by Shamim Sarif
Misha clears his throat, and lets go of Lauren’s arm. He mutters something to the concierge.
“He says he will have some coffee now.”
Melissa nods, and orders it from the waitress who is setting up tables at the other end of the room. Misha is speaking again.
“And he says that you should sit down.” The concierge indicates a chair for Lauren. “Because what he has to tell you may take a while, and now he is ready to talk.”
Chapter Twenty
Moscow – January 1959
KATYA HAS BEEN LIVING ON HER NERVES for the past two days, and she is feeling light-headed and a little fearful, now that Alexander has left, and his own anxiety is not there to balance her optimism. The café, at least, is warm and smoky and crowded, and the steam that collects on the windows to her right somehow gives her a feeling of reassurance, and safety, as though the vapour is wrapping her up and enclosing her.
He will have arrived in Washington. In her mind, she has followed him through each possible hour of his day. Right now, he should be at the opening banquet. It will be ending, or may already have ended, and this is when he will have made his move. A flicker of worry passes over her face, then she nods to herself. He will have already crossed over by now. He is safe and well, and waiting, that is all she must believe and remember. And so now it is up to her. Across the table, Misha watches her, clear-eyed, as though reading her thoughts, and he smiles, a grin of encouragement, when she glances back at him.
She pours him more tea, and he helps himself to another spoonful of jam. Then he takes another, with a wink at her, and she laughs and pushes the saucer nearer to him. He leans forward again.
“So. Do you miss him?”
“Yes.”
“Already?” Misha laughs.
“I know, but I can’t help it.”
The smile leaves his eyes and they look at each other, serious now. He is thinking about what she has told him, just now, here in this café, full of after-work drinkers. He had not seen any of it coming. That Sasha, of all people, has defected. Or is about to. That she is planning to join him, and needs help. And that this has been decided because someone has been caught, and does he know who it is? It has taken him some minutes to recover himself after the surprise of all this information, and to get his thoughts in order. He does not know quite what to do. He will have to take instructions, he will be forced to. She wants to leave now, needs to in fact, but he has explained to her that it is difficult to arrange things that quickly. And she has nodded, absently, almost without hearing him. She has that look of removal in her eyes now, as she watches him drink his tea. It is as though she has already gone, escaped. He can tell that there can be no pulling her back now – she is too far gone to be brought back by any means. There is a lightness to her, an excitement, that he has never seen previously, and that makes her look more beautiful than he has ever noticed before. He puts his glass down, gently, onto the tiny saucer, and reaches for her hand. It is an affectionate gesture, a touch between friends, and she will think nothing of it. He looks at the fingers lying in his palm, and he caresses them slightly with his thumb. If he holds on any longer, she will begin to be uneasy about his touch, will feel at first simply that it is not quite appropriate, and then she will begin to understand the depth of repressed emotion that lies behind it. And then she will pull away, embarrassed, confused, perhaps even repulsed by him. He lets go abruptly, and takes up his glass again, draining the dark amber liquid. He looks at her again, and now his gaze is cooler and more distant, which is good. For a moment, he is proud of himself. He has always been able to find the way to let go when he has needed to.
“I need to get things organised,” he says. “Give me a couple of hours.”
This alarms her. “No. The moment they know he’s gone, they’ll come and get me.”
“One hour, then. Meet me back here in an hour. You must prepare. You don’t know how long and hard this journey is going to be.”
From beneath the table, she slides out a small brown suitcase. “I am prepared. Here. This is everything I’m taking. I’ll wait here. I feel better waiting here. If I go home, anything could happen.”
He watches her for a few moments, considering possibilities, thinking through the best strategy.
“You’re right. Wait here then. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
She stands up with him, and kisses him on the cheek.
“You should do what I’m doing, Misha You should come with me.”
He laughs. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
“But you must be in danger too…”
“I know how to handle myself, don’t worry.”
She nods, sighs at his bravado. “An hour then?” she says.
He nods, and she waves as he leaves. She tries to look after him as he walks away, watching him through the window, but two men have left just after him and are blocking him off from view. Anyway, the steam has risen so high on the glass that she cannot see properly. After a moment, she rubs at the window with a finger, and leans down to peer through it, but he is long gone now, and besides, it is snowing again. The flakes are banging up against the window like demented moths, and even though she is inside she turns up her collar and shivers.
He is back in an hour, just as he promised. She stands up at once, in the smoky dankness of the café, and he offers her a drink, which she refuses, and so he holds open the door for her. Walking out onto the street, he takes her suitcase from her. Her eyes are flickering, nervous as she walks alongside him, watching him for a sign of where they are going.
“A safe house,” he mutters. “It will do for now.”
“And then?”
“Then, I’ll get you travel papers, and you can start off.”
She nods. She has a hundred other questions. Whose house is it? Which route will she take? When can she hope to make it out? But there will be time later for these questions to be asked. It is probable that Misha still needs time to find the answers anyway.
Their pace is brisk, fast even, and it is hard work for her to match his speed at first, especially through the damped down, slushy grey snow on the edges of the street. She aims her feet towards the centre of the pavements, where the snow is worn away entirely. He gives her a sideways glance of encouragement, then veers off down a side road. She hurries to follow him.
“What do you have in here?” he asks, hefting the suitcase from one hand to another.
“Hardly anything. Clothes, the photograph of my parents, you know the one. And Misha, I have to give you this.”
She pulls at his coat, forcing him to slow down. He is reluctant to do so, but her gesture is urgent – she wants to give him this while they are still alone, before they reach the safe house. She glances around, but the street is a quiet one, on a gentle downhill slope, and there seems to be nobody about.
“What is it?” he asks.
She reaches inside her coat pocket and brings out a slim white envelope, which she holds out to him as he walks on. Alongside him, she sounds slightly breathless.
“Here, take this, Misha.”
He takes his other hand out of his pocket and reaches for the envelope.
“What is it?”
“A letter. For Sasha.”
Misha smiles and puts his hand away again. “Give it to him yourself.”
“In case I don’t make it. In case anything goes wrong.”
For a moment, she thinks he has not heard her. He is striding onwards, his eyes intent and focused ahead, and now he turns into a smaller street. Buildings of light stone loom around them in the gloom. They both stop, and glance around and up at the sky. Misha watches his breath puff out above him.
“It will all be fine,” he says at last.
“You never know what might happen,” she insists.
He looks over his shoulder, then quickly takes the letter, and tucks it inside his shirt, then starts walking again.
“I don’t know when I would ever see him aga
in.”
She shrugs. “You would get it to him, eventually.”
“Would I throw up if I read it?” he asks, with a grin.
“Probably. It’s just a love letter, Misha.”
He nods. They are walking more slowly now, in a thick evening darkness. She looks up. They have turned again, and the alleyway where they are now has no streetlights, leaving only the glow of the snow to illuminate the atmosphere around them. Flakes are falling, slowly, languidly, and one catches on her eyelash. She blinks it away.
“Misha? You will be careful, won’t you?”
He pauses to look at her, taking in her open, concerned face.
“You’re the one that needs to be careful now, Katyushka.”
He seems nervous for her, Katya thinks. He probably knows even better than me how hard it will be to get out of here.
“You know what I mean,” she tells him. “You’re putting yourself at risk, helping me.”
He looks down, shakes his head. “Don’t worry about me.”
“I do. You’re a good friend Misha.” Her hand is on his face, and her lips come up to kiss his cheek. There are no houses here, only a lonely patch of waste ground to one side. For a moment, she thinks she can smell the tiny wild flowers that grow there, the scent of them sweetening the evening air, before she remembers that it is snowing, and that nothing can have grown in that cold, solid earth for months.
“Just be careful, Misha. I will be out of here, but you won’t. And if they’ve caught someone already, they’ll torture and threaten him until they make him talk.”
“I know.”
“I worry that that person will end up betraying you.”
She is restless, and stamps her boots to keep warm. Then she takes a step further, as though encouraging him to start walking again, to get going. But he is not moving. He walks to the side of the alley, near a brick wall, and places her suitcase down on the ground. She follows him there.
“Are we waiting here?” she asks.
He nods slightly, and takes her hand, drawing her closer to him. She can feel the warmth of him beneath his coat. She frowns; his heart is beating very quickly.
“Katya,” he says, in a hoarse whisper. “I have to tell you something.”
His head is above hers, his face pressed down into her hair. He takes a breath, inhales the scent of her, and she tries not to pull away, but she is peturbed.
“What is it, Misha?”
He bends his head and whispers in her ear. “You should be careful that that person will not end up betraying you.”
She does not understand his words, but for the moment, it is as though words, and everyday signals and clear human contact are irrelevant. Something more primeval has taken her over. There is a strange sensation within her, an awareness of something terrible coming that cannot be averted, an almost preternatural sense of pre-warning. She stands there, cold and yet warm, against Misha, and she can hardly believe the realisation that is coursing into her body. The downy hair at the nape of her neck is raised. His hand comes up, caressing her hair, and it is then that she feels the cold metallic muzzle against the side of her head. It slides against her ear, and down to her chin.
“Misha?” she breathes.
He is whispering into her ear. “I know, it’s almost too ironic to be true. It was me that they got, you see, Katya? It was me. And now I have to help them.”
She is dizzy with shock and disbelief. This cannot be happening, not now, not today, not when she is so close to freedom, not from him. Without warning she finds herself choking on a sob.
“You have to, Misha?”
“Yes.”
“No, you don’t. You don’t.”
He moves her shoulders slightly, so that she knows to turn and look behind her. Some small distance away, a distance magnified by the snow and the darkness, she can see the smudged outlines of two men, watching them.
“They’re KGB,” he says. “My new permanent escorts.”
“How did they…how can you do this? You’re not really going to, are you, Misha? Misha?”
There is a sound on the street that intersects the alleyway a hundred yards away. She waits, breathless, but they are young men down there, laughing and full of vodka, and they walk past. Even if anyone were to bother glancing into the alleyway, the air is too dark and the snow is falling too thickly for them to be seen. And even if they were seen… Misha’s arm is around her waist. Her body is held close to his, and anyone would think they were lovers, nothing more.
“Is Sasha out? Did they stop him?”
“He’s out,” he says, with almost a sigh, and she feels a moment of relief, for his tone and voice are so familiar. “And I wish you could have gotten out too. Maybe you could have, if you hadn’t chosen me to confide in just now.”
She is still in confusion. “Who else could I…? You’re the only one I know, Misha, the only one I trust. Trusted.” She makes a noise, a sound of bitterness.
“Well, they want to teach your husband a lesson. And you. They’re angry, Katya. Very angry.”
She feels tears at the rims of her eyes, and they are painful. It is as though they are turning to ice before they can even fall, mocking her sorrow.
“So it’s me or you, isn’t it?” she says. “That’s the choice they gave you.”
“I tried to keep you out of it… You came to me, remember?”
“Fucking bastard,” she says.
“Shut up.”
“No!” She sobs, suddenly. “I only want to get out of here and live, Misha. I don’t care about the rest of it any more. About all this.”
She can hear the tears in her own voice, and her eyes are blurred with the salty water.
“Please, Misha. How can you let them win?After everything we’ve lived for, and believed in?”
But he is pretending not to listen, she feels. Her breathing comes harder, for she is fearful that he will do it at any moment.
“Please don’t kill me, Misha, please don’t.” She pulls away slightly. “I don’t want to smell your coat and your… smell, as you kill me,” she says.
This makes him stop, and she feels a sense of respite. A moment to think. A second to imagine Sasha. In the back of her mind, she realizes that today was one of the few days when she did not say to herself, “Katya, you might die today. You might be killed today.” She has always been fully aware of death, and more so in recent times because of the nature of her work. Usually this thought comes to her before too much of the day has passed, and she always makes sure to focus on it, sometimes imagining possible deaths, and sometimes thinking of her misery at leaving Sasha. She hoards these thoughts consciously and regards them as talismans against the thing that has been thought of actually happening. But she does not remember having thought about her death today. She has been lax about it for many days now, swept away by her excitement and her hopes of the life they have to come. She has been so wrapped up in her visions of Sasha and herself, away from here, away from the lies and deception, just the two of them together, in love and happy and working, that she has completely forgotten to imagine the worst. And now look what has happened. Perhaps, she thinks, there is something to be said for superstition after all. Perhaps the fates do not like to be taken for granted. She wipes her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her coat.
“Misha, how can you betray me…? And what we’ve been fighting for?”
“Shut up. Stop talking.”
“Why, am I making you feel guilty?” With a swing of her fist, she hits him in the jaw, and tries to break free of him, but it is impossible. The men watching begin to move forward but then Misha hits her hard, on the side of her head. She staggers for a second, and then straightens her thin shoulders and faces him. Her ears are ringing from the blow. He shoves her backwards, turning her so that she is facing the wall and he is standing close behind her. So that he doesn’t have to see her face, she thinks. She fights a whimper that rises in her throat, because now she feels truly terrified for she
knows that it must happen now. She tries not to panic, tries to keep an image of Alexander in her mind. He hits the top of her head, and at the same time she feels a foot kick the back of her knees, making her drop hard to the ground, kneeling.
“You fucking bastard. How can you, Misha? It’s me. Please, Misha, just let me go. Please, I don’t want to die like this.” This pitiful pleading will not move him, she knows, but she cannot think well at this moment; she cannot stop herself from crying.
There is no reply, but there is an inhuman sound from his mouth. Is it anguish or anger? He puts a foot on the back of her neck, and presses, with surprising control and gentleness, so that her head is pushed forward so far that beneath the wet snow she can smell the dirty tar of the alley, and the trails of old urine that have trickled down it for years.
“Let’s just get this done, Katya.” It is anguish she hears in him.
“I have one thing to say,” she says, through her weeping. “I’m pregnant, Misha.”
Why she has said it she does not know. He would never let her go because she is pregnant, but it has been in her mind all day. She has been waiting to say it to Sasha when they meet again; all afternoon she has been imagining the joy and excitement in his face when he hears it, and so the words have been rolling around in the front of her mouth, waiting to be spoken aloud. And now she has spoken them.
“I thought you never wanted children.” Now his voice is harsh. He has switched off, and is pretending that it is not Katya under his boot and gun here in the filthy alley.
He is right. She had gotten pregnant despite her precautions, and she had always taken these for she had previously had no desire to bring a child into this world of theirs, a world in which she could see little hope. And then there was the burning mark of the loss of her parents. She has always known the risks associated with her work, the risks of capture and death, and she has never wanted to leave her own child motherless, to put her own child through what she herself suffered.
