So, bored or not, Gabe was feeling pretty good until the Soviet goofball stepped aside and introduced him to Doctor Maksim Sokolov, a skinny, horse-faced man with a narrow, red-tipped nose, brilliant eyes, and an affable smile, whose handshake set Gabe’s hitchhiker pealing like a bell.
Thanks to months of practice, to careful self-discipline and chanted spells and mercury experiments, Gabe did not collapse. He did not even wince. He shook Sokolov’s hand back, and smiled, and looked him in those bright eyes, and felt a stab of panic entirely separate from the clamor the hitchhiker raised inside his skull.
Maksim Sokolov, the object of ANCHISES, the defector they’d spent most of this year preparing to extract, was a Host.
Episode 10: ANCHISES
by Lindsay Smith
Prague
February 26, 1970
1.
Maksim Sokolov was a Host.
Gabe rubbed at his temples, trying to soothe away the volatile mix of hangover, stress, and elemental excitation that gripped his skull. Their defector was a Host, and now Gabe had to worry about far more than just the KGB trying to foil his plans. Did the Flame know there was a Host free and running around Prague? Just what he needed—a bunch of megalomaniacal witches interfering with his exfiltration op.
And then there was the Ice.
Gabe gripped the Moskvich’s steering wheel, hands squeaking against the cheap rubber. Alestair, Morozova, and whoever else the Ice had lurking around Prague were all ready to toss each and every Host into cold storage. Alestair certainly presented a challenge. He was far more observant than he let on. Though MI6 had helped facilitate their work with Sokolov, they weren’t involved in the actual exfiltration; these sorts of missions needed all the secrecy they could get. Sure, it always looked good for British-American relations if they could pull off a win together. But too often, the Brits only managed to gum up the works.
Now Gabe had a whole new reason to keep Alestair in the dark. The minute that swaggering prick found out what Sokolov really was . . . Gabe grimaced. Would Alestair really endanger a major win for the West just to help out his little secret society? Alestair had acted like gathering all the Hosts under Ice protection was a matter of life and death. But this was life and death, too, this mundane world of rocket science and political maneuvering and nuclear stockpiles. America needed Sokolov. The Brits needed America to have him. Surely Alestair would see that. He wouldn’t risk his country’s standing—and more importantly, his own standing within his country—over one Host.
That left the question, then, of Morozova. The woman had readily sent that poor student girl into Ice custody. True, Morozova hadn’t known what the Ice would do with her, but Gabe couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t consign Sokolov to deep freeze, thinking there was no other way to keep him out of the Flame’s grasp. Bad enough that he was trying to whisk away another Host, away from her protection and the Ice’s. That alone would bring out her claws. But as a KaGeBeznik, determined to prevent Soviet citizens from defecting at all costs . . .
That settled it, then. Gabe didn’t want to leave Sokolov vulnerable to the Flame, that much he was sure of. But he couldn’t count on the Ice to help him. The only Ice agents he knew were Morozova, Ostrokhina, and Alestair. If Tanya found out that Sokolov was a Host, it was as good as marching right up to the Soviet embassy and announcing the man’s plans to defect. It would end in a bullet in the back of Sokolov’s head, and another one in the shambling corpse of Gabe’s career.
Gabe took a deep breath and turned toward Josh. “How’re we looking?”
Josh glanced toward the far corner of the Hotel International Praha, but there were still no signs of their scout. “Waiting.”
Gabe smiled and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Already he felt lighter, having made up his mind. The defector’s status as a Host was just another secret for him to keep. And Gabe was damned good at keeping secrets.
He hoped Maksim Sokolov would prove just as good.
“Here we are.” Josh closed the newspaper he’d been pretending to scan and folded it up. “He’s walking out now, heading toward the corner . . .”
Gabe fixed his eyes on the person strolling along the sidewalk in front of the hotel, catty-corner from the parking lot where they sat partially obscured from view by a hulking construction truck. Their scout was dressed like every other man in Prague these days: black turtleneck, dark plaid flared trousers. He had the hollow-cheeked, suspicious stare of the Czechs, but his US embassy paycheck was sure to lift his spirits. He leaned against the streetlamp, paused, then pulled a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. Lit it.
“Come on,” Gabe muttered.
The man closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the post. Tapped the cigarette twice. Then took a slow drag.
“Excellent. Just two guards, south side. We’re set.”
One good day. That was all Gabe needed to keep the defector’s identity hidden. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about the Ice, the Flame, or even the KGB. Gabe could hold out for just one day. Hell, even the hitchhiker was behaving itself. This would be a piece of cake.
Gabe slid out of the car and turned toward Josh as he did the same. “It’s your show now.”
• • •
Joshua Toms straightened his corduroy blazer and pushed his way toward the registration table in the foyer of the Hotel International Praha. Excitement crackled through him, fortifying, like a good shot of whiskey. His show. Today, at the conference proper, was his show.
He flashed a quick smile toward Gabe. It felt so good to be on the same page again, working together like a well-oiled machine. Spring was blowing into Prague, and whatever darkness had muddled Gabe’s actions before was burning away.
Maybe it had just been the long winter days, hardening around Gabe’s psyche like a shell of ice. Gabe had come from Cairo Station—hot, dry, equatorial. The change would jar even the toughest operative. He felt a little embarrassed, now, for second-guessing the guy. ANCHISES was going to be a huge win for both of them, and all that nonsense from earlier this winter—the KGB woman, the missing student, and everything else—would fade away.
“Toms,” Josh told the secretary. “United States Department of Commerce.”
“Of course, Mister Toms. Here’s your name tag and your conference schedule.”
Josh pinned the card to his breast pocket and headed into the lecture hall with Gabe.
“Wheat,” the lecturer intoned, gripping the podium like it might try to escape. “Without wheat, we have no society. Without society, we are darkness.”
Josh settled into his chair next to Gabe. It was going to be a long day.
• • •
He didn’t find Sokolov in the crowd until the end of the third speech during the morning session. Thick bags bunched under the scientist’s eyes, and his suit was threadbare, straining to fit around his shoulders. He was sweating, even as the conference hall seemed to radiate the last of winter’s chill from its granite floors and walls.
Pull it together, Maks. Then Josh looked down and found his own knuckles clenched, bone-white, around his conference folder. He drew a deep breath and slowly loosened his grip.
His gaze came to rest on Alestair Winthrop. The British agent was a few rows over, chatting animatedly about corn-pricing inflation, but then his eyes caught Josh’s—for the faintest of moments—and the corner of his mouth twitched in a grin.
Josh glanced away, unable to wipe the smile from his own face.
“It’s almost time. Is everything ready for our information session?” Gabe asked.
Josh checked the folder. Twenty fact sheets on the United States Department of Commerce and Department of Agriculture joint international ventures, neatly typed and mimeographed, smeared with faint purple. And tucked in the stack, a thin strip of paper covered in tight, cramped handwriting.
“I believe we’re set.”
Gabe nudged him on the shoulder. “Thank God. I can’t take another minute of lect
uring about capitalist wheat manipulation. Let’s go.”
They’d been granted a small conference room for their information session, and already the other Commerce men—the ones without side jobs in the embassy’s bowels—were waiting inside. Gabe greeted them with his usual ease, joking about the agency politics he was expected to know, agreeing about what a real hard-ass the new labor secretary was. Josh just hoped he didn’t look too stiff beside Gabe.
And then the attendees began to file in.
Russians, Czechs, Brits, Germans—but the Russians lingered the longest, asked the toughest questions, crinkled their noses at Josh and the fact sheets he tried to hand them. Maksim Sokolov fit the type, for which Josh was eternally grateful. He strode right up to Josh and snatched one of the mimeographed sheets right out of his hands.
“You did write this?” Sokolov asked, his English gruff and brutal.
“My department did, sir.” Josh swallowed and tucked the thin strip of paper in the palm of his hand. “Joshua Toms. I’m a secretary of commerce at the United States embassy . . .”
Maksim stared down at his hand. For a moment, Josh was afraid he wouldn’t shake it. None of the other Russians had shaken hands with them so far. Would it look too suspicious? Maybe he could wrap the paper around a mug of coffee, or tuck it in Maksim’s pocket as he walked past—
Then Maksim took his hand for the briefest of shakes. Crunched the paper in his fist. Withdrew. All before his minders—the broad-shouldered thugs lurking around the room’s perimeter—had a chance to wave him off.
“I must congratulate you on your propaganda skills,” Maksim said. “I believe each word on this sheet is a lie, and yet you tell it so well.”
“I assure you, we’re committed to the international cause of agricultural aid . . .”
“Pfffah.” Maksim stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Words are one thing. Action, Mister Toms, is something else entirely.”
Maksim sauntered off. Josh looked down at his stack of papers, then slowly, subtly, glanced toward Gabe.
Mission accomplished. Maksim had his instructions.
Once the meet and greet wrapped up, they pushed their way through the crowded foyer. “Taking off already, gents?” Alestair Winthrop asked, blocking their path toward the door. Josh sucked in his breath, smiling, but took care not to look at Alestair directly. The Reds had eyes everywhere here.
Gabe shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, you know, the office calls. See you at the party tonight?”
Alestair’s eyes glittered in the chandelier light as he glanced toward Josh. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“See you then, Winthrop,” Josh said.
And executed his second successful brush pass of the day—fingers grazing together, warmth there and gone, shielded from the rest of the world in the churning crowd.
Everything was going exactly according to plan.
• • •
Gabe leaned against the concrete pillar of the embassy’s loading dock while the truck took its sweet time backing up. The closer the truck came, the tighter a screw seemed to turn inside his skull. The hitchhiker was, understandably, upset. Gabe didn’t feel too far behind.
“You ever done something like this before?” Dom asked him, tapping away the ash of his cigar.
Gabe pressed his lips thin. “Can’t say I have.”
Dom snorted. “You’re in for a treat, pal. It’s a special kind of art, you know, doin’ a job like this. It’s like . . . magic. Like wizardry. Right?”
The blunt corner of his elbow landed in Gabe’s ribs.
“That’s it,” Dominic shouted to the truck driver. “Perfect.”
The truck stopped, and Dom waited, smoking, smiling, while the workers unsealed the back. Inside, boxes and boxes of feminine hygiene products were stacked floor to ceiling; the workers seized the boxes and began tearing them away.
Gabe forced himself to adopt a pleasantly neutral expression. But he could feel the hitchhiker strumming a vexing elemental chord as it sorted through the elements nearby. Blood—yep, Gabe expected to sense that one. Water, tasting cold against the back of Gabe’s throat. And was that a faint feeling of—fire? A dried-out, bitter taste like ash clung to his tongue.
The workers finished tearing down the front stack of boxes and unveiled their real cargo: a heavy metal container. Coffin-sized. They hauled it onto the dock, placing it on a waiting trolley with an ominous clang.
Dom’s smile widened, carnivorous, and he elbowed Gabe again.
“Sign, please,” the worker said, shoving a clipboard at them. Custody chain. Everything so formal and bureaucratic for the grim business they were about to undertake.
Dom scrawled his signature and shoved it back at the worker. The hitchhiker was strumming, strumming, but Gabe had no reassurances to offer it. At least there was no magic involved in this affair. At least, not yet.
Gabe held the doors open, and Dom steered the trolley into the embassy’s bowels.
“Now,” he said, “the real fun begins.”
• • •
The blue scrim of twilight was beginning to settle on the streets of Prague. The conference at the Hotel International Praha had concluded for the day; the bugs Nadia had placed with Tanya were yielding nothing but tipsy chattering and the sounds of men preparing to hit the town.
Nadia’s job was to ensure that none of them were preparing for anything more.
Tanya had been right. The Americans were interested in the conference. But why remained unclear. Hoping to court new assets? A reasonable assumption; even with the KGB’s minders looking about, they’d have a much easier time approaching potential conspirators here, in Europe, than back in Moscow or Arkhangelsk. Yet the Westerners had, annoyingly, kept to themselves thus far. That information session she’d attended, with its pathetic fact-sheet propaganda, seemed hardly worth the effort.
But, Nadia supposed, there were always the diplomatic parties. Nadia had always shined at those—she spoke the Western language of jazz and boxing and cold, dead consumerism. But tonight that was Tanya’s burden. Tonight, Nadia was left to the thrill of another sort of hunt.
“May I offer you any more coffee?” the waitress asked, stumbling over her Russian.
Nadia looked up from her window seat at the café and smiled. The waitress was a pretty thing, brunette, a little skittish, but then, the sound of homegrown Russian in Prague tended to have that effect on people who hadn’t welcomed the tanks. The girl was probably one of Dubček’s fans, then. A pity. All the same, Nadia flashed her a bright smile and leaned over the cup.
“You make an excellent brew. Did you learn this style in Paris? Rome, perhaps?”
The waitress’s wan cheeks flushed red and she crossed her arms over her apron. “Oh, no, I’ve never been outside Czech—well, outside of the Soviet republics.”
Good girl, Nadia thought. You learn quickly. She lowered her lashes and peered up at the girl through them. “Well, it’s excellent. I’d love another one.”
When the waitress returned, Nadia gestured toward the empty chair opposite her. “Please. Have a seat. You’re hardly busy.”
The girl’s mouth twisted; she glanced toward the cash register, but her boss was busy eating an early dinner. “I suppose it won’t hurt.”
Nadia pursed her lips to blow on the coffee, then stretched one hand on the table in front of her, toward the girl. “Awfully busy across the street, aren’t they?”
The waitress nodded. “Scientific conference of some sort, I think. I heard a few of them talking when they stopped in for lunch.”
Very good girl. Nadia stretched her legs out beneath the table, and when her feet brushed the girl’s leg, she made no effort to withdraw them. “Curious. English speakers too, or only Czech?”
“All kinds.” The girl hesitated, leg trembling, but ultimately, she didn’t pull away.
Nadia leaned closer. Eyes sparkling. Freshly applied lipstick just the right shade of rosy—one part innocent and three p
arts wicked. “Very interesting.” She cocked her head to one side. “These English speakers. Did you understand what they were saying?”
Realization seemed to dawn on the girl’s face, but she didn’t back down. Whatever trap she was being pulled into didn’t concern her too much. Just as Nadia had hoped. “Well . . . my English is a little rusty, but . . .”
Something twinkled around them, a faint sound, delicate like wind chimes.
The waitress blinked and furrowed her brows. Shit. Nadia plunged one hand into her satchel and snapped a charm for distraction while whispering, “I’m so sorry. I must be off. Hope to see you again soon.” Tossing out a few bills, she stood, shrugging on her jacket, and trailed her hand over the waitress’s shoulder as she bustled out the door.
As soon as she was on the sidewalk, she ducked into a doorway and hunted through her charms until she found the culprit: a multifaceted charm studded with raw crystals. She turned the charm around in her palm, examining each crystal until she finally spied a faint glow.
It wasn’t the one she’d expected.
• • •
Four cups of coffee and Gabe still couldn’t burn the smell of rot away.
“You’re absolutely certain?” Frank asked. “No identifying features, no nothing.”
“No sirree,” Dom answered. “Knocked out the teeth myself. And your boy Pritchard here . . .” He regarded Gabe with flinty eyes. “Well, let’s just say he’s a wizard with a paring knife. Not a chance anyone could piece together fingerprints from that.”
Gabe swallowed, hard, but he felt the sting of bile reaching up his throat.
Frank looked from Gabe to Dominic, twirling a ballpoint pen in his fingers. “I don’t know. Sokolov is pretty damned distinctive.”
Dom chuckled. “No one looks distinctive after a few weeks feeding the catfish.” He hiked his trousers up and perched on the corner of Frank’s desk, earning him a cocked eyebrow from Frank. “Look. I’ve done this switcheroo five times now. There was a guy in Havana, needed to evaporate real fast when his mistress caught wind he was working for us. Figured there was more money in turning him in than convincing us to take her too, right?”
The Witch Who Came in From the Cold - Season One Volume Two Page 8
