Black Wolf, page 21
She bent down and slowly picked up her gym bag. “I could beg for a job at the Bolshoi as assistant to wardrobe mistress for a few miserable rubles a month, but then I would live and grow old in Minsk, which, believe me, is worse than dying in this city. Just ask my mother. She has no youth, no beauty left, which, other than money, is the most important currency in Minsk.”
If Nadia had had the chance to travel, she would have discovered what Mel already knew. That it was the same all over the world. Youth and beauty could be used as a tool, or a weapon. But it could also make you a target.
They climbed into the Škoda, and, after a few stalls, the engine ran true and Nadia drove back to the Planeta, the windows down, the radio turned up high. This time, though, there was no singing. Nadia smoked her cigarette in thoughtful silence, her earlier cheerful mood muted. Mel knew she was partly to blame. Her probing questions about the Strangler had brought the specter of “the Devil” into the banya. She couldn’t give Nadia her friendship, not fully. But perhaps there was something tangible she could give her to thank her for the evening. Among her things in the room she had a turquoise silk scarf that would go well with Nadia’s blond hair and blue eyes. It wouldn’t be life-changing, but it might bring Nadia a little joy.
Mel got out in front of the hotel and watched as the Škoda pulled away. One languid arm emerged from the driver’s-side window and gave a royal wave goodbye.
Mel took a few deep breaths of the cooling air, relishing the lingering pleasant haze in her head. For a moment she thought about walking to the gazebo, forestalling the return to the stale, claustrophobic atmosphere of her room. The night sky was still pale and silvery above the pine trees, only blending to a deep indigo at the very top of the infinite dome over her head. She looked for stars, but there was still too much ambient light. Her mind touched for an instant on Alexi Yurov meeting her in the dark. She immediately brushed the thought of him away and turned to go into the hotel. If he’d come by the gazebo to check for her mark, he would have done so hours ago. It was too dangerous to stay outside in the shadows. And it was pointless to engage in wishful fantasies of a Byelorussian policeman.
Chapter 18
Monday, August 6, 1990
The man watched the young American entering the hotel. He was close enough to follow, through the large plate glass window, her progress across the lobby and into the elevator. He’d been close enough to see that her skin was still flushed from the banya, and that tendrils of dampened hair floated temptingly loose around her neck. She hadn’t noticed him standing motionless in the dark, so preoccupied was she by her own thoughts. He could have, after taking a mere twenty steps, placed a chloroform-soaked rag across her mouth and nose and stared into her frightened eyes until both lids closed and she sagged senseless into his arms. Imagining her vulnerability in such a moment aroused him in a way that he hadn’t experienced in many months.
Since the night of William Cutler’s party, when he’d initially been attracted to the black-haired shlyukha, he hadn’t been able to get Melvina Donleavy out of his head. The way she moved through a crowded room, erect and stately, as though she were the only person inhabiting that space. The way her enormous dark eyes seemed to take in everything without giving away the thoughts behind them. The manner in which she spoke—cautiously, and yet concisely. As though each word out of her mouth were a fragile egg dropped carefully into boiling water. She was steel wrapped in velvet. The thoughts of her prolonged struggles against the rope, naked and helpless, were so overwhelming, so titillating, that he had to steady himself against his car. Next to Melvina, the other American woman was utterly forgettable.
When he had recovered, he got behind the wheel of his blue Lada and drove away. After a few miles he spotted the battered Škoda parked, or stalled, in front of what was once a school, now boarded up and abandoned. There were no street lamps and the burnt-orange car looked like so much industrial rust within the curtain of blackness. He parked behind the Škoda, killed the lights, and got out. Releasing the ropes from his belt in one practiced movement, he quietly approached the woman sitting in the driver’s seat. Her car windows were open, and he could see the glow of a lit cigarette, its smoke curling into the night air.
She had called him earlier that evening from the Planeta Mir, telling him she would be going to the banya with Melvina, and arranged to meet him after in this place. So she would not be surprised to see him approaching. He had only to move in swiftly behind the driver’s seat, slip the noose over her head, and pull until she passed out. It would be so easy. But he hadn’t come for that. At least, not yet. He had something else in mind. He climbed into the front passenger seat, hooking the slender ropes back into his belt and out of sight.
“You’re late,” she said, flicking the stub of her cigarette out of the window.
She was irritated, but he could tell she was also nervous because she immediately lit another.
He sat quietly for a moment, relishing her discomfort. “Well?”
“Where’s my money?” she asked without looking at him.
“In good time. Tell me everything.”
So she told him about the evening at the spa. What Melvina had told her, about not having a boyfriend, traveling for a year, her initial shyness.
“She’s like a virgin nun,” Nadia said. “Shy about her own nakedness.”
“That’s because she’s not a whore,” he said. “She trusts you?”
“Oh, sure.” Nadia’s mouth twisted into a cynical smile. “I’m like a big sister to her now.”
She handed him the driver’s license that she had lifted from Melvina’s coat pocket.
He tucked it into his own pocket. “Good, Nadia Ivanovna. That’s good.”
She finally turned her head toward him and held out her hand. “I did what you asked me to do. To keep an eye on the American. Now you can pay me.”
He pulled a wad of rubles out of his wallet and placed it in her hand. As soon as her fist closed over the money, his other hand shot out and closed hard around her injured wrist. She winced in pain, but his grip only hardened. “There’s a month’s worth of fucks in that pile. I expect you to remain on good terms with the girl.”
Nadia pulled her hand painfully from his grasp and shoved the bills into her gym bag. “What about the Swiss businessman you told me you’d introduce me to?”
“Soon,” he answered. “Soon.”
“What now?”
“I’ll let you know.” He opened the door, preparing to step out.
Nadia tossed the second cigarette out of the car. “What do you want with her? She’s not going to fuck you.”
He turned to her and smiled, and for the second time in her life—the first time being when, for a split second, she saw the car that would crush her to the pavement—Nadia caught a glimpse of approaching disaster and found herself unable to move out of its path.
“I don’t need to fuck her,” he said softly. “That’s what you’re for.”
He got back into his Lada and drove away. He could hear the old Škoda starting and stalling and Nadia’s frantic swearing, and, despite the now-constant burning discomfort in his gut, he breathed an immense sigh of contentment.
Chapter 19
Tuesday, August 7, 1990
Gorky once observed that the Russians were especially good at cruelty,” William mused. “It’s a ‘peculiar, cold-blooded cruelty,’” he quoted, “‘which tests the limits of human endurance for suffering.’ And he would know, as he was exiled from Russia, not once but twice, for proclaiming that Lenin and Trotsky had both been ‘poisoned with the filthy venom of power.’ Fortunately for him, he died before he experienced the sum total of Stalin’s insanity.”
He and Mel were sitting on their usual bench in Victory Park, as yet the only visitors except for a few park attendants sweeping the walkways. It was still early morning, and William had brought a thermos full of strong tea and several large vatrushki, pastries filled with sweetened cream cheese and fruit.
As planned, William had picked her up in front of the hotel at six and had driven them to this secluded place, where they could see anyone approaching from some distance away.
William turned to her. “So, you’re sure you saw one of your targets?”
“Yes,” Mel said.
“His code name?”
“The Lion.”
“Where did you spot him?”
“He was in the backseat of a car approaching the institute as we were leaving.”
William’s brow wrinkled in concern. “So you only caught a glimpse of him.”
She saw the doubt in his eyes. A lot of Agency wheels would be set in motion on her say-so. It was natural to feel some doubt, after only the briefest glimpse. But for Mel, it was enough.
William finally nodded and looked toward the river. “Remarkable that the same country that gave us some of the most sublime music and poetry in the world will also kill their own people in the millions just to stay ahead of the West. The fact that they’d willingly try to develop a nuclear program so soon after Chernobyl is astonishing, but not surprising.”
“‘A single death is a tragedy, a million deaths is a statistic,’” Mel quoted.
William gave a bitter laugh. “Good old Stalin. The question is what to do now that you’ve seen your target.”
“How soon will you be able to get the information stateside?”
“Tonight. Tomorrow if tonight’s not safe.”
“Do you trust the messenger?”
“With my life.”
“Can you tell me who it is?” If Mel had been forced to guess, she would have named Alexi Yurov as the most likely candidate.
“For your own safety, and for theirs, I can’t.” William offered her another pastry, which Mel declined. “And speaking of your safety—”
His voice trailed away, and he looked at her, concern wrinkling his brow. “There are some troubling developments with our friend Martin Kavalchuk. His secretary called to tell me we’ll have to suspend our Friday-night chess games, indefinitely.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he’s distancing himself from those whom he suspects of being vrag naroda, enemies of the state. Or in close communication with those who are suspected. He’s wrapping himself more tightly in his official role as chair of the State Security Committee.”
The memory of the interview room and its single drain reared its ugly head. “Is this to do with me?”
William dropped his chin and regarded her over his glasses. “Perhaps. The problem is that this may dampen my flow of information. If Kavalchuk is pulling away, it means he’ll be scrutinizing everyone much more vigilantly. I would suggest that from now on you stay close to the group whenever you’re out of your room.”
Mel thought of the time spent at the spa with Nadia, and the few hours of relative freedom she’d experienced. Last night she’d slept better than she had since arriving in Minsk. A deep, satisfying sleep with no dreams. She genuinely liked Nadia and thought that if she could spend more time with her, she could glean more clues about the Strangler. But she saw the wisdom in forgoing any more unofficial excursions.
“Kavalchuk said he’d be interviewing me again. Should I be worried?”
William glanced around casually, as though appreciating the scenic beauty of the park. “Melvina, does anyone in your team know the true nature of your mission?”
“Ben intuits something, and he’s asked without actually probing, but I’ve revealed nothing to him. That goes for Dan and Julie as well. So if there are any leaks, it’s not coming from the American side.” She took a cautious look around too. “I got a peek inside the room next to my own. They’re videoing me. With a Zenit.”
William nodded, impressed. “Anything worrisome they could have captured?”
“Besides the dejournaya rifling through my things? No.”
Standing up and brushing pastry crumbs from his pants, William held out a hand to Mel. “Let’s make sure we keep it that way. No late-night confessions, no more excursions. It’s too dangerous now. The best way to keep the wolves at bay is to stay well within the flock. I’ll let Dan know about the cameras.”
He helped her up and they walked together back to his car. When they were seated inside, he said, “As long as we have something the Byelorussians need, in this case American dollars, we have leverage. If you’re called in again for another interview, stay calm, stay focused, and, most of all, stay boring. Remember, you’re just a secretary.”
He dropped her off at the hotel, promising to let her know when his message reached the State Department.
It was only seven when she entered the lobby of the Planeta, and she was surprised to see Dan seated in one of the oversized chairs. He stood immediately and, taking her arm, led her back outside. He looked angry, his face flushed, his eyes narrowed to two slits.
Once they were across the street in the small park, he turned on her. “I want you to tell me what’s going on.”
She took a step back. “What do you mean?”
“What I mean is I want you to tell me why you left the hotel last night, by yourself, with a known prostitute, and then disappeared this morning with William without clearing it with me first.”
Keeping her expression neutral, she asked, “Are you more upset that I’m developing a source without getting your permission, or because that potential source is a sex worker?”
“Both.”
What she wanted to tell Dan was that her discussions with William had nothing to do with him, that she didn’t answer to him even though he was ostensibly the team’s leader. And that his holier-than-thou attitude was offensive, and hypocritical. It would feel so satisfying to finally put him in his place, but antagonizing him would not make her job any easier. And, as William had warned, her safety depended on remaining solidly within the group.
“It won’t happen again,” she said, hoping to end the conversation. “I’ll check with you first next time.”
“The rumor with our Byelorussian friends is that you’re having an affair with William, which I know is crap. What’s really going on?”
“You’re right, it is crap. William knows I’ll be interrogated again by Kavalchuk, and he’s preparing me.”
He studied her for a moment. As good as she was at maintaining a mask of innocence, he was more experienced at reading people. “Bullshit. There’s more to it.”
She took a steadying breath. She could see he wasn’t going to let this go. “Dan, you need to talk to clandestine operations stateside. Contact the deputy director. He can answer these questions for you.”
He looked at her, incredulous. “The hell I do.” He started walking away, but then stopped, turned around, and walked back.
“I sure as shit know who I am,” he whispered forcefully. “Ben consistently has one of the highest scores on a shooting range, which makes him invaluable in a hot zone. Julie speaks several languages and is a black belt in jiujitsu. Both of them are field-tested agents. But who the fuck are you? I mean really, who are you? Why are you here? I don’t get it. You don’t serve any purpose, or have any special talents, that I can see, other than scribbling notes. And yet you’ve already been called in for an interview by the head of the KGB.”
Mel looked at him for a long moment. Dan was a veteran of some of the most dangerous missions, and she could easily see how he intimidated people. He was older and more experienced than she was, taller and physically stronger. And yet, despite his aggressive stance, he looked unnerved, as though the questions about her “otherness” had been eating at him for some time. Her entire life, Mel had seen the same disquieted look on people’s faces. The same guarded expression, as if they were gazing at an expanding glow on the horizon and wondering if it was an approaching forest fire.
“What’s your security clearance?” he demanded. He’d turned defensively, his body in profile as he would have done if someone had been pointing a gun at him.
She took a deep breath and met his gaze steadily. Her refusal to be cowed seemed to be aggravating him further, and for a moment it gave her a perverse satisfaction. “You’ll need to ask the deputy director about that.”
Brushing calmly past him, she walked back into the hotel. If he’d been a thermal-triggered IED, he would have detonated.
Once she was in her room, Mel sat in the reading chair, her back to the mirror, trying to order her thoughts. Growing questions could be expected. But the depth of Dan’s ire and distrust did not bode well. She expected that the station chief would inform Dan that Melvina Donleavy’s role, and the subsequent intelligence that she gathered while in Byelorussia, were on a strictly need-to-know basis. Two things had been revealed to Mel too about Dan’s character: he had a temper and a sizeable ego. Whatever the Agency decided to reveal to, or withhold from, Dan, she wasn’t certain that the knowledge would assuage either.
Her earlier sense of well-being had evaporated, and she felt a pang of sadness at suddenly having to distance herself from Nadia. She’d offered the woman help, and now it would be difficult, if not impossible, to deliver it. This was a part of the job, though. Making people believe you were their friend.
A literary quote flitted across her consciousness. Something about how a person living a solitary life, outside of normal social constructs, would have to be one of three things: a god, a monster, or a philosopher. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t remember where she’d read it.
Perhaps she was a fourth thing—a yet-unnamed thing.
At eight thirty Julie rang the room, telling Mel that she’d missed her at breakfast and that the team was meeting in the lobby to go to the institute.
Everyone, including Anton and Elena, was quiet on the drive. Dan’s silence had an edge of hostility, and a few times he stared hard at Mel, as though trying to decipher a code. William, as he’d been the day before, was already in Oleg Shevchenko’s office. Dan’s greeting to both men was curt, and barely civil.
