***
Tamara decided that, instead of trusting congested public transportation, she would take her car to the office today. But the true reason for taking the car was today's choice of outfit. For no special reasons, except for her perpetual exuberance, she had decided that today she would be dressed like a gypsy. Yesterday evening, she browsed through her clothes, one item after another, taking out, trying on, putting back and taking out again an assortment of colorful outfits. She left the best candidates on her bed for another try out. After an hour, her bed, covered with shirts, skirts, and dresses, looked like an Eastern bazaar, resembling a colorful and vibrant stand of exotic spices.
The rummage for the right shoes followed. Tamara had no shortage of appropriate jewelry either, and she had quickly chosen a couple of earrings and bracelets that matched the pallet of the rest of her choices of colors.
In the morning, after an elaborate and lengthy makeup process, she entered, fully dressed, into the kitchen. Her husband, who at the moment was reading the morning newspaper, choked on his sip of coffee. As accustomed as he was to Tamara's looks, he remained speechless for a good minute.
“Should I get a Santa Claus outfit? Since we have a Christmas tree already standing in our kitchen?” he said, recovering after seeing the flamboyantly dressed Tamara.
But neither the tongue-in-cheek remarks of her husband nor the congestion that was the reason for her longer-than-anticipated drive to work could dampen Tamara’s high spirits this morning. She knew that her colleagues would be back soon, and before long the office would cease to be such a lonely place for her.
Tamara opened the shutters on the windows and the morning sun burst into the conference room. A dozen fresh doughnuts and a box of white chocolates were lying on the desk.
It had been difficult for Tamara to agree to Gregory’s request and not have a welcome party for her friends' return. The doughnuts and chocolates were the least she could do, even though, of course, it was an inadequate substitute to the party she had planned. The special sound of the phone in the reception informed her that somebody had entered the MirexGlobe offices.
“Good morning, how can I help you?” was Tamara’s initial and standard greeting when she saw the visitor.
“Oh, my God, I did not anticipate seeing you, what a surprise! Is it you? How did you know where to find me? Sorry, I forgot your name. How stupid of me to forget the name of my poetry admirer.”
“You can call me Max, like my friends do,” replied the man, who was dressed in a long, navy blue cashmere coat, with a white silk scarf tied around his neck. Tamara looked at him, surprised and slightly confused. The man facing her had a big smile on his face. In his hands he held two beautiful bouquets of flowers.
“Max, of course. May I ask you how you found the address of our office, and what brings you into our office at this early hour of the day? Are those flowers for me? They are stunning.“ Tamara paused, realizing that with her endless questions, she had not left Max an opportunity to answer. “Sorry. I feel so delighted, it has been such a long time since somebody gave me such beautiful flowers.” Tamara shamelessly continued her flirting.
“One for you, and one for Dina. I hope I’m not mistaken, and there are only two ladies in the company.”
“You are right. Was it my story about Dina’s candor that impressed you so much? Is that why you are here?”
“You look gorgeous. I like the way you're dressed.”
Max took one bouquet and held it out for Tamara.
“This is for you. And this one...” He looked at the second bouquet that he held in his left hand. “This is for my...daughter,” he added in a soft voice.
Tamara eagerly reached out, but then her hand froze half way to the flowers. Her eyes opened wide, her jaw dropped. With her face expressing astonishment but never disbelief at the incredible news, she supported herself by assuming a half-seated position on top of her desk. She was flabbergasted.
“Kabuk-ka-bull! You are Dina’s father!” Tamara covered her mouth with both her hands.
“I would not presume to know what kabuk-ka-bull means, but yes, you are right. I’m Dina’s father.”
“You? Really? For sure? I never even knew that you were alive. I have so much to tell you, so much. Let's go to the conference room. It is much cooler in there. No! What am I saying? We have doughnuts and we can both sit there. I’m so excited to meet you, even though I met you before, of course. I’m so excited. I’m going to write a poem for you, not now of course, but I will. Let’s go.” Tamara looped her arm under Max’ and led him into the conference room.
“I have so much to tell you. You wouldn't believe me, but it was your son’s imposter who brought Dina the diamond that I was telling you about earlier – the one that Dina will be returning. A nice-looking man, we called him Yellow Raincoat. I have no idea why, but he introduced himself as your son, Roman. But, you know, he later helped Dina. She even stayed with him overnight at his home. Sit, sit down please. I’ll try to find a vase for the flowers. We should put them in water if we don't want them to die by tomorrow.”
And before Max could ask the obviously thrilled and cheerful Tamara why the flowers need to stay in water ‘til tomorrow, she quickly left the room. Max took off his coat, looking around for a place he could hang or lay it down.
“There we go. We have only one vase, and it was in Dina’s office.” Tamara came back holding a crystal vase and a small, white plastic garbage bin.
“I think this bin will do it. What do you think? I’ll fill it up with water.” The phone at her desk rang. She put the bin and the vase on the floor and ran out.
“Sorry, I need to take this.” Max could hear Tamara running to her desk.
“Hello, MirexGlobe. How can I help you? Yes. I know. Has your plane landed already? What is the time now? You are half an hour early. One hour. Good for you. Yes, I know. How do I know? Because he is here in the office with me. And he brought me and Dina beautiful flowers. No. I had no chance. Yes, I will. Are you coming to the office? Good. See you soon. I can’t tell you how happy I'll be to see you. See you soon.”
Tamara came back to the conference room.
“That was Gregory. He is on his way to the office. He was at your place and could not find you there. I’ll bring water for the flowers.” Tamara was ready to leave the room with the vase and the bin in her hands.
“Gregory alone? What about Dina? Is she not coming together with Gregory?”
“Oh, gosh, I completely forgot. Sorry. Dina was delayed. She was supposed to come with Gregory, but she flew to Geneva yesterday instead. I think she will be here tomorrow though. Don’t you worry, please,” Tamara added, seeing Max' saddened face.
“You know, it was very hard on Dina when we discovered that Yellow Raincoat was not your son. I thought that I would kill him with my bare hands, like this, I was so angry and I hated him. Only after he helped Dina, did I decide not to kill him, and only for Dina. I think she is falling for him. I’m talking, talking and forgetting to ask you. Would you like some coffee? I can get one from downstairs.”
“Thank you, Tamara. Let's wait for Gregory. Maybe we'll have some together. I’m eager to hear about his trip to Derchany. Take a seat, please. I would like to explain something to you.” Max pulled a chair out and gestured to Tamara to take a seat. The phone in the reception rang again.
“Sorry, can’t take a seat, but I’ll be back soon.”
Max was left in the conference room alone. The two bouquets were lying on the desk, waiting to be placed in the vase and into the bin. The sun was shining, warming up the room. Max looked at his watch. Time passes quickly. He stood up and walked to the window. Lunchtime. Looking down, he could see the growing crowd that was beginning to spill out into the street below. They seemed to be in need of breaking their monotonous or otherwise demanding day. A stream of black, blue, brown and green dots moved chaotically through the streets. From the height of this window, Max could see how, occasional
ly, they would assemble into lines, circles or create other strange patterns. Each dot was a life, a person, a son or a daughter.
“Bad connection, couldn't hear anything.” Tamara interrupted his thoughts. “Let me just fill up the water and then I’ll take a seat and listen to you. You wanted to tell me something, didn't you?”
“Yes.” Max nodded in response.
Tamara came back quickly and displayed the vase and the bin at the corner of the conference desk. Then she circled the desk, looking at the flowers.
“Beautiful, beautiful. And they match my gypsy clothing.” She finally sat down. “I’m ready.”
“You told me that you wanted to kill Yellow Raincoat. I'm glad that you reconsidered, because he is my son.”
“How can he be your son? Your son is Roman. I didn't know that Dina had two brothers. Do you have two sons?” asked the surprised Tamara, fidgeting in her chair.
“Yes, at the end of the day, I do have two sons. One is my natural son, the other I adopted.”
The sound of the next phone ring forced Tamara to leave the conference room again without giving her a chance to ask Max any additional questions.
“Hello. What are you saying? Dina, you are screaming and I cannot hear you clearly. Whoyyyyy!!!! He is here. Wait a second. He is here!”
Max did not wait for an invitation and rushed into the reception area where Tamara screamed “Whoyyyyy!” again and held him the receiver.
Dina’s voice sounded on the other end of the line, “Dad, you are free! We are free, dad, and I’m coming home. You are free!”
We are Survivors
Eleven thousand kilometers from Dina’s office, an alarm clock went off. A man in his thirties with half-opened his eyes, turned over onto his back, stretched his two arms, yawned slightly and slowly sat up in his bed. It was still pitch dark outside the windows. Not fully awake yet, he looked around, trying to remember where the light switch in the room was. The apartment that he had been given for his one-week vacation was on the fifth floor in a six-story building, and not far from the city's center. It was the first time that he had stayed at this place. The man grudgingly stood up and paused, giving his eyes time to adjust to the darkness. Then he walked towards what he thought should be the wall with the light switch. He did it carefully to avoid stumbling into a piece of furniture. Finally, his hand found the switch, and the lights flickered on. The room was very small and sparsely furnished with two chairs, a small table, the bed, a bookshelf, and a small kitchenette. A sliding door opened into a compact washroom with a shower and a toilet. The room had no closet and the man’s clothes were neatly stacked on one chair. The second chair held a few folded towels.
Should he take a cold or warm shower? In the past he had been forced to take cold showers every morning, and since then he had kept this habit of ice-cold morning showers, but he never enjoyed them. Tomorrow would be the first day of a long-anticipated vacation, but he decided that he would unwind and begin the enjoyment right now. And so, the cold shower was out of the question.
Half an hour later, fully dressed, he stood by the window, looking outside. The streets were covered with the first snow that nobody had bothered to clean. The first snow would melt a day or two from now. Then new snow would come. Slowly, layer by layer, the snow banks would reach a meter in height, or perhaps, much higher. Only then would some parts of the city be cleaned, leaving much of the city’s population reaching for their shovels. The streetlights began to flicker off as the sky grew brighter. Another fifteen minutes and the sun would begin illuminating the city through the white mist of the slowly falling snow.
The man turned around and walked to the table. He took a piece of paper from an open envelope and read it. The meeting with his Operation Manager was scheduled for nine o’clock. He had an hour and a half to get there. Walking to the office and finding a small place serving breakfast on his way there seemed like a good alternative to public transportation that was overcrowded in the morning hours. He looked at the mirror, adjusted his sweater and turned his head, checking the right side of his face. His skin was heavily tanned. The plastic surgeon was right. The old scar, running vertically in the middle of his cheek, was hardly visible. A quick glance at the room to make sure that nothing had been left behind, and he was out into the staircase.
Most of the time, his meetings with his Operational Manager were held in different locations. Nobody knew the real reason for these random locations. Today the meeting would be held in an ordinary office building with large windows and a facade decorated with pilasters and covered with white stone. The security badge that was provided to him worked perfectly. Only one swipe at the metal detector gate, and without any questions, he passed through a line of gloomy-looking security personnel, who checked everybody else entering and leaving the building.
The Manager’s office was located on the second floor and was guarded by a man dressed in uniform. When he entered, the man was greeted by an unfamiliar secretary, who behaved as if she had known him for many years. She addressed him by his rank and name, asked whether he liked the location of his apartment and whether he needed any assistance getting or booking tickets to any events that he might be planning for his vacation.
“May I please take your coat from you? Would you like some coffee or tea?”
He declined the coffee since he had had his morning coffee already. Then he explained to her that he had nothing in particular planned, except that he thought to visit a couple of museums and maybe the National Ballet. Mentioning the National Ballet triggered a five-minute explanation of the shows that were currently running, who was dancing the leading roles and a recommendation on which shows he should see. The explanation would have continued much longer if not for the sudden opening of the Manager's office door. Then, the Manager himself appeared at the threshold, disrupting the conversation.
“Maria, I hate to interrupt you, but let's pause the cultural education session for now. You’ll have your chance later to explain to him who the bravura dancer this season is.” He turned to the man. “Please, come in. I overheard that she was giving you the National Ballet orientation and decided to rescue you.” The Operational Manager shook the man's hand and closed the office door as they both took a seat facing each other on opposite sides of the desk.
“How are you doing?” asked Operational Manager.
“As usual, I’m doing good, Sir.”
“Good to hear. I’d like to congratulate you on the great success of your last operation. I can see by your tan that the Negev Desert sun did not show you any mercy. My understanding is that you got all the assistance that you needed from our diplomatic team.”
“Yes, I did, Sir.”
“Good, good. You should know that they liked working with you very much, and they recommended you to the other teams. I may need to clone you, to satisfy the demand you created.” The manager smiled.
“Thank you.”
“If I’m not mistaken, your vacation starts tomorrow?”
“You are right, Sir.”
“Do you have any plans for traveling?”
“No, Sir, nothing planned.”
“If you change your mind, ask Maria for a travel package.”
“I will.”
“Now, let's go back to work. There are two reasons for our meeting. First, I would like you to do an evaluation review of two files before you go on vacation. The first file is for one of our retirees and the second is for one of the Corridor One dropouts. This is our procedure of clearance and final closures for archives. I’m sure you are familiar with the process already. You can find the files located in this building, on the fourth floor.” The manager held out a square green slip of paper to the man. Two evaluation reviews in one day was a little bit of a stretch. He had done dozens of them before and each usually took four to five hours to complete.
“I know what you are thinking,” said the manager. “In reality, I’m planning to close those two files. I just need an additional op
inion before I do that, that's it. The evaluations should not take longer than an hour each. Maria has already prepared the archiving forms. You know the procedures. Read the file and if you recommend closing it, just fill up the forms. Nothing else.”
“Yes Sir, I will do as requested.”
“The second reason for our meeting is your next assignment. Let me tell you what it is that you are going to do after your vacation.” The manager looked at the man, who sat straight and unemotional, listening to him.
“We have a group of new graduates from Corridor One. This is the first coed group of eight. They are already at the end of their third month of training at Corridor Two. Since I can’t clone you, I’m sending you there to run their training for a short period of time. You are by far the best candidate to share your experience and knowledge with them. I’ll organize the transfer to Corridor Two the day after your vacation ends. But to forewarn you, I might pull you out in case I need you in the field. Normally I would ask you to familiarize yourself with the profiles of your future apprentices, but you deserve your vacation. Go, enjoy yourself.”
“Yes, Sir. I will.”
The archives clerk escorted the man into a separate room, showed him to an empty desk and asked him to wait. Ten minutes later the clerk returned, holding a tray with two folders. The file on top was much thicker than the one beneath it.
The top folder was the folder of a retiree, a veteran, now sixty-six years old of age. The cover page attached to the folder stated his name, address and the start and the end date of his service. Reading about his training and past activities was like watching a movie or slides about the history of the organization. More than twenty years since he had been retired from service, but still every third year an evaluation had been done for him. It was time to let his folder permanently retire into the archives. Two hours passed in non-stop reading. As the manager said at their meeting, at the end of the folder he had found the printed File Closing Questionnaire. In total, there were twenty-five questions and a place for the signature of the reviewer. Another hour passed before the questionnaire was completed and signed. Then a short break, a stretch for the arms and legs, a glass of water brought in by the archives clerk and back to the second folder.
The second folder was for the Corridor One dropout. Judging by the tabs of the folder, he noticed that it had been organized differently. The most recent events and the latest reviews for the person were at the beginning of the file, while his profile was buried at the end. It seemed that the clerks here had different standards for filing folders. The name that was printed on the cover page had a hypnotizing effect on the man that was reading it. He became paralyzed for a moment, then, leaving the folder open on the desk, the man began strolling back and forth, animatedly pacing the floor. He paused for a moment. Calmly and collectedly, he was deciding what to do next. He could send the folder back into the archives and it would stay there awaiting its next evaluation review or he could finish reading it, fill up the File Closing Questionnaire and archive the file.
The thought that bothered him the most was why him? Why now? Was it a coincidence or had it been done deliberately? He was trained to disbelieve in coincidences. He gathered all of his resolve and went back to reading the folder. His right hand touched his right cheek, with his middle finger, feeling and tracing the scar, the hand unhurriedly moved down to his chin. It helped him make the final decision. The first document was the surveillance report from two weeks ago. The report was handwritten, dated and signed. Having experience in graphology helped. He clearly saw that the handwriting had many feminine characteristics, estimated age of forty to fifty years, a very well organized and disciplined lady.
He turned to the last page of the report, looking at the signature of the agent and for any clues that could help him identify the agent. It was difficult to work out her name. It seemed that her first name was partially overlapping her last name, or vice versa. The man asked the clerk for a pen and some paper. One way to identify her name was to learn how to repeat the signature. Then the man tried to identify and separate the letters. After that, it was pure luck if he could assemble them into the name of the agent. An hour later the man wrote the name ‘Katrin’, and then he went back, reading the rest of the folder. The address and the locations were not mentioned anywhere in the report. The surveillance agent seemed to be well trained. The profile of the dropout was missing some important information, such as his occupation and his address. Adoption was given as the reason for renouncing Corridor One. It seemed that surveillances were done as a formality only and that the agency had no real interest in this person. His folder was good for closure. The man continued reading the surveillance reports.
“He asked me to buy him three helmets with flashlights attached. He advised that I could get them only in a special sport store at the west end of the city, where they sold mountain climbing equipment. When I asked him why he needed them, he answered lightly that he might need to go underground to look for treasure.”
The man read the same paragraph again and again. On his way out of the archives, the man carefully tore the piece of paper with Katrin's name on it into small pieces. As he walked to the Operation Manager's office he disposed of the torn-up pieces in several places, including the washroom on the third floor.
Maria was disappointed that the man had changed his vacation plans and that he asked for a travel package instead of visiting the Ballet. The man promised to visit her again to get her suggestions for the shows. The Operation Manager was not surprised that he had closed both of the files and wished him a great vacation.
The information that he needed for the transfer to Corridor Two was included in the note that had been left for him on the table in the apartment. At six a.m. he would be picked up from his building and driven to a small airport serving prop airplanes. From there, an hour and a half flight awaited him, and then an additional eight-hour drive.
At around five o'clock in the afternoon, a jeep with tinted windows stopped near the gates of Corridor Two. After a brief security check, the car was waved in. Looking at Corridor Two's two-story structure brought up memories about the man’s teenage years spent here. It was the second time that he had visited Corridor Two after his graduation. The last time had been when he and his team met before an unusually complicated operation and had to go through intensive training. This time it would be different though. He was here not to be trained, but to train others. As usual, nobody, not a single soul, could be seen outside. Everyone was at their pre-planned and scheduled training places; some at the lab, some at the shooting range, most in class. He looked at his watch. Dinner would be served soon. It should be easy to identify his future students. They would be sitting together in the dining room, and would be, for the first time, a mixed-gender class.
The driver stopped the car in front of the Director’s office. Nothing had changed. A small formality, and he was given the keys to his room in the trainer’s quarters to where only a select few had access. The dining room was unchanged, as was the dinner menu. There they were, his group, sitting in the northern corner of the room. Three girls and five boys; teens, around eighteen.
For the next five years, for breakfast, lunch and dinner, they would be sitting at the same table with the same people. Nothing would change around them. Only they would become different, day by day. They would become exceptionally skilled, educated, disciplined, and more dangerous with every passing season, and it was he who, starting tomorrow, would be sharing his expertise and knowledge with them. He looked for an empty spot opposite of their table. He would sit on the other side of the room, have a meal and observe them, and then he would depart to his room and read their profiles.
The man woke the next morning to the familiar loud crackle of the speakers. The sound was coming from the football field. The standard morning announcements would be followed by the usual early morning physical exercise routine of the students. This time the man took his breakfast in the trainers' lounge,
meeting some familiar faces and some new ones. At nine o’clock sharp, he entered the classroom. Eight people jumped to their feet. He paused for a second, studying their faces one by one.
“You can sit down.”
The class sat.
“Good morning to all of you.”
“Good morning,” the class replied in unison.
He smiled.
“My name is Roman and I will be your instructor for the duration of this week.”
He took a piece of white chalk and wrote on the blackboard in big capital letters: “WE ARE HERE TO SURVIVE AND WE WILL DO WHAT IT TAKES TO SURVIVE. WE ARE SURVIVORS.”
###
Thank you for reading my book! If you enjoyed it, please take a moment to leave me your review at your favorite online retailer.
Thank You,
Rafael H. Derchansky.
About the Author
Rafael H. Derchansky was born in a small village in Siberia in 1954, 14 years after Stalin forcefully deported his parents from Lithuania. In 1960, he and his family moved to the city of Tomsk, one of the oldest towns in Siberia. In 1970, he finished high school and enrolled in Tomsk Polytechnic University. In 1973, the USSR temporarily lifted the Iron Curtain to allow some of its citizens to leave the country. Rafael and his family used this opportunity to immigrate to Israel. There he completed his studies and met his wife while working in the hi-tech sector and serving in the country's Air Force. Seeking new horizons, he immigrated to Canada in 1988, where he currently resides with his wife and two sons. When he is not writing his latest novel, he can be found painting or navigating the Great Lakes with his boat.
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Corridor One Page 17
