Black Wolf, page 5
Her parents had been aware since Mel’s childhood of her recognition abilities, which had alternately surprised and perplexed them. At first, it was little things, like recognizing adults she hadn’t seen since she was a toddler. Or how once, when Mel was shopping with her mother in a large mall, she’d waved to a teenage girl who’d only frowned and quickly walked away.
“How did you remember that girl?” her mother asked. “Her family moved away from Houston the summer you turned four!” Mel had shrugged, but the question had lingered uneasily for months.
For all her easy acceptance of Mel’s uncommon ability to recognize specific individuals, her mother had had no idea that, from that day forward, Mel would be able to recognize not only that girl, whether she’d turned forty or eighty, but every other person Mel’s gaze had fallen on in that crowded shopping mall too. As Mel herself came to understand this phenomenon, she kept the knowledge more and more to herself. Alice was a free spirit who believed in ghosts and the occult. If she’d known the extent of her daughter’s abilities, Mel imagined she’d have spent many more hours of her childhood being dragged to visit mediums and psychics, looking for her mother’s favorite thing, a supernatural explanation for the unexplainable. That and burning sage to keep the evil spirits away.
Her father, Walter Donleavy, on the other hand, seemed to understand intuitively that there was more to Mel’s gift than she let on. Playing his usual role as an opposite to Alice, he encouraged Mel to keep her ability hidden. To use it when and where she could, but not to reveal it to anyone. He was a kind man, but a reserved, stoic one; he’d seen firsthand how the populace often reacted with hostility to the things they could not easily explain. And he knew all too well mankind’s capacity for violence.
The year Mel turned twelve, she learned from one of Walter’s deputies that, as a young cop, her father had been a part of the search for Ed Gein, the Butcher of Plainfield, one of the most sensational serial killers in the country, and certainly the most infamous in Wisconsin’s history. Walter had been there on that cold day in 1957 when the police entered Ed’s home and soon after arrested him. When Mel confronted Walter about the arrest, he refused to talk about it at first. Mel persisted, finally wearing him down, and, while he wouldn’t give details about what he’d seen in that small farmhouse, he revealed that it had looked like the inside of a slaughterhouse. From that moment on, it had made him obsessive about teaching his daughter, his only child, how to defend herself. He would often turn ordinary household items into weapons—a wooden spoon applied with enough force to a vulnerable area, such as an eye, an ear, or the throat, was as deadly as the sharpest knife—and insisted that Mel practice eluding his capture.
It had started as a game, a kind of hide-and-seek through the forests, streams, and lakes surrounding their home, regardless of the season. But as Mel got older, they played farther and farther afield, with sometimes frightening seriousness. It was only after her father told her about the Plainfield Butcher that she understood what had driven him to prepare her this way for life in the outside world.
What Walter didn’t know, at least not right away, was that contrary to protecting Mel from the harsh realities of the world, his revelation kindled an insatiable curiosity in her. Mel became obsessed with the men who came to be known as serial killers, and their methods. She kept newspaper clippings and true-crime novels hidden in her room the way her teenage friends hoarded magazines like Penthouse and Playboy. The stories both horrified and fascinated her, and she would often pester her father’s deputies for details.
To Walter, his daughter’s fascination was ghoulish, almost a betrayal of everything he’d tried to keep locked away inside his own troubled memories. But to Mel, her father had given her a sense of purpose. What if she wasn’t just a freak, but someone who could help identify the killers? She’d studied photographs of the murderers, instantly committing them to memory as she did every face. But try as she might, she couldn’t unlock the code, the telltale signs, the road map in their features that might reveal a brutal killer. In fact, other than an occasional deadness about their eyes, there were many, such as the good-looking Ted Bundy, who gave no clue that behind their smile lived a sadist. It was a source of frustration that Mel couldn’t recognize the inner man as easily as the outer.
Mel learned over time how to hide not only her uncanny recognition skills, but also the internal conflict they often caused—was she gifted, as her mother stated, or was she a freak of nature? It wasn’t until her first months at Quantico that she understood. Either way, she’d had her earliest training at being a spy: hiding her true self from the public.
Reluctantly, Mel opened her eyes and stepped out of the tub. The Planeta towels were thin and scratchy, but at least they smelled clean, and after she’d dressed in a fresh set of clothes, she felt relaxed, if bone-weary with jet lag. The last thing she wanted to do was go to a dinner hosted by a chemical-nuclear engineer. Even if he was an Agency contact.
She regarded herself in the bathroom mirror and sighed. In her simple slacks and button-down cotton shirt, she looked exactly like what she was pretending to be. A secretary. She’d inherited Alice’s pale skin and brown eyes. But where Alice’s hair was Gaelic red, Mel’s was a dark brown. Black Irish, Walter had called her, teasingly.
Over the years, men had told Mel she was beautiful, but only because there was no better word for a grown woman who still looked like a garden fairy. Women sometimes found her otherworldly attractiveness disquieting—eyes a little too wide apart, a dreamy slackness to her mouth—what her mother had called fey. Mel’s gentle demeanor belied a well-practiced self-reliance and often surprised, and dismayed, the men who’d mistaken her for helpless. She came to relish the surprise of this reveal—a quick takedown in a self-defense training, a sharp-tongued putdown to the women who bullied her, a well-timed thumb twist for the hand that sought to grope her on the train.
She sighed again. The lipstick she’d given Katya was her only departure from the restrictive Agency parameters: utilitarian apparel, monotone shoes, sparse jewelry, little makeup, and no perfume. Nothing that would call attention to Mel and prevent her from blending into the woodwork. As if such a thing were possible when her haircut alone would scream American! to anyone who wasn’t blind. But the point was not to hide her Westernness, but rather to diminish her importance within that category.
Mel thought about brushing her shoulder-length hair back into a ponytail but was too tired to be bothered.
She picked up her purse and slipped into the hallway, leaving her key with the hall monitor, the same woman who’d been seated there earlier. There would be a different woman later tonight, as they sat in twelve-hour shifts. The monitor didn’t smile, but she did nod, saying, “Dobre vecher,” as Mel waited for the elevator. Good evening.
Mel was the first of her group in the lobby. Hearing raucous male laughter, she wandered over to peer in the door to the place Katya had called dangerous. It was a spacious room with a curved bar at one end, a raised stage at the other, and clusters of café tables and club chairs in the middle.
Several groups of men were gathered, already well on their way to being drunk, all speaking German. A few young women sat among them. Mel watched one rise, darting away from a drinker’s clumsy grab. The woman had been smiling at the older man’s antics, but as soon as she turned away, the smile vanished, replaced by stone-cold indifference. As she neared, Mel was mesmerized; the woman was one of the most beautiful she’d ever seen, outside of a celebrity magazine. She had high Slavic cheekbones, full lips, and thick blond hair. Her dress was silky, the hem at midthigh, and she was fluidly graceful in the way that only a classically trained dancer could be.
The woman caught Mel looking at her and the indifference turned to defiance. On her way out of the bar, she purposely clipped Mel’s shoulder with her own.
“Urodlivaya Amerikanskaya suka,” she whispered. Ugly American bitch.
She turned to disappear into the women’s toilet, leaving a scent of strong floral perfume.
A bit shaken, Mel withdrew to sit in the lobby. There was still no sign of her colleagues. She looked again at the sparkly sign over the bar’s dark door. It read PLANETA MIR. Planet Peace.
Within a few moments, Dan emerged from the elevator with Ben and Julie. They looked as tired as Mel felt and she was relieved when Dan said, “This is going to be a short evening, comrades. We all need some sleep.”
Anton was alone in the van, hurriedly screwing the top back onto a large thermos filled with what smelled like chicken soup. When Dan asked him in English where Elena was, Anton waited for Julie to translate before growling in Russian, “At home. Having a real dinner.”
William Cutler’s apartment was a fifteen-minute drive away. Mel was alarmed to discover it sat across the street from the KGB building.
“Cuts down on transport time,” Dan said, winking at Mel’s dismay and climbing out of the van. He led the group into an extravagant lobby with marble floors and wrought iron balustrades. On Dan’s insistence, a sleepy-looking desk clerk, sighing, locked the front door and accompanied them up to the third floor in an old-fashioned cage-style elevator.
“This is a damn sight better-looking than the usual Soviet buildings I’ve seen in Minsk,” Ben said.
“The Germans destroyed most of the city during the Second World War,” Dan said. “Afterward, the Russians used German prisoners of war to rebuild. That’s why there was at least an attempt at beauty.”
The desk clerk led them down a short hallway to a heavy oak door, where he knocked loudly a few times with the back of his knuckles. His sleeve was rolled up. Mel noticed the faint grayish numbers tattooed on one forearm just before he turned to face them. “Yes, the Germans were quite cultured.” His English was perfect, if heavily accented. “You should have seen their gardens outside of Dachau. I saw them, through a barbed wire fence.”
Dan had the decency to look embarrassed and Julie stared, visibly distressed, after the old man’s retreat back to the elevator.
The door swung open and a rotund man with an abundant fuzz of white hair and a full white beard greeted them.
“Hello, hello,” he said, motioning them inside. “I’m William Cutler. Welcome.”
The apartment was spacious, with crafted oak paneling along the walls and intricate plaster moldings on the ceiling. Mel was relieved to see it was filled with worn, but comfortable, sofas and chairs in muted colors. A far cry from some of the stiff, garish furniture at the hotel. A Steinway piano glowed softly against a bay window.
William bustled to take jackets and sweaters, crushing them against his round belly as he ushered his guests deeper into the living room. On a trolley bar were bottles of whiskey and vodka, and on the coffee table were platters of meats, cheeses, and smoked fish. There was even a bowl of black caviar glistening wickedly on top of shaved ice.
However Mel had imagined their Agency contact, it certainly wasn’t as a stand-in for Santa Claus.
“I think I may have insulted your desk clerk,” Dan said, handing William his suit coat as well.
“Oh?” William asked, peering sharply over his glasses. “I wouldn’t worry. If the Nazis and the Stalinists couldn’t kill him, I don’t think a few thoughtless words from you will. Besides, he’ll be living in Israel next year.” He turned to Julie. “Isn’t that what we always say at Passover? Next year in Jerusalem?”
A series of conflicting emotions washed over Julie’s face, ending in a reluctant half smile, and she sank down onto the sofa with a small nod.
William took drink orders and, as soon as everyone had been served, joined them in the chair closest to the food. “Eat, eat, please.”
Ben had remained staring with some dismay at the platters of animal products, and their host smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. He leapt up, disappeared into the kitchen, and soon returned with a bowl of fresh lettuces, a selection of nuts, and strawberries.
“This is stellar, Dr. Cutler,” Ben said, relieved. “Where did you get the fresh greens?”
Ben was directed to sit in a nearby chair. “Please, call me William. And all good Minskovites have gardens at their dachas.”
“You clever old dog,” Dan said, digging in. “How in the hell did you wrangle a dacha?”
William looked at Mel and smiled with mock shyness. “It’s not really mine. It belongs to my girlfriend, Sveta.”
Mel returned his smile. In the space of a few moments he had shown a masterful grasp of the group in his care. He had effectively deflated Dan’s sense of self-importance while revealing his own Jewish roots to Julie, and had made a considerable effort to make Ben comfortable. She wondered what he was noticing about her.
William heaped his own plate full of food. “So, you met with the minister of external affairs today? He sent the caviar, by the way, so he must have been impressed.”
“Or at least hopeful of our help,” Dan added. “The problem is not going to be with the minister.”
William immediately put his finger to his lips, set his plate aside, and walked to the piano, where he pointed to the strings, miming silence again. “I imagine Academician Shevchenko is not going to be keen on letting you see the entire institute. At least, not at first. But once you get to know him, he’s quite an amiable fellow. Especially in a more relaxed setting.”
He walked over to a lamp and pointed again. “Especially after a few vodkas. I’ll be sure to throw a dinner so you can get to know him. But, for now, let’s not talk business. You must be exhausted. How about I take you all on a walking tour of the city tomorrow morning? It should be a lovely day, and we could all do with the exercise. Especially me.” He patted his stomach, retrieved his plate, and resumed eating.
Mel could feel the vodka tracing heavily through her body. The food was excellent, the fish oily and satisfying, the heavy dark rye bread pungent and filling. It was far better than the lunch they’d had earlier at the Planeta.
William had gotten to his feet again to refill everyone’s glasses with vodka. After topping off Julie’s, he said, “You have the keen appearance of a kibbutznik. It’s in the eyes. There’s steel there.”
Julie gave him a skeptical look. “Yes, I spent a few summers at Ein Gev.”
“Ah, right on the Sea of Galilee. Beautiful.” He finished the vodka in his own glass. “There’s a Greco-Roman city close by called Hippos. Have you seen it?”
Julie nodded.
William removed his glasses to clean the lenses on a napkin. “In Aramaic it’s called Sussita, which is ‘horse’ in the feminine.”
Dan said, “William speaks seven languages. Fluently.”
William grinned roguishly. “Actually, it’s eight. But who’s counting. In Arabic it’s called Qal’at al-Hisn, which means ‘Fortress of the Stallion.’ It’s interesting that fortresses and military might are usually referred to in the masculine. But I think it’s the women who are the most adept at securing peace and security.”
He turned his gaze to Julie. “During the Maccabean rebellion the fort hid the zealots. They were successful in creating an independent Jewish kingdom, in part because they had a vast network of spies.” He touched the side of his nose playfully and then looked pointedly at Mel. “Many of them women.”
“It didn’t end very well for the Jews,” Julie said.
“No,” William said sadly. “It usually doesn’t.”
Julie finished draining her glass. “Cutler’s not a Jewish name.” There was a challenging edge to her tone.
He smiled indulgently. “But Wilhelm Kolwitz is. Born 1927 in Vilna, which was then Poland and is now Lithuania. You can’t get more Jewish than that, which is why I changed it to Cutler after the war. It made things easier.”
William gazed over at Ben, who was holding his vodka glass up to the lamplight, as though inspecting its purity. “Do you like the vodka?”
“Very much,” Ben said, looking relaxed and happy. “I make it a point to try the native spirits as soon as possible.”
“An old-fashioned in Georgia?” William suggested.
Ben looked briefly surprised before adding, “Schnapps in Germany.”
“Jägermeister in Bavaria?”
“Oof,” Ben said, grabbing his stomach. “I’ll never drink Jägermeister again.”
William nodded in sympathy. “I’m with you there, my friend. Have you tried bison-grass vodka yet?”
Ben shook his head.
“You should. It’s a Byelorussian specialty, although traditionally it’s distilled in Poland. Every bottle has one blade of grass in it, which, as you are a vegetarian, should intrigue you.”
Julie pulled a face. “Isn’t all liquor vegetarian, strictly speaking?”
“Of course,” William conceded. He turned back to Ben, one finger pressed against his nose again. “But it has a special, almost sacred, history with Byelorussia. In honor of your first night here, you should try it.”
Dan laughed. “Uh-oh, don’t encourage our young, energetic friend, William.”
William directed a mischievous wink at Ben. “Just have one at the Planeta Mir and tell me tomorrow how you liked it. If you approve, I can get you several bottles to take home.” He brushed the crumbs off his hands and stood. “Well, I think we can call it a night. You all look knackered.”
They gathered their things, and their host escorted them to the door.
“Will nine o’clock be too early? For our tour?” he asked. “I’ll meet you at the hotel.”
Dan nodded. “I think that will be fine. Thank you, William.”
The desk clerk watched the group solemnly as they exited. Dan waved good night, but he didn’t return the gesture. They then spent several minutes searching for the van and discovered it parked on the street half a block away, Anton fast asleep in the driver’s seat. Dan rapped on the window, rousing him, and they all climbed wearily into their seats.
