Black Wolf, page 27
“Not that I’m aware,” William said.
“What time will you be setting up the telescope for the meteor viewing?” Mel asked.
“Midnight. Between twelve thirty and one thirty will be the best viewing time.” William pointed to the back of the main building. “This grassy lawn area here will be an ideal position to set up.”
“How far is it from the tree line to where you’ll be standing?” Mel asked.
“Eighty, a hundred yards,” William answered.
“It’ll be dark,” Mel said.
William agreed. “But I can make sure there’ll be plenty of illumination beforehand. We can set up some tables with refreshments, string some lights. All Mel would need is a good pair of binoculars, which I happen to have.”
“I’m not so worried about the security guard as long as he stays close to the fence,” Dan said. “But what about the dog?”
Mel remembered hunting with her father and his special recipe for keeping other predators away from their camping sites: coyotes, foxes, and the occasional stray dog. “A dense mixture of citronella, ammonia, white vinegar, and hot peppers will do the trick. We just need to let it sit for a couple of days and soak the ground in a circle around our position. I guarantee you no dog will cross that boundary.”
“Leave the ingredients to me,” William said.
Dan swept his finger along the bottom part of the map. “Looks like we’ll have to pull over on the main road and hike into the forest, circling around to the back of the compound. Not using flashlights will make it slow going for us.”
Mel looked at him sharply. “Us?”
“You don’t think I’m going to let you go into the forest by yourself, do you?”
She faced him, her arms crossed. “You realize that I grew up finding my way around the Wisconsin wilderness, often alone and at night.”
“This ain’t Wisconsin, Mel—”
“Melvina,” William said, holding up a hand, forestalling further objections. “In this case, I think it’s a good idea. If you get into trouble, you’ll need backup. And, with his experience, I can’t think of anyone more capable than Dan.”
Mel looked at Julie, who said, “Points for chutzpah. But if it was me, I’d want Dan too.”
After Mel nodded her assent, William said, “We only have two days to plan.” He grinned and rubbed his hands together. “Time to practice a little old-school tradecraft. Work in the gap. Use disguises, if need be. Go black, if we can. It’s going to be a matter of timing and patience.”
He studied the serious faces around the table. “Relax, children. This is what we live for!”
Chapter 26
Thursday, August 16, 1990
Mel spent the whole of Thursday with her three colleagues at the institute, gathering reports and asking questions, her nervous energy surging with many cups of tea and too much sugar. She was confident of her ability to recognize her target, or targets, come Saturday. But her ability to stay calm and focused would be tested; she’d have to trust that her training had given her the tools.
She’d once asked a commercial pilot how he stayed calm in a storm. He’d answered, “Practice and repetition. Rinse and repeat.” She’d come to realize that it was the same for an agent operating clandestinely in the field. And on her first mission, practice was all she had.
The team gathered at William’s apartment that evening to again discuss how they would outwit their surveillance on Saturday, getting Mel to the dacha without a tail. The radio was broadcasting Prokofiev, which William deemed too muted to shield their conversations. So he put on a Shostakovich album and turned the volume up.
“Symphony Number Four should do the trick,” he yelled over the dynamic opening.
He sat at the dining table, and everyone leaned in to hear.
“All day today, I was followed by two not-so-subtle KGB agents in a new-model GAZ Volga,” he said. “It wasn’t even black. It was white, if you can believe that. I mean, they’re not even trying to be discreet. I’m sure they’re going to be following me to the dacha on Saturday evening.”
He spread out on the table a map of Minsk, which had been provided by US intelligence. American personnel had learned the hard way that the city maps provided by the Soviets were purposely misdrawn. For half an hour they discussed different routes—splitting up the group, hiding Mel in the trunk of William’s car.
“The problem with all of this,” Dan said, “is that we’re usually together. If any of us is not with the group, it’s going to cause suspicion. We can’t even say Mel is spending the night in someone else’s room, because they’re all bugged.”
“Since Mel seems to be the one under most scrutiny, what if Mel and I exchange identities?” Julie asked. “We go into a restaurant bathroom and change clothes. I leave as Mel, causing a distraction—”
“And then what?” Dan asked, interrupting her. “If only three of us leave, it’s going to look suspicious. They’ll still be looking for the fourth man.”
Ben held up his hands. “Look, we’re overcomplicating this. What if we come here to dinner on Saturday night? William, you leave after dinner for the dacha. The four of us stay behind to continue the party. Surveillance, which will most likely be Anton, will be situated at the main entrance. We disguise Mel and Dan and get someone to sneak them out of the building, say, from the basement. Or out the back. Julie and I will stay behind and continue making noise for our listeners.”
“What happens next?” Mel asked.
“The person sneaking you out would have to drive you and Dan to the forest, where you could take up your positions behind the dacha.”
“And when I’ve made the ID,” Mel said, “this person would have to drive us back and sneak us into the apartment again.” She turned to William. “Do you have anyone that you trust to do this?”
William tapped his finger thoughtfully on the table, staring at Mel. Then his finger stilled. “Actually, I do.” He nodded to Ben. “Kudos to our young accountant.”
For an instant Mel’s thoughts turned to Alexi. She felt the heat rise to her face and stopped herself from pressing William. She didn’t trust the inflection in her voice to stay neutral.
“And what happens if our KGB friends get curious about the conversation in the apartment and come to investigate?” Julie asked.
Ben gripped Julie’s arm. “We’ll just have to dance our way through it.”
Friday passed slowly and without incident, and despite the increased security at the institute, excitement built among the Americans. They were finally going to be doing the spycraft that every young agent longed for: misdirection in order to go black. And, for once, the Americans would be turning the tables on their Soviet minders—they’d be doing surveillance of their own.
At times, Mel would catch the eye of one of her colleagues. They’d each responded to her air of nervous expectation by giving her a sly wink or a reassuring nod. Ben once squeezed her elbow and muttered, “Tally-ban,” making her smile. Since the impromptu card game in her room, the four had finally gelled into a cohesive unit. Ben, Julie, and Dan had all shown their goodwill by seeking her out. For the rest of the mission, Mel felt confident that they would be her supporters and her allies. Nothing like a little danger to harden the cement.
That Friday Shevchenko seemed in good spirits as well, sitting next to Mel at lunch, practicing his halting English on her. Even the Germans in the Planeta, where the Americans went for a drink after their dinner, seemed less insidious than usual. William had not yet revealed who his trusted agent was who would be taking Mel out of Minsk. But her last thoughts before she fell into a deep sleep that night were of Alexi Yurov and his sweat on her skin.
At eight o’clock on Saturday night, Anton collected the group in front of the Planeta and drove them to William’s apartment. Dan told him they might be very late, so if he wanted to go somewhere for dinner, he was free to do so.
Anton lifted a heavy grease-stained sack and grunted, “Nyet. Ya zhdu zdes’.”
No. I wait here.
“Good,” Dan muttered after the group had exited the van. “Now we can hope that Anton will be fast asleep in a few hours.”
The desk clerk opened the front door and accompanied them to William’s apartment. As they rode up in the elevator, the clerk stared at Mel as though measuring her by a yardstick that only he could see. When she met his gaze, his eyes lingered on hers for a few seconds before he looked away.
Once settled inside the apartment, they ate cold cuts and dark bread and drank bottles of stout German beer. When they’d finished eating, William turned up the radio and brought out a few board games and cards for the group to pass the time.
Julie picked up the Monopoly box. “Uh-oh, a capitalist tool. The authorities know you have this?”
William chuckled. “I admit it’s a bit unorthodox. I once teased Martin by threatening to teach him the game.”
“What did he say?” Dan asked.
William arched one brow. “He quoted Stalin. ‘When we hang the capitalists, they will sell us the rope we use on them.’”
He then motioned for Dan and Mel to follow him down the hallway, leaving Julie and Ben behind, setting up the game board. Before he got to his bedroom he stopped and whispered, “I’ll be leaving at nine to drive to the dacha. At ten o’clock your guide will come to take you out the back and drive you to your destination. Once you’ve made your identification, he’ll bring you back into the city. The clothing you’ll be wearing is in my room. I’m afraid everything’s quite worn, but you need to look authentically Soviet and that includes the good honest sweat of hardworking comrades.”
While William pulled the costumes together in the bedroom, Dan stood with Mel in the hallway, close enough to keep his voice low.
“You nervous?” he asked.
“A little,” she answered, certain he was going to give her a pep talk.
But all he said was “Good. A little nervousness keeps you sharp.”
William called them in and showed them their disguises. For Dan there were a pair of canvas trousers, a threadbare coat, and a worker’s cap with a brim, which would come down low over his forehead.
William handed Dan a pair of well-worn work boots. “They’re probably two sizes too big, but it was the best I could do.”
Mel would wear a shapeless housedress, a sweater, and a scarf. He also handed her a pair of badly made but sturdy shoes—the kind of footwear found on every Soviet woman over sixty.
“You’ll be two aging citizens, so watch your posture,” William warned. “Slouch some, and don’t walk too fast. In other words, don’t walk like the healthy, confident Americans that you are.”
“Who is our guide?” Mel asked.
“It’s someone you already know,” William said, and paused for dramatic effect. “It’s Joseph.”
Mel blinked a few times, trying not to be disappointed. “Who’s Joseph?”
“He opens the front door for you every time you visit.”
Dan made a face. “You’re kidding. That old man?”
“That old man?” William drew himself taller. “The irony is not lost on me that you, who are about to don an old man’s clothes, do not appreciate that appearances can be deceiving.” William turned and walked back into the hallway. “After all, I’ve had to aver to more than one of my Soviet colleagues that you, Dan, are not just a vain government functionary who likes the sound of his own voice.”
Dan’s face colored for an instant, but by the time they’d returned to the living room, he was turning to Mel with a grin. “As a matter of fact, I do like the sound of my own voice.”
The group played poker for forty-five minutes after William left, talking and laughing loudly for the benefit of the hidden microphones.
“You know what one of the institute guys said to me yesterday?” Ben asked, studying his cards. “He said that, in terms of foreign policy, the Soviets conduct strategy as though playing chess. We look at the long game, he said. It’s elegant, thoughtful, and ideological. Then he told me that the US plays the game like this, like poker. That we’re reckless, aggressive, and sloppy.”
“I’ve heard that trope too,” Dan said. “Of course, he meant it as an insult. American cowboys playing the lesser game. But just like in real life, there are many players at the table. Not just two. The US and the Soviets may be holding the most chips, but even a small-time bettor can win a hand. Just look at Afghanistan.”
Dan called and laid down his cards. He had two pairs.
“Or Vietnam,” Ben said, laying down three of a kind.
“Yippee-ki-yay, fellas!” Julie cried, laying down a straight.
Mel had a garbage hand. She shoved away, before it could take root, a dark, hairy little thought that it presaged some bad turn of events.
“A bad set of cards doesn’t mean anything,” Julie said, reaching out and squeezing Mel’s hand reassuringly. “But just in case it does, I’ll lend you my good luck for the night.”
Mel smiled weakly, thanking her. Julie picked up her dinner plate and jabbed at the remnants of the mushroom casserole William had prepared. “Did you know that more than eighty percent of the earth under your feet is mycelium? The mushroom is just the tip of the iceberg. The largest organism on the planet is the honey fungus, which can stretch for miles underground.”
“How do you know?” Mel asked.
“Encyclopedia, baby. I did my research on Byelorussia’s favorite pastime. Russians spend more time picking mushrooms than the French. It’s their therapy. It’s in their blood.”
Julie took a bite of the casserole and made a face.
“What is it?” Mel asked.
“There’s something off about this batch. Some underlying taste…” Her voice trailed away, and she handed the plate to Mel. “See what you think.”
“I’ve never really liked mushrooms,” Mel said. “I’m always a little nervous that someone picked the wrong fungus.” She took a small forkful and tasted it.
“Human beings are genetically closer to fungi than to plants,” Julie said. “Mushrooms breathe oxygen and expel carbon dioxide, just like people.”
Mel shuddered and spat the mushrooms into a napkin. “You’re right,” she said. “It tastes like bad meat. Thanks, now I’ll be having nightmares about mushroom people.”
Julie grinned. “But I took your mind off the mission for a moment, though, didn’t I?”
At the designated time, Mel and Dan took turns quickly changing into their borrowed clothes. When Mel passed the dress over her head, she caught a strong musky odor embedded in the fabric. She remembered someone telling her that even washing too often in the Workers’ Paradise was suspect. It meant you were a slave to Western bourgeois hygiene practices. She’d been raised with the American ideal, covertly if not overtly, that cleanliness was next to godliness. That clean hands meant a clean conscience. But in a country where something as simple as soap was often in short supply, it was a type of arrogance for her to equate stale human sweat with moral turpitude. Whoever had worn this dress had probably experienced hardships she’d never had to face. She thought back to her earlier hot bath with soap she’d brought from the US, luxuriating in the aftermath of her recognition processing. Something she’d almost always taken for granted.
There was a knock at the door and Ben walked into the bedroom. “I just wanted to wish you luck for tonight,” he said softly.
“Thanks, Ben.”
“I know Dan can be an asshole—”
“But at least he’s our asshole,” Mel said, finishing the sentence.
“Seriously, though,” he said, and paused. “Let Dan do any heavy lifting. When in doubt, run like hell. Dan’s a big boy and can take care of himself.”
“You think there’ll be trouble?”
“Always,” he said, smiling. “And, just so you know, you’ve made this trip bearable. See you on the flip side.”
He held out a hand for her to shake. His palm was warm and dry and immensely comforting. “Whatever it is that you’re really doing here, I wish you luck. Look sharp. For all of us.”
Promptly at ten, the door to the apartment was opened with a passkey and Joseph beckoned for Mel and Dan to join him. Ben gave them a silent thumbs-up and whispered, “We’ll be here when you get back.”
He then closed the door after them.
The two Americans followed Joseph to the far end of the hall, where he took out a key and unlocked an exit door. They eased into a darkened stairwell and moved swiftly down to the first floor, their footsteps echoing softly on the marble steps. They cautiously entered another long hallway—alcoves on both sides housing buckets, mops, and chemical cleaning supplies—heading toward a door at the far end. There was only one low-wattage lightbulb screwed into the wall.
“When we get outside,” Joseph whispered, “turn to the right and walk to the end of the block. No talking.”
As they moved toward the rear exit, Mel heard a rattling noise, like a key in a lock. She froze, only dimly aware of Joseph slipping into an alcove to her left. The door was flung open to reveal a large man silhouetted by the faint illumination from the street. He startled when he spotted the two shadowy people in the hallway and called to them in Russian. Mel’s nervous energy morphed into a paralyzing fear. She hadn’t prepared to be accosted before they’d even left the building.
“Say nothing,” Joseph hissed, pulling something from the long sleeve of his jacket.
The man began walking toward them.
“Kto eto?” Who’s that?
Mel felt Dan stiffen beside her, his breathing rapid, fueled by adrenaline. The man was large and striding rapidly. At the same moment Dan gripped her arm, Joseph brushed past her shoulder with a surprising burst of speed. In his right hand was something long and slender, with a dull metallic glow. Without hesitation, he raised the object like a baseball bat and cracked it viciously across the man’s neck. The man fell heavily onto his back, holding his throat with both hands. Joseph stood over him and calmly delivered a hard blow to his solar plexus. When the man jerked his hands from his throat to cover his stomach, Joseph delivered two more crushing blows to his neck.
“What time will you be setting up the telescope for the meteor viewing?” Mel asked.
“Midnight. Between twelve thirty and one thirty will be the best viewing time.” William pointed to the back of the main building. “This grassy lawn area here will be an ideal position to set up.”
“How far is it from the tree line to where you’ll be standing?” Mel asked.
“Eighty, a hundred yards,” William answered.
“It’ll be dark,” Mel said.
William agreed. “But I can make sure there’ll be plenty of illumination beforehand. We can set up some tables with refreshments, string some lights. All Mel would need is a good pair of binoculars, which I happen to have.”
“I’m not so worried about the security guard as long as he stays close to the fence,” Dan said. “But what about the dog?”
Mel remembered hunting with her father and his special recipe for keeping other predators away from their camping sites: coyotes, foxes, and the occasional stray dog. “A dense mixture of citronella, ammonia, white vinegar, and hot peppers will do the trick. We just need to let it sit for a couple of days and soak the ground in a circle around our position. I guarantee you no dog will cross that boundary.”
“Leave the ingredients to me,” William said.
Dan swept his finger along the bottom part of the map. “Looks like we’ll have to pull over on the main road and hike into the forest, circling around to the back of the compound. Not using flashlights will make it slow going for us.”
Mel looked at him sharply. “Us?”
“You don’t think I’m going to let you go into the forest by yourself, do you?”
She faced him, her arms crossed. “You realize that I grew up finding my way around the Wisconsin wilderness, often alone and at night.”
“This ain’t Wisconsin, Mel—”
“Melvina,” William said, holding up a hand, forestalling further objections. “In this case, I think it’s a good idea. If you get into trouble, you’ll need backup. And, with his experience, I can’t think of anyone more capable than Dan.”
Mel looked at Julie, who said, “Points for chutzpah. But if it was me, I’d want Dan too.”
After Mel nodded her assent, William said, “We only have two days to plan.” He grinned and rubbed his hands together. “Time to practice a little old-school tradecraft. Work in the gap. Use disguises, if need be. Go black, if we can. It’s going to be a matter of timing and patience.”
He studied the serious faces around the table. “Relax, children. This is what we live for!”
Chapter 26
Thursday, August 16, 1990
Mel spent the whole of Thursday with her three colleagues at the institute, gathering reports and asking questions, her nervous energy surging with many cups of tea and too much sugar. She was confident of her ability to recognize her target, or targets, come Saturday. But her ability to stay calm and focused would be tested; she’d have to trust that her training had given her the tools.
She’d once asked a commercial pilot how he stayed calm in a storm. He’d answered, “Practice and repetition. Rinse and repeat.” She’d come to realize that it was the same for an agent operating clandestinely in the field. And on her first mission, practice was all she had.
The team gathered at William’s apartment that evening to again discuss how they would outwit their surveillance on Saturday, getting Mel to the dacha without a tail. The radio was broadcasting Prokofiev, which William deemed too muted to shield their conversations. So he put on a Shostakovich album and turned the volume up.
“Symphony Number Four should do the trick,” he yelled over the dynamic opening.
He sat at the dining table, and everyone leaned in to hear.
“All day today, I was followed by two not-so-subtle KGB agents in a new-model GAZ Volga,” he said. “It wasn’t even black. It was white, if you can believe that. I mean, they’re not even trying to be discreet. I’m sure they’re going to be following me to the dacha on Saturday evening.”
He spread out on the table a map of Minsk, which had been provided by US intelligence. American personnel had learned the hard way that the city maps provided by the Soviets were purposely misdrawn. For half an hour they discussed different routes—splitting up the group, hiding Mel in the trunk of William’s car.
“The problem with all of this,” Dan said, “is that we’re usually together. If any of us is not with the group, it’s going to cause suspicion. We can’t even say Mel is spending the night in someone else’s room, because they’re all bugged.”
“Since Mel seems to be the one under most scrutiny, what if Mel and I exchange identities?” Julie asked. “We go into a restaurant bathroom and change clothes. I leave as Mel, causing a distraction—”
“And then what?” Dan asked, interrupting her. “If only three of us leave, it’s going to look suspicious. They’ll still be looking for the fourth man.”
Ben held up his hands. “Look, we’re overcomplicating this. What if we come here to dinner on Saturday night? William, you leave after dinner for the dacha. The four of us stay behind to continue the party. Surveillance, which will most likely be Anton, will be situated at the main entrance. We disguise Mel and Dan and get someone to sneak them out of the building, say, from the basement. Or out the back. Julie and I will stay behind and continue making noise for our listeners.”
“What happens next?” Mel asked.
“The person sneaking you out would have to drive you and Dan to the forest, where you could take up your positions behind the dacha.”
“And when I’ve made the ID,” Mel said, “this person would have to drive us back and sneak us into the apartment again.” She turned to William. “Do you have anyone that you trust to do this?”
William tapped his finger thoughtfully on the table, staring at Mel. Then his finger stilled. “Actually, I do.” He nodded to Ben. “Kudos to our young accountant.”
For an instant Mel’s thoughts turned to Alexi. She felt the heat rise to her face and stopped herself from pressing William. She didn’t trust the inflection in her voice to stay neutral.
“And what happens if our KGB friends get curious about the conversation in the apartment and come to investigate?” Julie asked.
Ben gripped Julie’s arm. “We’ll just have to dance our way through it.”
Friday passed slowly and without incident, and despite the increased security at the institute, excitement built among the Americans. They were finally going to be doing the spycraft that every young agent longed for: misdirection in order to go black. And, for once, the Americans would be turning the tables on their Soviet minders—they’d be doing surveillance of their own.
At times, Mel would catch the eye of one of her colleagues. They’d each responded to her air of nervous expectation by giving her a sly wink or a reassuring nod. Ben once squeezed her elbow and muttered, “Tally-ban,” making her smile. Since the impromptu card game in her room, the four had finally gelled into a cohesive unit. Ben, Julie, and Dan had all shown their goodwill by seeking her out. For the rest of the mission, Mel felt confident that they would be her supporters and her allies. Nothing like a little danger to harden the cement.
That Friday Shevchenko seemed in good spirits as well, sitting next to Mel at lunch, practicing his halting English on her. Even the Germans in the Planeta, where the Americans went for a drink after their dinner, seemed less insidious than usual. William had not yet revealed who his trusted agent was who would be taking Mel out of Minsk. But her last thoughts before she fell into a deep sleep that night were of Alexi Yurov and his sweat on her skin.
At eight o’clock on Saturday night, Anton collected the group in front of the Planeta and drove them to William’s apartment. Dan told him they might be very late, so if he wanted to go somewhere for dinner, he was free to do so.
Anton lifted a heavy grease-stained sack and grunted, “Nyet. Ya zhdu zdes’.”
No. I wait here.
“Good,” Dan muttered after the group had exited the van. “Now we can hope that Anton will be fast asleep in a few hours.”
The desk clerk opened the front door and accompanied them to William’s apartment. As they rode up in the elevator, the clerk stared at Mel as though measuring her by a yardstick that only he could see. When she met his gaze, his eyes lingered on hers for a few seconds before he looked away.
Once settled inside the apartment, they ate cold cuts and dark bread and drank bottles of stout German beer. When they’d finished eating, William turned up the radio and brought out a few board games and cards for the group to pass the time.
Julie picked up the Monopoly box. “Uh-oh, a capitalist tool. The authorities know you have this?”
William chuckled. “I admit it’s a bit unorthodox. I once teased Martin by threatening to teach him the game.”
“What did he say?” Dan asked.
William arched one brow. “He quoted Stalin. ‘When we hang the capitalists, they will sell us the rope we use on them.’”
He then motioned for Dan and Mel to follow him down the hallway, leaving Julie and Ben behind, setting up the game board. Before he got to his bedroom he stopped and whispered, “I’ll be leaving at nine to drive to the dacha. At ten o’clock your guide will come to take you out the back and drive you to your destination. Once you’ve made your identification, he’ll bring you back into the city. The clothing you’ll be wearing is in my room. I’m afraid everything’s quite worn, but you need to look authentically Soviet and that includes the good honest sweat of hardworking comrades.”
While William pulled the costumes together in the bedroom, Dan stood with Mel in the hallway, close enough to keep his voice low.
“You nervous?” he asked.
“A little,” she answered, certain he was going to give her a pep talk.
But all he said was “Good. A little nervousness keeps you sharp.”
William called them in and showed them their disguises. For Dan there were a pair of canvas trousers, a threadbare coat, and a worker’s cap with a brim, which would come down low over his forehead.
William handed Dan a pair of well-worn work boots. “They’re probably two sizes too big, but it was the best I could do.”
Mel would wear a shapeless housedress, a sweater, and a scarf. He also handed her a pair of badly made but sturdy shoes—the kind of footwear found on every Soviet woman over sixty.
“You’ll be two aging citizens, so watch your posture,” William warned. “Slouch some, and don’t walk too fast. In other words, don’t walk like the healthy, confident Americans that you are.”
“Who is our guide?” Mel asked.
“It’s someone you already know,” William said, and paused for dramatic effect. “It’s Joseph.”
Mel blinked a few times, trying not to be disappointed. “Who’s Joseph?”
“He opens the front door for you every time you visit.”
Dan made a face. “You’re kidding. That old man?”
“That old man?” William drew himself taller. “The irony is not lost on me that you, who are about to don an old man’s clothes, do not appreciate that appearances can be deceiving.” William turned and walked back into the hallway. “After all, I’ve had to aver to more than one of my Soviet colleagues that you, Dan, are not just a vain government functionary who likes the sound of his own voice.”
Dan’s face colored for an instant, but by the time they’d returned to the living room, he was turning to Mel with a grin. “As a matter of fact, I do like the sound of my own voice.”
The group played poker for forty-five minutes after William left, talking and laughing loudly for the benefit of the hidden microphones.
“You know what one of the institute guys said to me yesterday?” Ben asked, studying his cards. “He said that, in terms of foreign policy, the Soviets conduct strategy as though playing chess. We look at the long game, he said. It’s elegant, thoughtful, and ideological. Then he told me that the US plays the game like this, like poker. That we’re reckless, aggressive, and sloppy.”
“I’ve heard that trope too,” Dan said. “Of course, he meant it as an insult. American cowboys playing the lesser game. But just like in real life, there are many players at the table. Not just two. The US and the Soviets may be holding the most chips, but even a small-time bettor can win a hand. Just look at Afghanistan.”
Dan called and laid down his cards. He had two pairs.
“Or Vietnam,” Ben said, laying down three of a kind.
“Yippee-ki-yay, fellas!” Julie cried, laying down a straight.
Mel had a garbage hand. She shoved away, before it could take root, a dark, hairy little thought that it presaged some bad turn of events.
“A bad set of cards doesn’t mean anything,” Julie said, reaching out and squeezing Mel’s hand reassuringly. “But just in case it does, I’ll lend you my good luck for the night.”
Mel smiled weakly, thanking her. Julie picked up her dinner plate and jabbed at the remnants of the mushroom casserole William had prepared. “Did you know that more than eighty percent of the earth under your feet is mycelium? The mushroom is just the tip of the iceberg. The largest organism on the planet is the honey fungus, which can stretch for miles underground.”
“How do you know?” Mel asked.
“Encyclopedia, baby. I did my research on Byelorussia’s favorite pastime. Russians spend more time picking mushrooms than the French. It’s their therapy. It’s in their blood.”
Julie took a bite of the casserole and made a face.
“What is it?” Mel asked.
“There’s something off about this batch. Some underlying taste…” Her voice trailed away, and she handed the plate to Mel. “See what you think.”
“I’ve never really liked mushrooms,” Mel said. “I’m always a little nervous that someone picked the wrong fungus.” She took a small forkful and tasted it.
“Human beings are genetically closer to fungi than to plants,” Julie said. “Mushrooms breathe oxygen and expel carbon dioxide, just like people.”
Mel shuddered and spat the mushrooms into a napkin. “You’re right,” she said. “It tastes like bad meat. Thanks, now I’ll be having nightmares about mushroom people.”
Julie grinned. “But I took your mind off the mission for a moment, though, didn’t I?”
At the designated time, Mel and Dan took turns quickly changing into their borrowed clothes. When Mel passed the dress over her head, she caught a strong musky odor embedded in the fabric. She remembered someone telling her that even washing too often in the Workers’ Paradise was suspect. It meant you were a slave to Western bourgeois hygiene practices. She’d been raised with the American ideal, covertly if not overtly, that cleanliness was next to godliness. That clean hands meant a clean conscience. But in a country where something as simple as soap was often in short supply, it was a type of arrogance for her to equate stale human sweat with moral turpitude. Whoever had worn this dress had probably experienced hardships she’d never had to face. She thought back to her earlier hot bath with soap she’d brought from the US, luxuriating in the aftermath of her recognition processing. Something she’d almost always taken for granted.
There was a knock at the door and Ben walked into the bedroom. “I just wanted to wish you luck for tonight,” he said softly.
“Thanks, Ben.”
“I know Dan can be an asshole—”
“But at least he’s our asshole,” Mel said, finishing the sentence.
“Seriously, though,” he said, and paused. “Let Dan do any heavy lifting. When in doubt, run like hell. Dan’s a big boy and can take care of himself.”
“You think there’ll be trouble?”
“Always,” he said, smiling. “And, just so you know, you’ve made this trip bearable. See you on the flip side.”
He held out a hand for her to shake. His palm was warm and dry and immensely comforting. “Whatever it is that you’re really doing here, I wish you luck. Look sharp. For all of us.”
Promptly at ten, the door to the apartment was opened with a passkey and Joseph beckoned for Mel and Dan to join him. Ben gave them a silent thumbs-up and whispered, “We’ll be here when you get back.”
He then closed the door after them.
The two Americans followed Joseph to the far end of the hall, where he took out a key and unlocked an exit door. They eased into a darkened stairwell and moved swiftly down to the first floor, their footsteps echoing softly on the marble steps. They cautiously entered another long hallway—alcoves on both sides housing buckets, mops, and chemical cleaning supplies—heading toward a door at the far end. There was only one low-wattage lightbulb screwed into the wall.
“When we get outside,” Joseph whispered, “turn to the right and walk to the end of the block. No talking.”
As they moved toward the rear exit, Mel heard a rattling noise, like a key in a lock. She froze, only dimly aware of Joseph slipping into an alcove to her left. The door was flung open to reveal a large man silhouetted by the faint illumination from the street. He startled when he spotted the two shadowy people in the hallway and called to them in Russian. Mel’s nervous energy morphed into a paralyzing fear. She hadn’t prepared to be accosted before they’d even left the building.
“Say nothing,” Joseph hissed, pulling something from the long sleeve of his jacket.
The man began walking toward them.
“Kto eto?” Who’s that?
Mel felt Dan stiffen beside her, his breathing rapid, fueled by adrenaline. The man was large and striding rapidly. At the same moment Dan gripped her arm, Joseph brushed past her shoulder with a surprising burst of speed. In his right hand was something long and slender, with a dull metallic glow. Without hesitation, he raised the object like a baseball bat and cracked it viciously across the man’s neck. The man fell heavily onto his back, holding his throat with both hands. Joseph stood over him and calmly delivered a hard blow to his solar plexus. When the man jerked his hands from his throat to cover his stomach, Joseph delivered two more crushing blows to his neck.
