lemya stones on the open market for almost that long, which is unusual,” he said. “Very unusual.”

  “So it’s valuable?” asked Wally.

  “Yes. I would be happy to take this stone off your hands.”

  “How valuable, exactly?” asked Jake, obviously surprised. His skepticism about the contents of the Brighton Beach envelope had made him assume that the stone would be worthless.

  The merchant leaned against his counter, rubbing his beard, thinking. He went to a laptop computer at the back counter and typed in some inquiries, his eyes searching the results, then returned to Wally.

  “One thousand dollars per carat,” he said. “Eight thousand.”

  Eight thousand dollars! Tevin, Ella, and Jake shot each other secret, excited looks, barely able to contain themselves. Ella swallowed a squeal before it reached her lips.

  For her part, Wally wasn’t really thinking about the impress
ive dollar number. She hesitated, wondering if selling the stone would be some sort of betrayal. Wally had just received this gift from her mother … was she really supposed to just let it go?

  Tevin leaned in close, gently gripping Wally’s arm. It felt good to have him there, the warmth of his presence beside her. She felt less alone with her decision.

  “Whatever you think is right,” he said. “But she wanted you to use it, I think, and you’ll need money to find her.”

  Wally thought about this, and reluctantly agreed. She turned back to the jeweler.

  “And you’ll write down what you know about the alexandrite for me?” Wally asked. Now the jeweler beamed, giving Wally a gratified smile as she exhibited interest in the stone beyond its monetary value.

  “Well done,” he said. “Yes. I will write it down.”

  They made the swap, gemstone for cash. The payment was in hundred-dollar notes, and the crew stared wide-eyed at the growing stack of clean new bills as the broker casually dealt them like cards from a deck. For a business transaction of this size, the dealer needed information about Wally, the seller. All of the appropriate paperwork was completed in short order; the merchant jotted down several details about the stone on his shop’s letterhead estimate form, and Wally pocketed the note along with the cash. Finally, the jeweler held out his hand for Wally to take.

  “I am Isaac Hamlisch,” he said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hamlisch,” said Wally, feeling good as she shook the man’s hand.

  “You’re welcome, miss,” he answered, not even bothering to verify the name Wally had entered on the provenance forms in front of him.

  “And a good day to you, sir,” Ella added, affecting her aristocratic tone and giving Hamlisch a curtsy.

  Isaac Hamlisch gave Ella a gracious bow of his head, and the four youths exited the shop.

  Isaac Hamlisch watched after the four kids as they reached the sidewalk and burst into a victory dance, all of them together jumping up and down with delight, their cheers loud enough to reach him inside the shop.

  Isaac smiled, happy to make them happy, and then sat down in front of his laptop computer. He opened his Internet browser and went directly to an international gemstone exchange site, where he entered his user name and password. He clicked over to the open market page and began entering the exact description of his new offering. The gem’s recent provenance was listed as “private family estate.” With some further research on the site, Isaac confirmed the amber markings within the stone’s crystal as characteristic of the Lemya Mine, a small placer mining operation in the northern Ural Mountains—long since closed—and Isaac added that information to the stone’s description.

  Within milliseconds, all this information would be officially posted on the exchange site, where the stone would appear as “offered for sale or exchange” to thousands of brokers, all over the world.

  FIVE

  Five hours out of Krasnoyarsk, it had been more than a hundred miles since Tiger had seen any sign of human life. The stolen Benz kept good purchase on the icy road, steam bellowing from its exhaust as it consumed the distance at a hundred and twenty klicks. The gray glow of predawn produced just enough light to reveal an endless landscape of featureless permafrost on either side of the two-lane road. When the sun finally did rise, it would hover low over the horizon for no more than three hours before yielding again the leaden darkness of Siberian winter.

  Tiger saw a hint of the compound in the far distance. It was almost time. He wondered if Klesko would even know him, nearly twelve years gone by. He flipped down the sun visor and regarded himself in the small vanity mirror. Seventeen years old only but with the look of a grown man, his maturity and strength already had been proved countless times on the streets of Piter. His eyes were the same deep gray as they had always been, of course, and his thick black hair poured down to his shoulders, just as he had worn it as a child. Klesko would know him … if Klesko still knew himself. Twelve years in ITK-61 was a long time to count, and any man could lose his mind in that boundless, frigid abyss.

  Half a klick away from the compound, Tiger slowed the Benz and approached at a non-threatening pace. ITK-61 consisted of two cell blocks—one completely empty and dark now—a guardhouse, and two towers. There had once been a stone wall surrounding the compound, but that had largely been eroded by the elements. Three layers of razor wire fence served as the perimeter, but the condemned men within were imprisoned by something far more forbidding: three hundred miles of icy, desolate wilderness and, beyond that, a world that no longer had any place for them. Tiger knew there were only eight surviving prisoners, all at least thirty years older than Klesko, and six resident guards who certainly had been assigned there as punishment.

  Tiger pulled to a stop outside the front gate and got out of the car, leaving the engine running. An armed guard inside the wire had stepped to the gate and waited there, his eyes never leaving the young visitor but his gun still holstered. Tiger pulled on his heavy leather car coat as he approached.

  “Klesko,” he said.

  The guard considered the request and waited. Tiger produced a thick wad of bills from the chest pocket of his coat, American dollars, and passed them through the wire. The guard took the bills and clumsily shuffled through them with his gloved hands, counting. He turned and disappeared into the nearest cell block, emerging a minute later with the prisoner, urging the shuffling man along with a swift, painful boot to his hamstrings.

  At the first sight of Klesko, Tiger’s heart sank. Time, isolation, and brutal confinement had taken their toll on the man, looking as if he had aged two years for every one on the calendar. Gray beard, face creased by exposure and hardship. Klesko had his bed blankets wrapped around him against the bitter cold. On his feet he wore a ragged pair of old boots, three sizes too large, with several layers of rags underneath, wound around his feet in lieu of socks. His breathing seemed labored, uneven.

  All at once, Tiger was unsure of his plan, unsure whether he should have come at all. The stories he had heard about Klesko depicted a man of supreme strength and determination, a man who would rather die than give an inch of ground. Stories of fighting his way up through the ranks in Piter and holding point on border runs into Bulgaria and Slovenia, striking fear into the hearts of the local militia. Where was that man now? Everything about this Alexei Klesko—the one standing before him now—seemed defeated.

  Klesko raised his eyes and stared through the razor wire perimeter. There was a long moment without recognition at first; then it came upon him, his eyes darting over Tiger’s features, cataloging and comparing, testing them against an image in his mind of the boy, five years old. Twelve years gone.

  “Tigr …”

  Tiger just nodded.

  Klesko stood silent and motionless, his eyes still studying the young man before him. His mind raced with questions, with possibilities. With the guard still hovering nearby, the two men spoke in English.

  “How much did he take?” Klesko asked. “The guard.”

  “Five hundred, U.S.,” answered Tiger.

  Klesko snorted his disgust. “Hooi morzhoviy,” he spat the curse.

  Tiger could see something emerging behind the man’s eyes now, a flicker of life as his mind began to work again. Klesko’s back even straightened—just a little—as his eyes scanned the yard around him.

  “A stone has surfaced,” said Tiger, feeling proud that he could bring this news and wanting Klesko to feel that pride in him also. He watched for Klesko’s reaction and was not disappointed; the man’s eyes locked on him now, intensely, searching for confirmation that the news was true.

  Tiger nodded. It was true.

  Klesko was quiet for a moment, and Tiger realized that he was calming himself, controlling his excitement. The moment was everything Tiger had hoped for.

  “One only?” Klesko asked with outward calm.

  “One,” answered Tiger. “In America.”

  Klesko nodded, absorbing the informati
on.

  “These stones,” he said, “they are a legacy, yes?”

  “Da.”

  “For you. They belong to you. Understand?”

  “Yes,” Tiger agreed. “They are mine.”

  Klesko studied Tiger, as if looking for a sign of something. Resolve? Rage?

  “You deserve less?” Klesko asked. “Less than what is yours?”

  “No.”

  Klesko nodded, still unsure. “You have papers?”

  “Yes,” Tiger answered. “Arrangements have been made.”

  “Money?” asked Klesko.

  “Some.”

  Klesko nodded.

  “Good,” he said, meeting Tiger’s eyes once more before turning and walking away from the wire. Tiger turned away as well, as if returning to his car, but after a few steps he suddenly turned back toward the perimeter and in a flash his hand was out of his coat pocket, holding a gun. He hurled the weapon into a high arc over the razor wire barriers. Klesko looked up and saw the gun tumbling toward him through the cold air, a beautiful new Pernach.

  Klesko threw off his blankets and reached out his hand, finding the grip of the machine pistol in mid-air. He spun toward the stunned guard and within a fraction of a second the Pernach’s automatic blasts ripped through the man’s throat, decapitating him. Klesko saw the gate guard turn and move toward him, the terrified man now flailing for the sidearm that he had probably not removed from its holster in five years. The delay was fatal; Klesko fired on him, spraying a lethal auto-blast of bullets across the guard’s chest.

  Just that quickly, Tiger’s doubts were answered. The Alexei Klesko of legend—of Tiger’s boyhood dreams—had been a dormant spirit all these years, laying low and feigning defeat, waiting for an opportunity to emerge again. Now he was back. Tiger’s heart thrummed as he watched Klesko rip a key chain free from the guard’s belt and step calmly to the front gate. Klesko used the key to trip the locks and then kicked loose the latch on the counterweight. The weight dropped, drawing down on the pulley and swinging the prison’s main gate wide open.