|
1990
- Finland, 24th December. Christmas Eve
The phone
call had come in the small hours of the morning. "Be
at the gas station in Vaalimaa tonight", the Baroness
had said, 'he'll be there'.
He.
Dan hadn't asked any questions.
He would
go anywhere to meet Vadim, no matter where. Back into hell
or across the frozen Afghan mountains on his own. Or just
to the Finnish border. As long as he'd be there.
Alive.
Almost
two years. Twenty-two months and five days since their last
night in Kabul, six-hundred-and-eighty-four days since Vadim
had been taken, and he had nothing but memories and a string
of lapis lazuli beads.
Dan had
arrived at the UK embassy in Helsinki four days previously,
and expected to stake out for longer, when the call had come
from Dubai with the reassurance she would board a plane immediately
and was on her way.
2100
hrs, and Dan was standing in the freezing cold, waiting. They
had warned him not to move away from the car and to stay still
until the prisoner had crossed the open space. Temperature
far too many degrees minus, almost worse than the Afghan mountains.
Wrapped in thick clothing, he climbed out of the car the moment
the second vehicle arrived, while the Baroness remained inside,
and so did the driver. He stood, together with a couple of
agents a few steps away, who had come in a third car, parked
further away. Body shivering in the cold, but he felt none
of it. Nothing mattered but his eyes straining to see in the
darkness, following the moving shadow.
A man.
One man. Only ever the one.
*
* *
The car
stopped. Outside, darkness - and electric light of a gas station.
A truck idled there. Vadim saw the driver's breath mist. Surrounding
it, forest. They'd driven past icy lakes. Vadim knew the landscape
from a tactical exercise.
Another
car stood there, lights pointing in their direction. People
in heavy coats. Waiting for something. Vadim felt a sudden
tension and it didn't leave him. The car seemed an extension
of the cell. A place that was safe. Outside only darkness.
And light he didn't know how to deal with.
"Get
out already", huffed the driver, and Vadim opened the
door. He swung his feet into the ankle deep snow, then straightened.
Closed the door at the next sharp command.
Lost.
He stuffed
his hands into the pockets of his coat - army issue, ironically,
if he could still feel irony. He stood there, unsure what
it all meant. Not an execution. Or was it? One of his victims
demanding payback? That was alright, he figured.
The other
car still stood there, and he forced himself to walk towards
it and whatever it meant.
Fifty
yards, maybe fifty-five. Open, unprotected space. A million
places for a sniper all around. Vadim expected to feel the
impact of a bullet, every step took him into a kill zone,
and he pulled his head deeper between his shoulders and simply
expected the bullet to hit. Expecting was better than the
fear.
Walked
in the beam of the other car's headlights. Seeing almost nothing.
Vadim
moved on, step after step, listening to the too loud sound
of snow, keeping his eyes lowered, but moved towards the car.
He felt nothing. No expectation, no true fear, the only thing
that was real was the cold surrounding him and biting into
his face and ears. He didn't wear an ushanka.
They'd
brought him through Leningrad, Vyborg, past Lake Ladoga. This
was Finland. Or the border of it. Winter War. A tactical disaster.
Nothing of that mattered - echoes of something he'd known
as a child.
Thirty
yards. Vadim looked over his shoulders, but no car window
was open, nothing pointing at him. He turned back to face
the other car. Moving through the snow was hard work - virgin
snow, reaching to his knees in places. He swerved to the side
to get out of the light and move to the driver's side.
Six yards
away. He stopped, looking at the car.
"Vadim?"
Dan's voice almost broke, unsure if it even carried through
the freezing night. His hands at his side, clenched into fists,
he could not move, nor think, not even feel. The knot in his
stomach as frozen as his twisted guts. Twenty-two months and
five days. Pain, fear, emptiness, hatred and numbness, hope
and loss, bribery and hope once more. Almost two years, and
Dan barely dared to try and picture the other's face, as it
moved back into the shadows.
Vadim
looked up, seeking, for a moment, then saw the tall figure
- looking at him. Dan. Dan McFadyen, SAS, lover, enemy, everything.
Remembered, but only with his mind, and faint, like aged photographs,
emotions. Looked at the man and knew he'd loved him and knew
every hair, every inflection of the voice, remembered sex
and pledges and vows … and thought that there had to
be something, an echo, a deeper, more profound memory, something
deep and powerful and overwhelming, but there wasn't.
He knew
the man, but he felt nothing. Cauterized.
"Yes",
he said and kept looking at that face, the dark eyes, long
lashes, strong features, and thought he looked better than
he remembered, but still, there was nothing but a faint wistfulness.
"Vadim
…" Dan could do nothing but repeat the name, finally
able to move out of his frozen stance. Not the cold that had
made it impossible to move, but the … what. Uncertainty?
Fear, yes, fear that it was all a dream and that in the end,
after almost two years, they had killed Vadim after all.
But he
saw the features at last, could make out every line and angle
in that face. Vadim's head shaved, his face stubbly, looking
gaunt. Drawn, haggard, and far too thin, the weight loss even
visible through the thick greatcoat. Like a survivor, one
of them. One of the few prisoners of war who'd made
it out of the Japanese camps.
Memories
flooding back to him when he saw the too-pale face, an onslaught
of emotions, and he smiled at last, the sheer overwhelming
burst of feelings bubbling up from deep inside, like a geyser,
ready to burst. "Vadim." Holding his hand out to
the other, beckoning, he knew they were watching and he did
not dare to take a step towards him.
Dan's
voice finally broke completely, "Oh fuck, Vadim!"
Vadim
glanced over his shoulder, but nothing moved in the other
car. He heard the machine start up again. They were ready
to leave. No joke, no trick. Or was it? He paused again, then
moved towards Dan, knew the man would cover him if anything
happened. Noticed the hand, wasn't sure what to do with it,
but moved closer, then again looked at the other car as it
slowly moved across the snow to turn, the tyres crunching
the frost glazed snow. Then the lights were gone, and it was
just this car, and the gas station. And it was very cold.
"That
… is it?" said Vadim, still not comprehending.
Dan kept
his hand where it was, for a while longer, then dropped the
arm, untaken. Moving the last step forward, after a glance
at the agents who had been hovering at the fringes and who
nodded. "You are free." It wasn't enough, though,
Dan had to say the name again, and again. As if giving voice
to the name would make it all true, and would anchor everything
in reality. "Free, Vadim." His arms raised to embrace
the other. "At last, Vadim, at last."
Vadim
nodded, glanced again over his shoulder, then back into the
face that was suddenly close. He stood still, felt the embrace
that tightened, and raised his arms to close them around the
other's back, greeting him like friends or family. Human.
Touch. Felt suddenly too much, too close, far closer than
anybody had been in a long while, and he felt his heart pound
at the hug. He closed his eyes, but that was worse, so he
stared at the price sign of the gas station, couldn't make
out the numbers, but could read Markka. Finmark.
"Dan.
Good … seeing you." It was. A sense of relief, but
almost too much. Claustrophobic, couldn't cope with that emotion
anymore. Didn't know what to say. "All … all way
from Kabul?"
Dan didn't
let go, couldn't read the signs of the stiff and unmovable
body in his arms. Too long, too much, and he couldn't let
go. Not now, not anymore, not ever. Looking up, he smiled
into Vadim's face, breath misting between them. "No,
I have been in Dubai since the middle of last year."
So much time, so much lost.
"Dubai."
Saudi Arabia. They'd have to fly there. Another long way,
but at least not Kabul.
"We
are staying at the embassy in Helsinki, only a short ride
away." Dan tried to kiss Vadim, but somehow, something
stopped him the very last moment. Didn't dare to and couldn't
explain why. So fragile. Vadim, alive. So fragile.
Vadim
exhaled, knew he should want to kiss, but he didn't feel a
thing, none of the movements meant anything, no touch, no
word, it all rang hollow and unreal.
"Come
into the car, it is fucking freezing." Dan was still
smiling, couldn't stop it.
"Yes.
Cold. It's … Finland. Not … good place." Vadim
clung to English, didn't want to speak Russian, but the other
language was unwieldy and soulless. Dan opened the door for
him and he got in, could smell smoke in here. Dan was a smoker.
"Sorry, I'm just tired."
"It's
OK. No problem, Vadim." Again the name, Dan could not
get enough of it.
The driver
had stayed in the car, and so had the grey haired lady, who
was turning in her seat when Vadim got into the back, with
Dan sliding into the warmth beside him.
Baroness
de Vilde smiled, holding out her hand. "Major Vadim Petrovich
Krasnorada," emphasis on his rank, as if they had never
stripped it off him, "I am honoured to meet again the
man that Dan loves."
There
was a reaction now, a moment of fear, intense and flashing
across Vadim's brain. Power. The kind of power that could
destroy people. Remembered old fear, embarrassment, humiliation,
and didn't understand why she offered her hand. He felt trapped,
then felt his muscles relax. No power. No resistance. No struggle.
He had no chance to fight. "I … am honoured, Ma'm."
Took her hand like it was a thing of spikes and poison, forced
himself to hold it and lowered his gaze.
Honour?
You pride yourself on honour? And isn't that the greatest
of your delusions?
The Baroness
shook Vadim's hand, but something crossed her face like a
flash, unseen by Dan. She let go of the large hand quickly,
as soon as politeness decreed possible. "I would like
you to meet a few people who have helped to ensure your freedom."
She smiled, "Of course, no one has done more towards
your release than Dan, but I believe that goes without saying."
She nodded to the driver, who began to move the vehicle. The
chains on the tyres gripping fresh snow, as he carefully turned
around.
"Not
true," Dan interrupted, "without the ambassador's
help, anything I did would have ended up in nothing."
He placed a hand onto Vadim's arm. Just resting, connecting.
"Thank you, Ma'm." Dan smiled and she merely nodded
with a smile of her own.
Vadim
could only nod. Too much. Too much information, and too close,
the car crammed full of people and each single one enough
to restrict his breath.
That
was when Dan suddenly remembered, "Are you hungry? Or
thirsty? I am sorry, Vadim, I keep forgetting the most profound
things. I'm just so bloody overwhelmed. We have some food
here, though, and a flask with tea and one with coffee. Oh,
and some water." He couldn't take his eyes off the other,
though, not even when he peeled his hands out of his gloves
or took the hood from his head, pulling the hat off, and shaking
his dark hair, longer and wilder than ever.
Tea.
Coffee. Water. Three choices. And Vadim didn't even know whether
he was actually thirsty. Tea. Snow outside and tea worked.
"I …" Looking around, saw their eyes on him
like they expected him to do something, say something, eyes
strangely hungry and demanding and oppressive. Relax. You
have no power whatsoever.
I
am calling the shots. All you have to do is listen to me and
take in what I tell you, and answer my questions.
Vadim
swallowed. "Tea, please. Not hungry … don't think
so, no." Looked at her first, as if she would give an
order, then at Dan. Knew something was wrong, despite the
lack inside, the hollow place behind his brow and inside his
chest, and his guts felt frozen and brittle with dread.
"Tea,
of course." Dan almost spilled the hot liquid over his
hands when he tried to fill the cup. Didn't know why his hands
were trembling, nor why his focus was shot to shit. "There
you go." Staring at Vadim while handing the flask's cup.
"Thanks."
Vadim took it, carefully, and balanced it on his knee. He
changed the grip and lifted it, sipping the hot tea, hoped
that would help, but the sip of tea was like a stone in his
guts.
Dan couldn't
take his eyes of Vadim, watching him drink. Couldn't believe
this was true. Vadim was alive, yet the truth was that he
sat right there, next to him. "Can I touch you?"
Suddenly, murmured. Didn't know why the hell he'd even asked
and hadn't just done it, but the other felt like a stranger.
Vadim
looked up. Maybe that would break the spell. Maybe it wouldn't.
Too close. But not his decision. Had the feeling he owed that,
had no right to resist because Dan had every right to. Looked
at the lady who had turned back to face the windscreen and
the night, busying herself. What would she think? What was
she thinking? It was important, somehow, to know that. He
looked at Dan. "Sure."
Dan raised
his hand, only his fingertips touching Vadim's face, stroking
gently along the somewhat stubbly cheek and jaw. His fingers
were cool, he had only started to warm up. "You lost
weight, Vadim."
Vadim
resisted the notion to take the hand and hold it - so it didn't
touch him. It felt awkward and odd and claustrophobic. Couldn't
read the words. Did that mean he looked bad? Ill? Did Dan
criticise? He just couldn't read it, not the tone, not the
touch.
Dan murmured
as he smiled, "But you're real."
I don't
feel real. I feel nothing. Vadim looked at Dan, and wanted
to get out of the car, wanted to move, but knew he had to
endure the feeling of being trapped. He glanced at the ambassador
for any sign of displeasure. "Yes, it's … me."
And who am I? What's left of me. "And … you. Your
hair is long."
Dan's
hand moved along the jaw, coming to rest on Vadim's shoulder.
A minute twitch of his eyes, feeling something … something
wrong. Something … he refused to feel. "Aye, it's
been growing a bit." His hand sliding off the shoulder,
slowly, down the chest which stopped breathing until the hand
came to rest on one once massive thigh. "You used to
like it long and wild." He smiled, once again refused
to acknowledge a nagging irritation, concentrating on only
one sensation: of Vadim being back. Almost two years, and
he still could not believe it, but his heart was thawing like
glacier ice, the full force of emotions beneath the turquoise-shimmering
surface, waiting to burst out.
Vadim
closed his eyes, tried to escape, but couldn't keep them closed,
couldn't trust a world that was entirely hostile or wrong
or unfamiliar. Alien. Finally connected the facts. "How
… did you do it? How did you convince them?"
Again
something didn't feel quite right for Dan, but he could not
bear to dwell on it. Of course, it made sense that Vadim was
distant. Almost two years and the Lubyanka ….
"Money,
bribes, but mostly diplomatic bitchfighting." He grinned
when the Baroness let out a small cough in the front seat.
Vadim's
eyes were immediately on the woman ambassador and another
wave of dread hit him. Wasn't there any way to get out of
this car? "I'm not sure I understand", he carefully
put together, concentrating on the conversation, trying to
find words, and most of all thoughts, but his mind felt empty
and desolate.
"It's
quite simple." Dan's hand still resting on Vadim's thigh,
connected-connecting. "We know there was too much opposition
against the KGB from inside the Soviet Union, and the KGB
was too weakened to push through an execution based on insufficient
evidence and a confession signed under … duress."
Dan just couldn't say it. Not that word, not 'torture'. "So,
we gathered the funds to …" he shrugged, "ach
well, you could say 'persuade' the fuckers. The UK had you
long cleared by then and offered asylum, all we needed to
do was discuss the conditions of your release." Haggling
the price, offer and counter-offer, refusal and hard-arsed
fights. The Baroness and her contacts had had a field day.
"I'm
cleared."
"Yes,
you are." Dan nodded and smiled.
That
was good. He wouldn't be hunted anymore. He could rest. Vadim
was nodding to himself at that thought. Cleared. Not guilty.
Well, guilty, but pardoned. "How much?" What's the
value of the rest of me? Idly curious, not bitter, nothing,
detached, like talking about a painting's value that he would
never be able to afford.
"Under
a quarter million." Dan made a joke out of it, grinning.
"Pound?"
The number was vast. Vadim's mind stumbled over that amount,
couldn't understand how he could possibly be worth so much,
how anybody could demand so much money.
"You're
worth every money in the world to me, aye?"
"What
rip-off", murmured Vadim. The interrogator likely had
got a piece of that, but above all, the faceless men he'd
never seen, that just signed and gave orders. Men who had
ordered the interrogator to do what he'd done.
"What
do you mean?" Dan leaned forward, crossing the narrow
space between them.
Clarify
this, please.
Vadim's
face twitched. "Quarter of million pound. That's …"
too much. Too much for what's left of me. The most expensive
beef on the market. More than a thousand pounds per pound
of flesh, easily.
"Less
than that." Dan shook his head, leaned back in the seat.
"Don't worry, money means nothing. It's what money can
do that has meaning, and you are here, alive, and free."
His hand stroked Vadim's thigh, the niggling worry soothed
by the limousine's quiet purr as it navigated the winter landscape
towards Helsinki, while the Baroness sat quietly in the front,
studying some papers.
Vadim
shuddered, remembered the interrogator who'd sneer at him,
who'd tell him what a disappointment he was, and what a waste
of breath. Just that creeping darkness inside, crawling, and
coiling, and Vadim wanted nothing but to escape that thought,
but he couldn't sleep, couldn't rest. He stared outside into
the snow, the calm landscape seemed like a good place to be,
nothing but darkness and snow. No people. No expectations.
Dan fell
silent, just watching Vadim. Looking, always looking and touching.
Moving closer until his thigh touched the other's, his hand
still on skin-warmed cloth, and his shoulder against Vadim's.
He didn't know what he wanted, if it was touch, kiss, taste,
as much as sex, but he knew that it was reassurance that kept
him close. That, and the vast amount of emotions that began
to force their way to the surface. He was quiet for a long
time, until he murmured, "I never stopped loving you."
But I
did. The thought hit Vadim, and he closed his eyes again.
He just didn't feel anything, but he remembered what it had
been like to feel, and that, now, was the worst torture. Guilt
and loss and utter numbness that covered everything in oppressive
silence. He nodded, not wanting to speak, unable to either
answer as expected, or feel as expected.
Dan said
nothing, once again, just smiled. Giving space, and giving
time. The once impatient youth had turned into the man who
could outwait the Afghan mountains. If he had to, and if it
was worth it.
The rest
of the drive took place in silence except for the hum of the
engine, until the car began to slow down, close to a large
building with many lights. "We are here," the Baroness
craned her head, nodding. "Just a small gathering of
friends, who have all helped to get you out, Major. They would
like to shake your hand and welcome you to Britain."
"Yes,
of course." Obligation. Duty. Vadim would do as ordered,
do what she wanted, just couldn't resist anything now, not
even raise objections.
The gates
opened and Vadim saw the flags and big cars, and that was
the embassy, then. British flag. He left the car, stood there,
looked at her, and then at Dan for clues. Expected to be ordered
to change, make himself presentable, felt more insecurity
when he thought of all these people. Her friends. Presenting
to them what was left of Major Krasnorada. What an anticlimax,
what disappointment.
Dan stepped
close. "Come with me?" Odd, to ask this as a question,
but he felt somehow insecure around Vadim. This Vadim.
The thin man with blond stubble in his face and shorn head.
Smelling of mothballs and dressed in a loose army coat and
scuffed boots.
Dan's
voice suddenly broke again, and he had to clear his throat,
glancing at the Baroness, who thankfully jumped into the awkward
gap. "Would you like to refresh yourself, Major?"
She smiled, a gloved hand and fur-coated arm pointed towards
the embassy, brightly lit, the staff waiting. "There
are comfortable facilities here."
Vadim
looked towards the building and nodded. "Of course."
Confirming an order. Refresh. Shave. Shower. Change? 'Major'
sounded wrong. Like she called him 'Prince' or something else
that wasn't part of him. He had no idea why, was it mockery,
he couldn't decide, and didn't have the strength to ponder
it.
He moved
ahead, kept his gaze lowered, followed Dan who led the way
towards the 'facilities' - and the whole place reeked money,
and class, and prestige, and status. He felt lost, displaced,
wrong, and felt another wave of nausea and fear. Felt like
an impostor, like he deserved nothing of it, like he was a
complete alien and somehow people fooled themselves about
him.
The bathroom
held clothes and there was a shower and shaving kit, a far
cry from two days ago in prison, being told to 'clean up'.
He needed incredible amounts of concentration to shave, avoided
his own eyes in the mirror. He looked positively horrible,
scared, haunted, deathly pale. Not even a shadow of himself.
He looked like his own corpse.
*
* *
Dan was
waiting outside, had changed into a suit. Even though he still
didn't like these things, he'd become part of the machinery
and accepted the material necessities. Looking at the Baroness
when she came towards him. "What do you think, Ma'm?"
He couldn't help it. Insecurity coiling in his guts, while
his heart was about to overflow with emotions that had dug
their way to the surface.
She looked
up at him, considering, smiling in the end and patting his
arm. "Give him time. This man has just suffered through
almost two years of imprisonment … and much, much worse.
Give him time, Dan. Time and space. As we have talked about."
"I
know, but … but it's hard."
She nodded,
"I understand, but right now you are the strong one,
so it is you who has to take control of yourself to
make it easy on him."
"I
will. I'll do anything, but Vadim is completely distant. It's
as if he didn't even recognise me. I feel like treading on
thin ice around a stranger, while the real Vadim, the man
I know and love, is lurking somewhere inside."
"Perhaps
it is so." She smiled a little. "I have arranged
for a very good psychiatrist to meet him. He specialises in
such cases and has worked with the British Legion and PTSD
sufferers. He is, in fact, a medical Officer in the Forces.
I hope he will be able to help with whatever psychological
effects Major Krasnorada suffers from." She patted Dan's
arm once more. "In the meantime, give him space and time,
the love won't vanish suddenly, or will it?"
"No,"
Dan shook his head, violently, "it won't. No chance.
Not now and not ever."
"Well,
then," she smiled, "in that case, I shall see both
of you at the dinner table."
She left
him standing, and he watched her leave. Deep in thoughts while
waiting for Vadim.
*
* *
Vadim
gave himself the most superficial glance in the mirror as
he closed the last button. He looked like jailbait. Only the
tattoos missing. Opening the door when all he wanted was to
return to the shower and let the hot water run over him. Friends.
Meet. Presentation. No way to run, no escape. Just get through
it, on the other side, somehow.
He opened
the door, saw Dan look up, smiling - look right at him and
Vadim couldn't read the expression on the other's face. Shock?
Irritation? He closed the door behind him and turned. "I'm
ready", he said, to say anything, just to get through
it, do the motions as expected.
It was
just a small gathering - middle aged and old people in expensive
clothes, relaxed and comfortable, still with an edge of …
distance, or something else … and they looked at him
with that same mix of expectation and was it hunger? Disdain
for the homeless beggar who owed them so much.
Vadim
wanted to turn and run away, allowed people to shake his hands,
felt close to bolting every time somebody came towards him,
smiling, introducing names and faces that his mind just couldn't
process. All the same, one whirl of expectations and coded
messages, he didn't belong here, it all felt wrong, out of
place, like he'd stepped from the audience onto the stage
while a play was in progress and everybody played along as
if that was part of the script.
He could
only nod and say words like "Thanks", and "me,
too", and "nice meeting you", and hoped it
would be alright and he didn't disappoint, didn't invite mockery
or shame. Looking at the Ambassador every now and then who
was gracious and steered the conversation along lines and
rules that Vadim didn't understand but he guessed she made
sure everything was under control.
Dan was
there, too, at his shoulder, reaching out to touch his arm,
his back, a touch that seemed awkward as well, and full of
something that burnt like acid. Vadim remembered sex, but
it seemed far away, like he somehow shared the memory of a
different body, and kissing or holding was a bizarre thought
after …
You're
a predator, nothing else. You are incapable of any gentle
emotion. For you, it's breaking and taking, or being broken
and being taken. You do not understand anything else but brutality,
and thus the only thing you can do is brutalise and being
brutalised …
…
and was he looking forward to living in Britain, asked somebody,
and Vadim blinked, losing something vital for a moment, and
nodded, shook his head, said "forgive me" and moved
away, turned, saw Dan follow and didn't want him to be close
because …
…
you are not human. You're deluding yourself, but you are not
human and have no right to the company of humans because you
are nothing but an animal on the prowl, rabid, and awaiting
to be shot like you deserve …
…
Dan looked at him with that hope and … whatever it was,
but it made everything worse, because he just. Couldn't feel.
*
* *
Dan had
carried the bags to the taxi, the suite had been booked. Vadim
only signed the paper, wrote his first name in Cyrillic, then
stopped, paused, crossed the name out, then wrote it in Latin.
English transcription. Received the keys and then up to the
suite, while Dan didn't talk much, just smiled at him, lingering
as if waiting for something, but Vadim didn't have an answer.
He wanted to rest, sleep, just escape.
The suite
offered every comfort - it was huge, there was a lot of space,
two bedrooms, a shared area. Far more space than Vadim was
used to, he chose the first bedroom, same size as the other.
Dan didn't bring it up, just put his bag into the other room
and told him if he needed anything … Vadim again couldn't
read the tone or expression, thanked him, glad to have escaped
all the people and all the scrutiny, and that without screaming
or collapsing. He felt he couldn't trust himself or his reactions
anymore.
He took
another shower, then went to bed, kept a light burning on
the nightstand, heard the toilet flush a little later and
Dan's footsteps outside. Vadim stared at the door, expected
it to open, expected the guards to come back and beat him
up and there was another wave of fear.
When
the fear subsided, there was only. Emptiness. Worse. He felt
like they had scraped him clean inside, reached inside and
had removed all the tissue that kept him together. He had
been moving, felt like lead and mud, brittle and heavy, and
didn't know where to go.
It hurt
to wait here and know about the other, hear him, even, and
feel the one thing that he hadn't been prepared to feel. Emptiness.
He knew in theory what to feel and maybe even how, but there
was nothing. He couldn't even mourn it. Like he had used up
all those feelings by just remembering them. He'd seen all
those things in Dan's eyes, the hope, the joy to see him,
and that was worse than being kicked in the teeth. Couldn't
share it. Knew he should, but nothing moved. Felt like he
had lost both legs and tried to walk in his sleep.
They
were strangers now. To return just to realize that. Twenty-two
months. They had gone through so much, and these twenty-two
months had unmade him. And he couldn't just pretend to enjoy
the kindness or the generosity. They scared him, like walking
into another prison, lifelong obligation that he was expected
to feel. Expected to succeed. As always. Somebody told him
what was expected, and he had to succeed.
Couldn't.
Couldn't look at Dan, couldn't meet his eyes, and felt like
he was dead. At least, if he had been, Dan would just mourn
him and get on with life. If the KGB had been merciful. If.
When. Had been. Could have been. Vadim couldn't rest, got
dressed again in the old clothes and the coat, only to take
in the cold outside and sober up his mind.
Instead,
the night air crept in. He felt like bronze, metal, a statue.
Empty. He began walking, tried to get back into whatever it
was that was him by walking. He was on the next road, three
hours later, when he realized he was cold and he had no idea
where he was heading. Didn't even think about turning back.
Dan was
there, somewhere. Gone.
He headed
on, trudged along a road, until, in the early morning, a truck
moved closer. The driver stopped, offered him a lift. Vadim
didn't speak a word of Finnish, didn't try Russian, didn't
try English, gave him a grateful nod without feeling gratitude.
Got off the truck just before the Swedish border. No papers.
Crossed
the borders out in the forest, cold and desolate, snow blue
in the moonlight, shadows darker blue. Found another truck,
hitched another ride. They were friendly people, those truckers.
They listened to late night radio, offered him something to
eat. He didn't speak Swedish, either.
He walked
off into the forest at one of gas stations, followed a dirt
road as he crossed it.
He was
very cold by then, welcomed the pain in his fingers and toes,
told him there was still something. Something basic. On the
outside. Was very tired and very cold and thought about spring
and whether they would ever find him. Stumbled across some
low fence, got up again, saw a frozen lake in the distance,
dark blue ice, saw, nestled against the dark trees, a bungalow.
Survival.
It didn't take much to open the door. The frame splintered
in the cold, the only sound apart from his chattering teeth.
Small place. He brought snow in, it was no warmer inside.
Deserted. A couch. TV. Small kitchen. Small bedroom. Somebody's
hideaway, a weekend dacha. He closed the door again, leaned
an umbrella stand against it.
Cold.
Cold. Found the light switch. Nothing. Found the main fuse,
switched it. Started the heating. Was cold. The bed. Staggering
towards the bed, too cold to fall asleep, too tired to stay
awake.
Awoke
scared.
Undressed
only then, checked out the place. He could leave. Made sure
he could leave. The building was wood, lost heat faster than
a cooling corpse. Found the gas stove, made tea, sitting in
somebody else's tiny kitchen, slumped on the bench, drank
from somebody else's chipped mug. Saw the mugs hanging from
a wooden rack. Mickey Mouse. Roses. A family.
Slept
some more, awoke scared and weak with hunger. Found rice,
cooked rice. Tinned tuna. Ate both with his fingers. Slept.
Place
wouldn't get properly warm. Better than the cell.
No, don't
remember.
Slept
again, slept as long as he could, lay in somebody else's bed
and stared at the ceiling. Wanted vodka. Wanted anything,
anything but what he had.
If he
couldn't be human, at least he could be an animal, concerned
only with shelter, food, and sleep.
1990
- Helsinki, 24th-25th December
"I
wanna ... wanna shpeak to the Baronesh. Ish Dan. Dan McFadyen."
Added, remembering her world knew manners, "Please. I
know ish Chrishmas, but ish important."
A miracle,
they seemed to get her. Perhaps his name carried a meaning
he was not aware of at this moment in time. Finally hearing
the click of the phone.
"Ma'm?"
Before she acknowledged the call.
"Yes?
Dan, why do you call?" Her voice as pristine as ever,
familiar sounds, stability. Unlike the vodka, which only offered
him tears. Too much like the Russian.
"Do
you … do you need shomeone to guard you? Shomewhere bad?
Dangerous? I need to get out of here." He tried to stop
slurring his words, to get his act together, but the empty
bottle on the floor too much of a foe to conquer.
"Dan,
why do you ask?" Slightly alarmed her voice, but he failed
to notice. Failed to answer, in fact, held the phone, stared
at the wall.
He'd
never felt so empty in all his life. Alone. Even emptier than
death had been.
"Dan?"
A minute had passed, her voice became urgent. "Dan, speak
to me. What is wrong?"
His vision
returned in increments. Wall, to table, to floor, to bottle,
to hand.
"He'sh
gone." Empty, dejected.
"Who?
What do you mean? Dan, you have to explain this to me."
He clung
to her voice, the unwavering constant. He'd had just a few
hours. Hopes and wishes, all of them had come true. Almost
two years of fighting, never resigning. Then at last, at long
last. How Vadim had stepped out of the car. Snow breaking-sliding
beneath his boots.
He'd
never forgotten the eyes. Pale. Ice. Sometimes dark as a frozen
lake, beckoning closer, daring to cross the thin surface.
And he'd always accepted the challenge.
"He's
gone."
She should
understand. There was only one, just one who could have come
- and gone.
"Dan?"
Her voice again, he'd almost forgotten the line was still
open. "Dan, I send you my driver. You just wait there.
He will pick you up in fifteen minutes."
So she
knew.
"Aye,
Ma'm."
A click,
and the line went dead. He put the phone down, stared at his
calloused hand. The good one.
Lapushka.
Merry
fucking Christmas, Dan.
Perhaps
it was the vodka that made him cry.
1990
- Helsinki, 25th December. Christmas Day
The world
did not look any better on Christmas day morning. Dan woke
curled up on the couch in one of the visitor rooms in the
embassy, and someone had placed a blanket over him. A crystal
carafe with water and a fine glass stood on a mahogany table
beside him on an inlaid tray, together with a packet of tablets
that looked like alka seltzer and aspirin.
Dan tried
to sit up, groaned, his head was pounding like a whorehouse
on a Saturday night. Clutching his forehead, he managed to
get vertical, stabilising himself for a moment. Peered at
the tablets, didn't give a damn what they were as long as
they provided some relief.
He was
gone.
Those
three words hammering through his mind. Worse than the headache,
more debilitating than any hangover. Dan reached for water
and pills, popped a handful, washed them down with the water.
He wiped his hand across his face, tried to brush away a moment
of acute embarrassment, remembering tears, crying in front
of her, he had been unable to stop it. Shit. Couldn't be helped.
Pushed the memory aside.
Gone.
He closed
his eyes, listened to the pounding in his head, at least it
told him he was alive. Everything else empty, numb and terrifyingly
lost. He'd stepped across the threshold of pain, even Vadim's
hour of execution and the bitch's blackmail seemed to pale.
He hadn't learned how to cope with such hurt and its magnitude
was overwhelming. So he shut off, forced everything down,
and locked away any feeling. Better to be dead inside.
Empty.
Dan was
sitting with his head in his hands, blanket half thrown onto
the floor, when a knock on the door disturbed his abject misery.
The door opened after a moment, he could hear heels clicking
across the parquet, coming closer, until they stopped right
in front of him. He knew who it was before he even looked
up.
"I
believe you could do with a strong coffee." Baroness
de Vilde sounded just as ever. Nothing seemed to perturb the
precise consonants and elongated vowels.
Dan took
the bone china cup from her hands, tried to smile his thanks,
failed, gave up pitifully. Too empty. "Thanks, Ma'm."
Gone.
Vadim was gone.
The coffee
was black, strong and overly sweet, just as he liked it. Funny
how this upper-class lady had turned into the closest to a
friend he had ever had.
He drank
the first few sips in silence, while she pulled one of the
lounge chairs close. Sat down and watched him patiently. As
ever pristine and elegantly dressed. Impossible to imagine
her with her feathers ruffled.
Dan looked
at her; the scruffy, worn-out soldier with fucked-up body
- and the grey-haired lady, epitome of British peerage and
perfection. His gaze transfixed on her hair, as stiffly coiffed
as always, wearing the grey helmet of superiority with inimitable
style. The corner of his mouth twitched, but then he remembered
seeing her once in disarray. He'd never found out what she
had been shouting before his body succumbed to agony and unconsciousness.
She met
his gaze with unwavering calm. "Dan, are you still adamant
to be put to work in the most dangerous place I can find?"
He took
his time, waited until the mortar attack in his head subsided,
before carefully nodding.
Manicured
hands folded in her lap, she nodded, a simple gesture. "I
thought you would." She smiled briefly, tinged with an
odd melancholy. "I have never known you to waver once
you have made a decision. However, I do feel I have to enquire
about the wisdom of your decision."
"I
can't Ma'm." He tried to shake his head, aborted the
movement when a wave of nausea rolled over him.
"You
can't what, Dan? Please explain."
"I
can't stay here, can't go on. I tried to explain last night
but I guess I was too drunk." Dan dropped his aching
head into his hands, staring straight ahead onto the floor,
while she waited, patiently.
"Ma'm,"
Lifting his head gingerly after a long silence, "I can't
even explain what is happening inside of me. Don't know if
there is more hurt or pain, or fear, or anger, or if there
is simply absolutely nothing."
She still
just listened, her intelligent eyes resting with a gentle
expression on Dan's weary appearance.
"I
guess … there is just nothing. Nothing at all."
Dan's gaze slid off her face, until it dropped onto the ring
in her lap. The engagement ring. Love lost, never found. Perhaps
she would understand? "I can't go on. I haven't got the
strength anymore." He murmured, never lifting his eyes.
"Not right now."
She nodded
gently, leaning forward to place her finely manicured hand
onto his own that had been lying forlorn on his knee. This
time he turned his hand and simply took hers. Holding those
elegant fingers in his own calloused ones, and taking strength
from the touch.
"I
could search for him for you, I would find him." She
said very quietly after a long while, but he knew from her
voice that she was as aware of his answer as he was.
"No.
Please don't." Dan finally lifted his head, still holding
her hand, just for a little while longer. "I can't. I
can't do this again. I just can't." The sense of utter
defeat permeated his being: body and mind, and every thought
he was still capable of.
"I
understand." And he knew that she did. Knew from her
slight nod, her strangely sad smile, and the way she squeezed
his hand before letting go of it. "I have already made
some enquiries and I can assure you that there are places
where your expertise will be more than welcome, and the financial
reward is substantial."
Dan shook
his head slightly, carefully. He was not interested in money,
could not care less. Just away, away from there, even if it
meant leaving the only true friend he had ever had. Yet the
prospect of active duty, of living on the edge once more,
gave him something other than the empty abyss inside. He felt
himself pulled towards a purpose that promised more than just
bottles of booze and a sad excuse for an ex soldier who had
got fucked over by the world and resented its existence.
"Thank
you, Ma'm. I knew I could count on you." He meant it.
Meant more than the words seemed to convey, but she'd understand.
"Loyalty
brings forth loyalty in return." She smiled, alluding
to a day, almost three years ago.
"I
was just doing my job, Ma'm", Dan replied, his standard
answer.
Her nod
being the equally standard reply - they both knew, a wordless
understanding.
He emptied
the coffee, ignored the churning in his bowels and the creeping
sickness that accompanied the hangover.
"When
are you looking to relocate, Dan?" Returning to the focus
of their conversation, she held out her hand for the empty
cup.
He handed
it to her, did not hesitate a moment with his answer. "As
soon as possible. I cannot bear to be here any longer."
"Yes,
I understand," and once again he knew that she did. "I
will arrange for you to be on a plane before the New Year."
She stood up, smoothed her skirt. "I was told that Iraq
is the most dangerous place to be in 1990." Adding, quietly,
"If this is what you want."
"Aye,
Ma'm. It is where I need to be."
She nodded,
her expression inscrutable as she turned, but stopped, slowly
retraced her steps and for a moment her carefully guarded
features changed into the concerned face of a friend
"Please,
don't get yourself killed, Dan."
He looked
up and nodded, a silent promise. No suicidal missions born
out of desperation.
If he
could help it.
1990
- Sweden, 27th December
A bright
light in his eyes. Vadim awoke startled, squinting against
the light that made him remember harsh words and a faceless
silhouette, the interrogation room. He rolled to the side,
fell onto his knees, heard somebody speak, startled, moved
away. He was breathing hard, body forced into a reaction it
hardly remembered how to perform.
He was
cold, cold and hungry and felt like a bear prodded from the
cave. Not awake, couldn't react while the stress pounded in
his ears. Felt helpless. His hands were untied. He could move,
could stretch, could stand up.
Somebody
said something, the torch was lowered, and he saw two men
stand in his camp, looking around with obvious distaste. It
was cold inside, cold enough for their breath to mist in the
room. Uniforms. Young, fresh faces.
One said
something. He didn't understand, just looked at him, the one
with the torch. The question was repeated, the one behind
the first one - they must be police, thought Vadim - said
something and unbuttoned the leather holster, all obvious
for him. Vadim knew that language. The other cop asked something,
then took handcuffs from his belt. He was taken into custody.
Again. Vadim looked at the gun, saw how the cop saw that glance
and pulled the weapon. Taking no risks.
He stood
up, slowly, the one with the torch stepped up, indicated for
him to turn around, Vadim did, a hand between his shoulder
blades pushed him to the wall, insistent. They took his wrists
and closed the cool metal around them. He was patted down,
the coat, the trousers, they even checked the boots and his
collar. Paused in between, and Vadim detected disgust. Not
smelling too good. No emotion.
He was
marched outside, through the blue snow. The lake glistened
with ice. He was hungry. Hungry and cold.
They
made him get into a car. It was warm. The radio was on. An
English song. It sounded fast. 'Cold on a mission so fall
on back. Let 'em know that you're too much. And this is a
beat uh you can't touch'.
Repetitive.
But those were words he understood. He leaned against the
door and went back to half-sleep, not giving a fuck about
anything. He just didn't have the strength even to wonder.
He assumed they'd take him deeper into the forest and shoot
him there.
The car
stopped on a cobbled market place. A huge Christmas tree right
in the middle. They made him get out, brought him inside a
warm, brightly lit building.
He squinted,
smelled coffee, saw a few cops look up. The two men who had
brought him in said something, jokingly, brought him through.
One made a phone call, the other sat him down on a wooden
bench and took the cuffs off. Offered him a plastic cup with
coffee, almost in an afterthought. Vadim took it, warmed his
hands, realized from the way the liquid burned just how cold
he was. Looked up.
The cop
spoke to him again. He didn't understand the language. Not
that he wanted to. He didn't care. They could shoot him already.
The cop shook his head, asked something over his shoulder,
the other policeman was still speaking on the phone, and answered.
He tried a weak smile, but Vadim could see he was slightly
flustered. Tried a different language. Nothing. Vadim looked
up, then dropped his gaze. It took too much concentration.
He didn't care.
They
marched him into a cell and there was a flutter of panic at
the tiles and the bunk that was bolted to the wall and the
floor. Vadim didn't like the look of the tiles. He breathed
hard, felt his body react, knew it made no difference. Knew
it made no difference if he was afraid or not. No power. They
could make him yield. All he did was invite pain.
The cop
looked at him, and Vadim saw something strange in the man's
face. He was in his early twenties, blonde hair, almost translucent
hair and lashes. Vadim shook his head. "Nyet." The
closest he could get to asking for mercy.
The policeman
shouted something down the corridor, and two more cops arrived.
Vadim thought they would force him in, beat him into submission.
So much for daring to resist. He stepped in, tried to undo
the damage. Hoped they'd see he complied.
But they
just stood around him, as if regarding an exotic animal hauled
in from the forest. One had a small book and leaved through
it, tried out the sounds in there before speaking.
"You
... Russian?" In Russian. Vadim looked up, saw the strange
little parade of uniformed men trying to talk to him. Couldn't
quite get why. Why they bothered. He nodded.
Somebody
said something, and one of the cops bolted towards the door.
Vadim looked after him. Wished they would shut the door and
forget about him.
They
didn't. Eventually, a bearded man with glasses showed up,
accompanied by the cop who had left. Vadim suspected they
were bored out of their skulls that they lingered around.
This place did seem very peaceful.
"Good
evening", said the man, in Russian. Hardly an accent.
"I'm the local Russian teacher."
Vadim
nodded.
"I
understand you are Russian?"
You don't
understand, thought Vadim. He sat down on the bunk.
"These
policemen need to take your personal details", said the
teacher, and he was being polite.
Name,
rank, number.
The teacher
looked confused, then seemed surprised, unpleasantly surprised.
Said something to the cops, who seemed to cool towards him.
Something like: He is a soldier.
"Vadim
Petrovich Krasnorada?"
Vadim
nodded.
"What
are you doing here? Did you run away? Are you a convict?"
He talked to the cops again, nodded. "Listen, Vadim.
Do you understand what I am saying?"
Vadim
looked up. "Tired", he said.
Hungry,
too. He wanted to lie down and sleep.
"You
should wash and have new clothes", said the teacher.
"They also want to have the doctor have a look at you.
Come. You can sleep later." Talking as if to a child.
Vadim
thought that doing what he was told was easier than resisting.
They brought him to another tiled room, and again that tightness
in his chest, the thought that it would be easy to wash blood
away here. Took off his coat, undressed. He couldn't remember
when he had been naked the last time. Had been much too cold.
Had needed all the blankets and the mattress to insulate.
The cop
said something as Vadim pulled the jumper over his head. Dropped
it. Didn't have enough focus to fold it. He didn't think they'd
allow him to keep the clothes. The teacher nodded, then looked
at him. "He says he might have something that fits, but
only barely." Vadim took the shirt off as well, bowed
down to open the boots, let his body do this. It remembered
how to do this. Took less effort. Don't think.
Pulled
down his trousers, his pants. He was thin he realized as he
opened the belt. The cop gave him some kind of shower gel,
started the water for him. Both left the room. Vadim stood
under the hot water and let it run down his body. Felt something
creep to the surface, something he didn't want. Forced himself
to wash, noticed the grime under his fingernails, the stickiness
on his body. Washed away. He should make use of the water
while it lasted.
It was
much warmer than he had expected, and he began to sweat, felt
his heart pound. Felt a shadow of something large move under
the surface. Water. Heat.
As nobody
came to summon him, he eventually stopped. Saw his toes, which
looked half frozen. Fingers swollen and discoloured. The wrists.
Raw. Swollen. The cold had been pretty bad.
Took
the towel. It smelled fresh. Dried himself. Kept the damp
towel in front of his body. Remembered he loved the shower.
Loved water. Somebody knocked on the door. That courtesy was
ridiculous. Vadim had no strength to laugh.
The Russian
teacher again, and the cop. The latter said something, nodding
approval. The teacher seemed to wonder whether to translate,
then let it be. They gave him pants and trousers, all too
wide, but the length was right, the jeans comfortable, frayed,
soft and firm. A jumper, knitted, colourful. Vadim was suddenly
warm. He even sweated. Socks. Military surplus.
They
brought him back into the cell and there was another man.
The doctor, the teacher explained. The whole village bourgeoisie
was there. Vadim did not resist, was prodded, the man checked
on his toes and fingers - he'd keep them, the Russian teacher
said, but it was damned close.
Then
a sharp intake of breath as the doctor was placing the stethoscope
on his back. Said something.
The teacher
cleared his throat. Said the word. Pizda. Cunt.
They
talked amongst themselves, then the teacher asked: "Were
you tortured?"
Vadim
shrugged. What did it matter. He waited, breathed as he was
told, then the doctor nodded, said something. The teacher
smiled. "He says you should be alright, just a bronchitis.
Nothing he can do about the rest." They talked, the doctor
left. Vadim sat down heavily on his bunk, pulled the jumper
back over his body.
Pizda.
The KGB had liked that. He shuddered.
"Are
you alright?" asked the teacher.
Vadim
didn't look up. Feared he would see the bars at the iron door.
Wanted to see nothing.
"You
are here for breaking and entering. They thought you were
… vandalizing. Then they thought you were a tramp. Well,
technically, you are a tramp." The teacher tried to meet
his gaze.
Vadim
turned his head away. "I don't care about going to prison."
As long as they don't hit me. As long as I am not alone. It
is so difficult to think when nobody's there. But these people
talked an awful lot.
The teacher
seemed flustered. "They are getting in touch with the
embassy. They should pick you up."
And all
for nothing. Vadim nodded. He'd almost frozen to death, he
was better off locked away somewhere. Anywhere. Whatever.
He was tired, pulled his legs up on the bunk, reached for
the folded blanket. Heavy wool. Lay down and turned to face
the tiled wall. Felt a shudder run through his body. The memory
of being cold. They would come and pick him up. They had broken
him, and shown him he could never get up and walk again. Never
walk away. He just didn't have the strength. Not a bone left
in his body.
He closed
his eyes. Sleep. So tired.
*
* *
The door
opened and the cop came in. He kept checking on him, mostly
when Vadim had convinced himself that the world consisted
of this cell and found a strange consolation in that fact.
He could forget about the world outside. There was a toilet,
there was food, and he wasn't cold. Heaven was a place without
pain.
Vadim
knew by now that the word that people used for this man was
his name. Manke. The young guy who had found him. Had handcuffed
him. Something about that should trigger something inside,
a kind of humour, but Vadim didn't feel it. He glanced up.
Manke
leaned against the wall. Keys on his belt.
Easy
to attack him, take the keys and escape. The man carried enough
things to be able to survive. A gun. Keys. A torch. Radio.
This police station had enough to ensure survival. Bash his
face in, take the stuff, run away. He could even take him
hostage.
And what
for?
At least
he hadn't brought the teacher this time. Manke talked with
hands and feet, and Vadim understood the basics. His Pushtu
and Dari had never progressed beyond that level.
Manke
studied him, then shook his head. "Do you speak English?
Maybe a little?"
Vadim
looked up, and saw that Manke interpreted that as a yes.
"We
have a problem", the cop said. "You don't exist."
He paused, as if waiting for a reaction, but Vadim merely
looked at him. "We got in touch with your people. The
Soviet … uhm, Russian embassy. It's all a bit of a mess
at the moment. But they never heard of you."
Vadim
opened his lips, then shook his head and lowered his gaze.
That was it. They had kicked him out for good and forgotten
he had ever existed. Worse than a traitor, worse than a deserter,
and worse than death. It should hurt, but it didn't. They
had wiped their hands off him.
"Now,
the boss sent me to ask you your real name."
Torture.
Vadim felt his shoulders tense, couldn't breathe for a long
moment. He had been a fool to expect that to stop. He was
in their hands, they wouldn't let him go like that.
"But
it's funny you gave your rank and number." The cop smiled.
"Why should you make up a number? That's the part that
doesn't fit. I mean, ex-majors that get here for breaking
and entering. If you were insane, you'd be the General Secretary.
If you wanted to keep a low profile, why give a rank at all?"
Manke shook his head again. "You wouldn't want to look
like a deserter. No, you are ex-military. And that is where
you have the scars from."
Vadim
looked up. The reasoning was simple, straightforward, and
betrayed much more common sense than he had encountered for
ages.
"But
we need to confirm your identity. Any pointers?"
"For
prison?"
Manke
raised his eyebrows, finally hearing him speak. "You
did some substantial damage in that place, like breaking the
door. We are in touch with the owners, and they should be
returning in a week. They are in Sicily, catching some sun."
He shook his head. "Granted, it kept you from freezing
to death."
"Can't
fault me that, huh?"
Manke
laughed. "Are you Vadim Krasnorada? Seriously. Is that
your name? Are you Russian?"
The question
and answers thing almost became a game. There had been times
when he would have answered something like "Do I sound
like a fucking Ukrainian", but the time for that kind
of joke was over. He just looked at the man.
"Okay,
I'll call that a 'yes'." Manke nodded. "I will find
out who you are, Major. You are not a ghost. People leave
tracks."
Spetsnaz
don't.
1990
- Sweden, 31st December. New Year
The police
station was nearly deserted, apart from Manke. Nobody else
in the cells.
In this
kind of place, they didn't keep drunks in the cells for long.
They were admonished, fined, then they drove them home. This
town dealt with crime by slapping offenders on the wrist,
because there was nothing serious to deal with. Vadim realized
why he had caused a minor sensation when they caught him.
All other offenders seemed to be neighbours that had had a
bad day. And were treated exactly like neighbours. He wasn't.
Manke
was just measuring coffee powder into a filter. Vadim preferred
the smell to the taste, but coffee was always something one
could warm the hands on. Paperwork on Manke's desk. Nothing
that seemed to be connected to him. Missing people reports,
yes, but the one he could see was about a teenage girl with
braces and a ponytail high up on her head that failed very
much to look sassy.
He sat
down in front of the desk. The calendar, 31st. December, New
Year's Eve in 1990. Everything was falling apart. Had been
for years. He shook his head.
"Even
though you seem to like it in your cell, I'm a little lonely",
said the cop, shut the coffee machine and flicked the switch.
It began to make gargling noises. "You mind being company?"
Vadim
shrugged. "Do you have food?"
Manke
nodded. "Some pizza. Yogurt in the fridge. Uhm. Beef
jerky somewhere in the desk."
Vadim
nodded. "Will do."
Manke
prepped two mugs with tourist motifs with milk and sugar and
sat down. Vadim suspected he had got the New Year's shift
because he had no family or didn't mind.
"I
spent quite a bit of time in the library", said Manke
suddenly. "You know, old-fashioned investigation."
He reached behind himself and dropped a folder on his desk.
Vadim looked up, but didn't touch it. "Not easy. Did
you get kicked out because you threatened to kill him?"
"No."
Maybe. He could feel the old anger stir again.
"Boris
Onishchenko won a silver medal in modern pentathlon, '72 in
Munich." Manke shook his head. "Not exactly Olympic
spirit."
"He
tried to force it", said Vadim. "Guess coach knew.
But we were on fifth position, and … were expected to
bring medal." I was desperate to get a medal, too. I
wanted all the work to pay off. He shook his head. Strange
that those thoughts were still there. After all those years.
One shot at glory, and then disqualified for cheating, sent
home.
"Who
won gold?"
"British",
said Vadim. Dan's people. Call that fucking irony.
"That
must have hurt."
"Worse
than being shot."
Manke
looked as if he had somehow forgotten to gloat about the fact
he had solved the riddle. As if that disgrace, that humiliation
was somehow stronger than the intellectual victory. Then again,
he didn't look like he had gloating inside him.
"I
wasn't ready before that", said Vadim, kept looking at
the folder and knew it held photocopies of what Manke had
found. The whole sordid story of a bunch of model athletes
that had been sent packing because they had acted as if the
Olympic spirit was a myth. Winning at all cost. The Olympics,
the Cold War, fucking Afghanistan. Victory was expected, punishment
for failure imminent. A matter of national pride. "And
I never got ready again after that."
"They
could have sent you to Moscow. That's where you were born."
Vadim
shook his head. "That was it. Last one."
Manke
leaned back, regarded him. "Do you think you could have
won?"
Vadim
inhaled, thought of what the masseur had said. He could win.
Of course. Never impossible, not because of any of his flaws.
It was luck, in the end, blind chance. He only regretted he
hadn't killed the cheater. That was a worse regret than not
getting a chance to at least try for the medal. He didn't
want to answer that question. It touched too many things.
"I'll never find out."
Manke
got up again and poured steaming coffee into the mugs, put
both down in the middle of the desk. "An Olympic athlete.
I figured you were some kind of swimmer, but that takes the
biscuit." He gave a laugh that seemed not at all mocking.
"Not
that strange. Lots of", spetsnaz, "paras are top
athletes. Comes with job." And how they had gloated how
easy it was, in the teeth of the Cold War, to send dozens
of trained killers into the enemy's capitals and get a feel
for the places. Just in case they had to spearhead the invasion.
He remembered the questions by journalists, about his lieutenant
rank. They must have assumed he wore that like some kind of
honours degree. Krasnorada was too pretty to be evil.
Manke
nodded. "I was thinking. Why does the embassy no longer
remember you?"
Vadim
stared into his coffee. Thought he wanted to return to his
cell, or attack this man, take what he could use and be on
his way. The only thing that kept him from it was that he
had no idea where he should go. It was warm here. He didn't
say anything.
"Well.
First things first. You're in trouble with the law. I figure
I can talk to people, and tell them that they stand to gain
nothing if they press charges. It's not like you carry a lot
of valuables on you. I happen to know the family, it's a small
town. If you're willing to make a gesture, help with some
work, I figure we could fix this without getting too much
law involved. Because you will not come out on top, Vadim."
"Why?"
"The
law doesn't like people without states. You're as illegally
here as you could be. I guess the embassy doesn't remember
you because they just don't want you back. For whatever reason."
"Afganets."
Vadim swallowed hot coffee.
"Afghanistan?
You're a veteran of that war? Did it do something to your
mind? And they threw you on the trash pile, age forty-one,
with no help? Just forgot about you?" He shook his head.
"Shit. That's nasty even by Soviet standards."
No strength
to correct Manke. Close enough. All the other things made
matters only too complicated. Didn't have to tell him about
the crimes, the cleansing, the despair of the last few years.
He had never felt any of those. It was like he had read about
them. None of that was him. "Let me go. I will just vanish."
Manke
shook his head. "You're not Swedish, but I can't just
let you walk out. Without papers, you can't do any legal work.
And how would you feed yourself? Begging?"
Vadim
inhaled. "Just let me go."
Manke
stood, came around his desk, fast movements, much faster than
he had moved before. Vadim's knuckles turned white as he moved
his head to the side. Minimize damage.
Manke
stopped. "What the fuck … did they do to you?"
He crouched, seemed to want to reach for Vadim's hand, but
Vadim knew he'd hit him, only to not be touched. Couldn't
stand touch. Rather be hit in the face. "Don't."
Manke
raised his hands. "Not touching." He stood up and
pulled back for a few steps, sat on the corner of his desk.
"I'll be in touch with the family. I'll sort this out.
My good deed of the week. Fresh air and a little work might
be actually good for you, nothing like it to sort your mind
out." He sat back down and looked at the clock on the
wall. "And have a good 1991."
1990
- Kuwait, 31st December. New Year
Dan had
climbed into the Herc like a child returning to the womb.
Knew and relished the comfort of familiar discomfort. Five
hours, now, sitting in a cacophony of engine noise, amidst
grey plastic along ceilings and walls, interspersed with various
wiring sheathing and the odd bit of masking tape. Disconcerting
for a new recruit, comforting for a disillusioned ex-soldier.
He'd
been lucky, she'd got him onto the next possible flight out
to Baghdad, on the thirty-first of December, with nothing
but a payload of passengers. Temporary seating of aluminium
framework and red webbing was put in position, running along
the outside and down the central spine to form four loose
rows. Uncanny resemblance to the inside of a very long Landrover
- mega-wheel base. Basic, but functional. The kind of barren
environment that soothed the emptiness of Dan's agonized mind.
His luggage
of large bergan and a sports bag with additional necessities
like the vitamin pills and extra nutrients that he needed
for his fucked-up guts, packed on pallets with rope netting
stretched over it, at the back, near the rear doors of the
plane. Out of sight - out of mind. All he had taken with him
was the additional equipment he'd bought in a military surplus
and outdoor shop: new shades, boots, socks and survival equipment.
He'd left everything else behind, anything connected with
his life before Christmas Eve, even the string of lapis lazuli
beads. The Baroness had said she'd keep them safe, but he'd
told her to bin the trash.
Couldn't
bear the memories, had been tortured by them for nearly two
years, had finally signed his confession.
The noise
was getting worse the closer they got to the Gulf, or perhaps
it was just his imagination. Dan had tried to get some sleep,
climbing on piles of cargo and rolling up in his sleeping
bag to keep warm, but the thoughts wouldn't let him. He'd
squashed up the yellow ear defenders and pushed them inside
his ear, nodding to the loadmaster before climbing into his
sleeping bag, but even the familiarity of noise and smell,
company of younger soldiers and hard-assed mercs, hadn't helped
to fight the never ending cycle of questions for which he
had no answer. Round and round in a carousel of pain, the
why? and the where? and the when? and back to the why? again.
It fucking
hurt.
He couldn't
even throw himself into he next suicide mission. As much as
that was against his natural survival instinct, right now
it would beat the endless emptiness and numbing pain, but
he'd given his word. Bloody clever bitch, that Baroness, she
knew him better than he did himself. Wouldn't get himself
killed, but hell, he'd get himself at least into trouble,
to feel anything at all.
The loadmaster
issued orders, seemed it was time to land, a quick piss in
the bucket before getting to those makeshift seats, and the
plane descended towards Baghdad.
What
if enemy missiles hit their target while they were circling
down towards the ground? So what. Dan felt nothing. Tough
shit. Occupational hazard. He'd be dead, couldn't be deader
than right now. Impossible superlative of final measures.
The Herc
touched down, vomiting its human load into the desert. British
soldiers, some close security and a handful of insane fuckers
like himself. Dan grabbed his bergan, strapped it onto his
back and snatched the extra bag. Pushed the shades back over
his eyes and stepped into the glaring sun that caught in the
silver streaks of his hair. An old fucker who was out there
to lose himself in the danger.
"Happy
fucking New Year, Dan McFadyen."
1991
- Sweden, March
Vadim
helped with some work when the weather improved. Couldn't
do much at first, tired out too fast, sweating in the forest,
clearing out trees that would be dug up in spring, chainsaw,
axes, piling the wood up. He worked to not think, with a man
and his two cousins, young and very strong.
Seemed
Manke had told them his mind was broken, they were careful
around him, nobody ever approached from behind or patted him
on the shoulder, instead communication was mostly hand signs
and short orders in Swedish that Vadim learned to understand.
Good food, fresh, much better than what he had eaten. His
appetite returned with his strength, still the weakest of
the bunch, runt of the litter, and he needed more rest, but
it was good to only deal with logs, to see those guys fool
around, having fun that was not dark at all, just young people
joking and laughing.
Manke
came to visit every now and then, they talked in Swedish and
Vadim felt this strange hope he could just stay, work in the
forest, no people but the men he worked with, no talk, no
thought. But several weeks later, the piece of forest was
cleared, and there was a small celebration which involved
'oel' - that was beer - and vodka.
One morning
in March, Manke showed up again, in his patrol car, like he
had sometimes brought him clothes, probably asking around
for jumpers and trousers and boots and underwear, and, small
town, had received some used, but sound stuff. "He says
you're a good worker", said Manke and had a walk around
the clearing, breath misting in front of his face, but Spring
made its advance known. The air smelled differently. The days
grew longer. "And you look much better, too. Putting
some muscle back on, eh?" He paused, but Vadim didn't
respond. "Charges dropped. You're still illegal, or we
would just keep you around. Any chance you could apply for
political asylum? Learn the language … and just stay."
"You
don't want that", said Vadim.
"And
why not? We'd find you something to do."
"It's
not political."
"What
did you do, Vadim?" Manke turned to face him. "I
can just taste you're guilty of something, but you don't look
like a criminal. Just don't make sense to me, and I'm a cop,
I don't like that."
"Misconduct.
Dishonourable discharge. Conduct unbecoming."
"Those
are pretty words for something that's less pretty, huh?"
Vadim
inhaled. "I can't remember. It was bad."
Manke
shook his head. "If I let you go … I mean, you could
have walked away often enough, but now it's as official as
we can make it. What are you going to do?"
He'd
considered that. Crime. He didn't want to do any of that stuff
here, robbing and killing. Options, but he didn't want to
disappoint the cop. He had considered joining one of the big
tankers, he'd go further down the coast, find a way to get
to the big harbours, Riga, Rotterdam, be just a pair of hands.
They might not care about papers. Might end up in the tropics,
vanish, nameless like an animal, somewhere. Anywhere. Didn't
have the determination to follow through with that.
Had considered
a bullet, but it was too good a feeling to lift logs and stand
there in the snowy forest, feeling breath flow freely. As
long as he could feel that - as little as it was - he didn't
want to end it. Didn't have a gun, and didn't like the idea
of cutting or hanging. He wanted to make sure it worked.
Maybe.
Maybe that. If that was the final option. There had to be
ways to get a gun. Find a remote place, leave even the last
people behind, and do it when nobody would miss him. Nobody
would find him.
One thing
he had to do before he could do that, though. "Can you
make phone call for me? Dubai. Baroness de Vilde. She's British
ambassador. Ask her … whether she would see me."
She had to be the only person that he could reach and that
knew where Dan was. He had to tell him, sorry, but he still
didn't feel, that everything was over, there were just no
emotions, and he didn't want pity. Couldn't bear being touched
in any way. Hoped Dan would have a good life and find somebody.
He'd deserved better than being walked out on. He had to admit
the guilt, before he could steal away.
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