The sergeant peered at him, then nodded to the open cell door. Lofton picked up his clothes, tossed the soap on the floor and walked back. They waited while he drew the clothes over his wet bandages and body, then remanacled him and slammed the door. He sat on the bench, drew up his knees, and shivered.
His Casio bleeped: l:30 A.M. He'd won a Rolex in a regatta but never wore it. The Casio was with him at work and did well when he raced on Bandit. It was with him now as he sat on the cold concrete of his darkened cell, his elbows rested on drawn up knees. Maybe that was why the KGB hadn't taken it; after all, it was just an inexpensive forty‑seven dollar-and-fifty‑cent watch with a stainless expansion band.
Lofton held his head. What are they going to do to me? He couldn't ignore that he'd blatantly trespassed into sovereign Soviet territory with a foreign naval vessel, one meant for covert activities. And now they were flying him to Kubinka. That jive‑talking Sadka was no doubt rubbing his hands together waiting for the moment when he and his team could start probing with their needles.
A cockroach skittered over Lofton's right foot, then stopped at his left, unsure. He raised his hands, his wrist throbbing as he watched. This was cockroach number fourteen. Lofton had made up names for them but ran out of ideas after number ten had cruised by. Eventually, they all became Colonel Sadka.
A vehicle stopped next to his window, the engine rumbling above him. Lofton recognized the sound of a BTR‑60 and caught a whiff of diesel exhaust. The driver revved it once, then switched off.
Will they kill me? Torture first? Or do they simply beat the hell out me and let me rot? No, not now. Everything's changed in the Soviet Union, hasn't it?
Bonnie! Her soft, full lips. They were both surprised, it was so spontaneous, so wonderful. She'd kissed and hugged him aboard Brutus. Bonnie with her glasses, wide‑apart green eyes, and thick sandy hair. The way she looked at him. She understood when he talked shop, she liked to sail. The look on her face that Sunday afternoon. Her chin had been set just so when she stood at the mainsheet with True Blue death rolling and on the verge of a gybe-broach. She wasn't afraid and spilled the vang, then the main, just in time.
Bonnie: drenched under the wet spinnaker, damnit. Bonnie: waving from the basin six promontory as she stood alongside that insane Kirby. Bonnie: in her bathrobe, snug in True Blue's main salon, talking to him. She smelled so good. Lilacs? Bonnie: reading...
And here he was, crammed in a cell in downtown Petropavlovsk with cockroaches for company. He looked down to see Colonel Sadka waddle across the cell.
And Kirby, renewing their friendship. Lofton had even bought into that crazy Santa Cruz 70, Bandit, with Kirby. What was it Kirby had once said as they sat at his dock with their feet dangling in the water? They'd finished puttering with Bandit's steering cables. One beer became many as the horizon flattened a setting sun on a hazy, warm Saturday evening. The subject had turned to women and Kirby's troubles with Nancy, a woman who was becoming an elusive fiancee. Suddenly he popped out with it. "You know, Brad, we're pretty lucky here. If you really work hard you can have damn near anything you want. Wealth, power, women, all the goodies." Then he smirked. "Trouble is, you can't have it all at one time. No way." Then, "Sheeyat."
Kirby.
Two bleeps on his Casio: 2:00 A.M.
Kubinka: Renkin wanted him dead. He probably gave the order, or at least let it happen. Lofton bit his thumbnail. But why not just kill me?
Then he knew. The realization washed over him in cold, penetrating waves. Sadka wants to look in my head first. And when he does that, he'll find a wealth of highly classified data.
He hugged his knees tightly, put his head down and moaned. As he saw it, there were no choices. In his laboratory, Sadka buttons up his lab coat and gives me a starter IV solution of sodium amytal. When I'm properly sedated, he runs some amphetamines through me and I'll blab like a drunk on New Year's Eve. After that they put a bullet in the back of the head and throw me down the sewer. Here, they just shoot me and throw me down the sewer.
Sadka would be happy to practice on him, Lofton knew. Without political dissidents, the population of the USSR's "psychiatric institutes" population was probably greatly reduced. Sadka would welcome a new, healthy subject like Lofton.
He recalled a class from his SEAL days. They had all tried to duck it, the subject repulsed them, it went against their grain, but attendance was mandatory. The name on the syllabus stood out morbidly: "Autoeuthanasia Methods"--ways to commit suicide when under extreme torture with no hope of survival. Two techniques came to him; they were desperate, crude. One was to bite the tongue and drown in your own blood. It worked best when your hands were tied behind your back so you couldn't involuntarily clear your airway with your fingers.
The other was a breathing exercise. How did it work? Something about overdosing on your own carbon dioxide. Lofton smirked. They'd called it an exercise. When does an exercise cease to be an exercise if you are trying to kill yourself? He tried to recall it.
A door opened upstairs, and he heard footsteps on the landing.
What was the carbon dioxide method?
Two sets of boots tapped down the wooden stairs.
Damnit! He purposely hadn't listened to the lecture, the subject was just too hideous. But he realized why they taught it. They were dead serious, yet he'd joined the SEALS because he was a good swimmer in top athletic condition. A lark, showing off for the dollies--until now.
The boots reached the concrete and walked toward his cell.
Bite your tongue. Where? Toward the back, there's a big vein or artery there.
They came closer.
He lumped his tongue and probed with his molars. Then he remembered, you had to bite almost all the way through. It took a while to drown in your own blood. Where was that vein? Maybe in front, that would be easier.
The key grated in the lock and the door opened. Too late. He'd try it later, maybe on the plane when the interior lights were low. It would be a long flight...
The flashlight clicked on, blinding him. Two men stood in the doorway, the same ones as last night, but the lieutenant colonel carried the flashlight. The man, about his own size, wore a beard.
A hand reached out, it touched his right cheek lightly. Lofton jumped, then steadied. The master sergeant stood in the doorway, he unshouldered his AK‑74, and aimed it loosely in Lofton's direction.
The hand touched his right cheek again. "Even with your black eye, I wouldn't have believed it."
What? That was his voice. But the lieutenant colonel spoke Russian much better than he ever could.
"You are Ernst Lubeck." The man swung the flashlight into his own face.
Lofton's mouth dropped open. Exactly the same. The lieutenant colonel was his double; the salt-and-pepper hair, the eyebrows, gray-blue eyes with the light crow's feet. He wore the same beard he'd shaved off almost two weeks ago. Even the lower incisor was crooked.
Lofton blinked several times, his mind whirled, and yes, that was his voice, yet he hadn't spoken. He worked his tongue, his lips. "What the hell is this?"
"Many times, I wished you were dead. Hadn't existed. Until last night, I'd hoped they would kill you. Since I've been here, I've thought of killing you. Yet, now..."
Lofton tried to stand, but the colonel's hand restrained him with, "Are you aware of me? Are you aware of your...our heritage?"
"What heritage?"
"You mean you don't know?"
"All I know is that you and your quacks are going to stick me with needles and then kill me, Ivan. Maybe you've stuck me already. Is that why I see my double? Maybe it's just a good cosmetic job." Lofton jabbed a thumb and his manacles rattled. "Hollywood is four thousand miles that way, Ivan. And what--"
"Your Russian is much better than Sadka realizes."
"What do you mean by heritage?"
The master sergeant moved in with a scowl, his AK‑74 ready. "Colonel? Is this all right?"
"Go have a cigarette, Josef
. He'll be fine."
"Like hell I will," Lofton sputtered. Somehow, he didn't know why, he felt an easing deep inside, an incongruous warmth that shouldn't have been there.
The master sergeant slung his rifle over his shoulder. "Yes, sir. But we don't have much time until Donuzlay returns."
"I know, Josef. Please wait in the hall."
The master sergeant grunted, then stepped outside, leaving the cell door open.
The colonel turned back to Lofton. "Do you know where you were born?"
Lofton sniffed, then settled against the wall. "Minnesota, I think. But nobody knows for sure."
"Well, I do, you idiot!" Dobrynyn yelled, grabbing Lofton's sweater. "Berlin. Our mother was a whore!"
Lofton gaped. He tried to move his lips, but nothing came out.
"Yes. They made sure I knew that. They keep reminding me. I am--was Manfried Lubeck. You were Ernst. She was killed and I went East. You went the other way--
"A whore? Ernst? No--"
"--Yes! A sleazy kraut whore! And, guess what, Ernst. Our--your father," Dobrynyn jabbed a finger in his chest, "was an American! He ran when he learned our mother was pregnant." Dobrynyn's face was near, Lofton saw the dark rage.
"It's followed me all my damned life. Screwed up my career. You and my father, damned Americans. Have you enjoyed your fast cars and disposable razors?" Dobrynyn flung him against the wall, his brother's head bounced. Lofton groaned and rubbed his head while Dobrynyn stood back. His eyes scoured the ceiling.
The Casio bleeped: 2:00.
"And digital watches," growled Dobrynyn.
Ullanov shot in, his rifle ready.
"Sergeant. Get the hell out of here!" Dobrynyn roared.
"Sir!" Ullanov disappeared.
Lofton tried to clear his mind. Images swam, but it wasn't the blow to his head. Something was there, it faded in and out. He rubbed his temples. "Berlin? A whore? You--"
"Yes! Haven't you ever thought about it?"
It welled deep within Lofton. He couldn't have stopped it if he wanted, out of control, a primordial eruption. "Anna," he shouted.
Dobrynyn's fists doubled, he turned, surprised, his mouth worked dumbly. "Yes! ...Yes. That's right. Her name was ...Anna." His shoulders slumped. "That's right. I didn't know...hadn't remembered until now."
"My God, Anna! Ernst!"
"That's right, Comrade Thatcher-Lofton." Dobrynyn stood with his hands on his hips. His eyes glistened. He bit his thumbnail and shook his head slowly. "You are me and I am you."
Turning, he walked out of the cell.
A minute passed. The door swung shut softly.
Lofton tried to lie back. He couldn't and blinked in the grayness. Anna. Ernst.
Manfried.
The door was kicked open. Lofton jerked awake; he was stiff, his ribs hurt, he couldn't rise.
"Up!" A shout.
"Uhhh."
"Up, you turd!"
He turned his head. The nocturnal master sergeant stood over him with a crude wooden tray while the blond corporal leaned against the doorway, grinning.
Lofton tried to rise. The master sergeant one‑handed the tray and grabbed Lofton's armpit, helping him to sit.
The thick, barrel-chested Spetsnaz clattered the tray on the bench, bellowing, "I hope you enjoy this, Sir. Sorry it's four days old but the cook just pissed in it to make it nice and warm for you." Lofton stared blankly as the sergeant stalked out. The door slammed and was locked.
He sat with his head in his hands. He felt stiff. He stretched his legs out and rotated his ankles. The Casio read 7:05 A.M. Dull, gray light found its way through the barred window.
He'd slept hard, his face was crinkled--
--that Russian Spetsnaz! A lieutenant colonel. Had he imagined last night? A horrible dream? Born in Germany with an American father? A whore for a mother? A twin, identical? What had the man said? "You are me and I am you". Lofton bit his thumbnail.
He sniffed and looked down at the tray. It smelled good. Had the cook really pissed in it?. A generous portion of dark, thick soup steamed beside him. Borscht. Potatoes and beets bobbed on the surface. Next to the bowl, half a loaf of dark, rich bread, butter and a pot of coffee beckoned. He tried it; borscht with sour cream--marvelous! He burned his tongue but it took just four minutes to eat everything.
Lofton dozed with his hands behind his head, listening to early afternoon traffic and light rain splattering outside. His cell shook slightly when two tanks blasted by, their treads creaking.
The Casio had just bleeped l:30 when the upstairs door grated open. Footsteps clattered down the landing. Lofton cocked an ear. Three men, he thought. Their muffled voices became more audible as they drew near. The key scraped and the door banged open.
Sadka strutted in, a smile on his face. "OK, you look good. How you are today?"
"What's it matter?" He sat up with a groan and looked into the hall. The blond and redheaded corporals stood outside the door, their AK‑74s slung over their backs, casual, yet alert. Their eyes missed nothing. No master sergeant this time, he noticed. The doctor waved his hand and the corporal came in and unlocked Lofton's handcuffs.
"Off," the gat‑toothed doctor gestured, and Lofton took off his sweater.
Colonel Sadka probed and tapped while he clicked his teeth and pummeled Lofton with his odorous breath. He looked in Lofton's ears, eyes and mouth, and even checked his knee reflexes with a rubber hammer. Then he retaped Lofton's ribs and wrist, reloaded his medical bag, and zipped it shut. "I think ribs, hand, been OK, soon," he muttered.
"Ah." Sadka ran his hand over his face, then reopened his medical bag and took out his Nikon. "O.K., smile. Last time you look crappy. Blood smeary. Now we need good pictures." He clicked off six frames as Lofton glowered. Then the camera was repacked while Lofton drew on his sweater.
"OK, you got well. Real hot. Rest now. Dinner on plane soon."
Lofton had just pulled his head through the turtleneck, his elbows were up, his ribs shrieked with pain. "What? When?"
Sadka grinned; his pointed teeth glistened. "Tonight. You and I. Fly to Kubinka. Home for me, you too. Nice plane, Tupolev‑16. Two big engines. We make it fast."
"When?" He managed to pull his sweater over his waist just as the corporal ratcheted the handcuffs back in place.
Sadka walked toward the door. "Good patient. I may give something before takeoff." He patted his bag.
The door slammed, their bootsteps receded up the stairs. He heard a creak as a guard arranged himself in a chair outside his door.
Lofton sat. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the bench between his knees. The cabbage‑breathed doctor was talking about tonight, a day early. Somehow, that day seemed important, precious.
Kubinka. Sadka and his needles. Damn.
He wished he hadn't had the borscht, wished he didn't feel better, wished he hadn't met that damned Spetsnaz...his...his brother. In six or so hours, if the doctor was right, he would be high over the Soviet Union flying west in total darkness at close to six hundred knots. And he'd probably be pumped full of Sadka's chemicals. He imagined himself strapped in one of the medium bomber's jump seats, his head lolling through the turbulence, eyes feeling like sandpaper, the crew laughing and talking about liberty in Gorki, or wherever they hung out.
No! He stood and looked toward the barred window. The rain had become a downpour. He checked his watch: 1:54. No!
Something else came to him. It was l:54, six hours after the USS Truman was to have transited Chetvertyy Kuril'skiy Proliv.
One hundred twenty‑six officers and men were dead now, crushed, vaporized by the ocean's enormous hydraulic pressure. By the time they'd heard the whine of the Mark 46 torpedo rising from the ocean floor it would have been too late. No time to open the throttles wide and evade. No time. Surprise would have turned to horror. The explosion would have been aft, probably near the reactor or the engine rooms, the boat sinking, imploding compartment by compartment. Or maybe all at once. No tim
e. One hundred twenty‑six men dead! He sat heavily and clasped his hands.
"Carrington. Take a look at this."
"Yes, sir?" Carrington walked around Renkin's desk and peered over his shoulder. A three‑by‑five glossy color photograph lay on the blotter. "Was that in the envelope that just came?"
"Yes."
Carrington bent further. The head and shoulders of a single figure lay sharply defined on a crude wooden bench. Gray concrete formed a backdrop and emphasized the man's debilitated appearance.
Carrington studied it. "Jesus, it's Lofton!"
"Yes."
"Wow. They really beat the crap out of him, didn't they?"
Renkin's bald head swivelled to Carrington, his glasses shot bolts of light.
"Uh, sorry. But that black eye, it's almost closed shut. And, look at his mouth, all that blood." Carrington grinned. "His beard is gone, just like I thought when I saw him in Long Beach. He must have shaved it off. You wouldn't know it's good old Brad Lofton."
"Now look at this." Renkin picked up an earlier Jenson Industries ID photo of a bearded Lofton, stuffed the two in an envelope and sighed. "The message said Mr. Lofton will be flying to Kubinka soon."
Carrington mimicked a female falsetto. "Thank you for flying Aeroflot, Mr. Lofton. Hope you enjoy your tour of Kubinka. Photographing MiG-31s is strictly prohibited."
"Yes. This picture was a courtesy. They seemed to recognize our rather carnivorous interest in this matter. However, I've asked them for a more recent photo. I'd like to see what he looks like without all that blood splattered about. Mr. Hatch's message did confirm that the CAPTORs were neutralized. Apparently they had some trouble, the water is close to six hundred feet deep there. One was recovered and the other was destroyed; they had to get in and out quickly before the Truman's arrival. He also said that the Truman safely transited the Kuril Straits just after his team cleared the area."
"Close."
THE BRUTUS LIE Page 25
