Jack Womack, page 5
“How close?”
“We are on Raisa now,” said Skuratov, eyeing his own tracker, “and she is but a short ways further.” The beep began, a steady pulse. Jake readied. Between two eight-story hulks I robbed a glimpse of the center’s faraway spires and pastel domes, hazed soft in morningshade.
“Locals’ interaction expected?” fake asked.
“None should harangue,” said Skuratov. “Fine car such as mine can belong only to high Krasnaya member, or so they will fear. Therefore they understand not to give hands-on treatment in untoward manner.” From undercoat he drew a slim black Shrogin machine pistol, an item impossible to procure at any level. “But if podonki approach my crowdtickler will hush them. Jake, be fully prepared. These people very temperamental around those they unavoidably see as their betters.”
Raisa Row’s two-story structures held separate entrances for each flat. Littered mud served as yard, parking lot and playground. “Destination reached,” said the car; he cut the motor. People faded into the buildings’ dark. Skuratov’s fears, as suspected, overblew; I’d sized all surrounding as too nubworn to offer threat.
“She is on ground floor rear of right-hand unit. Proceed without rush around side yard. Keep weapons always visible. Pause at corner to await signal. Once signaled, approach door. Wait. Count three.” He unclicked his gun’s safety. “Hop in, showing big smiles.”
When we decarred we were all nearly muckered flat by the smell, an inescapable blend of bathroom and grave that not even frozen air subdued. The locals, eyeing our ordnance, scattered like roaches in sudden light. Skuratov led, moving as if twotoned feet barely scraped the ground. Midway across I stepped wrong, squashing a teddy bear lying unburied amidst debris. The neighborhood children were rich with imagination beyond their years; the bear’s eye sockets stared blindly towards the sky, its tummy was slashed open and degutted in amateur’s autopsy. America’s touch showed in every land.
“Her windows,” Skuratov whispered, motioning at cornerside to a pair of draped eyes. Gray clouds drew across the sky as a front neared; we threw no shadows over the terrain. He pointed us ahead, and we edged over, skirting the building’s wall, Jake now heading our line.
“One,” Skuratov murmured, “two—”
Before the last number came, before my next breath passed, I noticed the door’s ajarness as a scream rang within. Jake—no bullet flew faster.
3
“CAREFUL,” I SAID, AS IF TO OFFER ADVICE, BUT JAKE WAS DONE before we’d crossed the threshold. Skuratov bore the vision better than I’d have guessed, seeing Jake slash away, tearing the man’s flesh as his burlap and polymer clothes were already torn; Jake doublelooped his chain within his hand to attain double result.
“Jake!” I said. “Enough’s enough. Step away.”
Airborne, he came down heels-first upon the interloper’s head, completing his task; stepping off of his leavings, he began his descent into calm. I sensed adrenaline’s vibrations pulsing through his slim frame. Sucking down a long breath, he stood silent, letting temper fade, shaking his head as if awakening and still finding himself within his dream. His voice returned before he did.
“Women’s rapists try all patience, Luther. Forgive overzealotry.”
“Was robber,” she said; whipping round, she fisted him true at mouthcorner. “Not rapist. I handle you as well.”
Red constellations spotted Jake’s pure white; small, but compact, she slung mean. My mind blanked with instinct; vizzing our objective slipping through our grasp through in-house action, once Jake’s temper reseized, I threw myself between them before he might respond.
“No, Jake, calm—!” Heaving me floorways, sidestepping, he seized her, yanking her close, pressing her against him. As he unclasped, she spat. Ineffable peace lit his wet face from within, and as he closed his eyes, he smiled, his face reddening beneath its glisten. Ungatherable Georgian obscenities fluttered from her mouth like bats from a cave in the night. Jake rounded her armways, holding fast. Skuratov stared on, as if watching a gameshow,
“Priyatno. English, please, Miss Osipova,” he cheerfully said, wiping shoes free of the mess with which they had been splattered. “American friends possess little fluency in such vernacular.”
“Chort!” She banged feet against Jake’s knees; he took her upward, ungrounding her.
“Ah,” said Skuratov, paying respect to Jake’s takeaway. “The boy next door.”
“Rip him raw,” Jake said, bloodfuried anew.
“You did, Jake,” I said. “Possibly he’s not so local, Mal. Krasnaya running deep water, or worse.”
“I’ll examine,” said Skuratov, dropping to his knees, drawing away the fellow’s shirt to onceover the left arm’s underskin. Evidence received awared that Dream Team members wore tattoos; images of a softedged cloud overlain with an everstaring eye.
“What is wanted?” she screamed, serving English laced with heavy accent’s spice. “Go begone.”
“Be peaceful during playtime,” said Skuratov, not looking up.
“Zhrini sapozhnik!”
“Are sedatives wished?” Jake asked; she caught his nose with the back of her skull, but he still smiled, and stroked her waist as he gripped her. While Skuratov pawed the lost one’s belongings, I bug-ran; nothing showed.
“Nullified the first morning here,” she said, seeing my actions. “Americans expect constant stupidity from Russians?”
“Friend of deceased?” asked Skuratov.
“When soot is white.” Driving elbows into Jake’s sides, loosening his hold; pitching forward, she butted me chestways with enormous force, employing those powerful legs and shoulders, staggering me. Jake, wrenching her arms behind her back, applied the cuffs he carried. “Ai, bolit!” she screamed as he drew his bracelets tight against her wrists. He clasped her once more, focusing eyes on hers; as if reacting as bird to snake, she settled at once. My heart’s normal rhythm recovered from its forced solo.
“Pacify or we’ll ride rougher roads,” he said. “Sorry but true.”
“Luther,” said Skuratov, his mood unchanged, as if nothing more had occurred around him than a change of weather. “As judged. Identifications prove him to be ex-army. Lives—lived, to be most accurate—three buildings down. A local alone. A zhid, undoubted, judging from patronym. No surprise.”
“Unmarked even in protective mode?” I asked. “Not Dream Team?”
“Freebooter,” he said. “Nothing more.”
“Why do you khulighani bother me?” Oktobriana asked, her face’s excess color draining. She looked so young but for her slight-slanted eyes; wrinkled bags dropped below her lower lids, weighed her uppers down. “I am facilitator. I don’t retain substance.”
“Does snow retain water?” asked Skuratov. “You are great with substance.”
“There is nothing I can do for you. Please leave me. I wish aloneness.”
“We wish good company. Sound of voice holds ring of truth. But let us see for sure.” He depocketed a small red box; on its surface was a smaller screen. As he shoved it against her cheek lights flashed; she cringed, as if its touch burned. “Stress analyzer sees truth when it creeps out. Let us have useful conversation without tiring repetition or undeliverable threat. Something of interest is here, true?”
“No.” She shivered whenever he pressed his box against her; Jake looked on him deadeyed but kept her still, aware of his job description’s duties whatever his inner preference.
“Yes. Useful tool developed by trusted mentor Alekhine, correct? Resembles videocassette of unnatural make, I believe.”
“Vranyo. Lies and rubbish.”
“Quite unlikely. What have we brought with us in rubbish lying about room? Shall we see?”
“Don’t burrow through my soul,” she pleaded as he pocketed the analyzer—a small red dot remained on her face—and began his search, drawing out dresser drawers, tossing clothes floorways, sending her life ascatter. “What brings you here to plunder?” she asked, still fighting Jake’s embrace.
“To help you,” I said.
“Gospodi. Americans always claim to help when they come to steal and kill.”
Oktobriana’s miserable room was contained by four gray walls, pierced by two doors, one leading out, one leading to the attached bath, and held two broken windows insulated with gum and cloth. Floorboards seesawed skyward when one’s ankle hit the wrong spot. The decorator’s hand showed only in the Big Boy’s portrait hanging above the bed’s dough-thin mattress, an oldstyle print from the period proper, done while he lived, demonstrating his form as he wished to be shown. In the rendering he stood erect in worker’s cap and army greatcoat, on bare promontory, storm-racked heaven backdropping full. Lightning raked all but his watchpoint. With fixed eye he considered the plain beneath his mountain, the great city rising upon the veldt below: Lucifer regarding his kingdom, Kong appraising his jungle. In his own years the Big Boy had sold nothing but himself.
“Who awared you of form and substance?” I asked Skuratov as he busied himself. His lips kept still, as if inferring protection of ones highly placed. Reaching underbed, he extracted a hard clothwrapped lump.
“What have we here?” he said.
“Dlya zhizvi!” she screamed, thrashing against Jake as if to set him ablaze.
“Life threatening?” Skuratov repeated. “Hush, little loud one. Nerves strung tight like violin strings. Let me wander without guidedog.”
Skinning a pillowcase bound tight round a black plastipak, he pried its lid open, revealing what at immediate viz showed as a vid therein nestled. Uncasing, in full light he flashed its lapis lazuli color, its featureless face.
“Too heavy for usual dupe of classic film, I believe. Perhaps useful just the same for—timeshifting, should we say,” he said, palming it as if judging produce. “The Alekhine machine, friends. Many brains at play make marvelous item. Operates on same principle as model, true? Slide into appropriate slot, press appropriate button. Behold wonder.”
“Button and slot of what?” I asked, expecting the answer given, to this day disbelieving.
“Of average home TVC unit,” he said. “Imaginative recycling of existent technology.”
“And what happens upon use?” She gave no response. That this dull plastic slab proved to be the object of our search was so anticlimactic as climbing Everest to buy a cheese sandwich. Presenting findings to the board would be easy, but Mister O’Malley wished hard result; wouldn’t be pleased otherwise. Reflecting a moment on the thing’s subtle guise, Skuratov recased it, rewrapping the pillowcase.
“Quick movement now is of utmost importance,” he said. “Pack her belongings, Luther. We must not linger.” Into her suitcases, without search or seizure, I tossed her clothes, her pens and books, her picture of the Big Boy, such papers as lay scattered free. She stood unmoving, watching our rush; unshaking, unspeaking, almost as if she’d hypnotized herself into acceptance so as to ease her kidnappers. Perhaps Jake’s presence lent moment’s peace, for he held her as friend, not prisoner—the cuffs notwithstanding—his grip all-enfolding, his face’s sudden color appearing to make him, almost, warm.
“We’re airport-near, then?” I asked, pounding the cases shut.
“Airstrip,” he corrected. “Is on my dacha. Twenty minutes from here normal speed. We should make in ten.” Holding the cassette box underarm, onehanding his Shrogin, he glanced the room over to see if anything missed firsttime showed at second look.
“Your estate’s airstripped?”
“Convenient small one for vertical-ascent craft.”
“Plane’s readied?”
“Destination programmed as desired.”
“Pilot’s secure?” asked Jake.
“Pilot you see before you.” His question hung, unanswered. Oktobriana gave sudden word, as if waking from coma.
“Where are we going?” she asked, staring up at Jake with eyes great with fear, eyes alit by oncoming headlight’s glare.
“On lovely vacation,” said Skuratov.
“To America,” said Jake. “New world life awaits.”
“Jake,” said Skuratov, not looking at him direct, “put suitcases in trunk. We shall follow.”
Jake’s paranoia ran deeper than mine but usually for greater reason; he trusted its touch, like a caress from a perfect lover. Unnoticed by the others I vizzed his eyes tighten. If Jake readied, I knew I should as well; in such event, I followed his lead as I followed any commander.
“Porter’s life isn’t mine,” he replied.
“Forgive sharp method of asking, Jake. The language is full of pitfalls.”
“Key me,” said Jake, retaining grip on Oktobriana.
“Trunk is unlocked. Is simple to open.”
“Why don’t you lend hand?”
“Purpose of my delay is quite reasonable,” he said, turning towards the bath. “Before leaving I must walk hand in hand with Stalin. Luther, keep strong hold on small friend in Jake’s absence.”
Jake, winking my way, passed Oktobriana to me, hoisted the cases and slipped through the front door as Skuratov opened the bath’s, pulling it shut after. Holding her I felt no struggle, which worried. In times past, during prisoner retrieval, there always came a moment early on when one or two would, without warning, tumble earthward, pulses stilled, dropping down dead as if their unwillingness to be held so strengthened that they drove away their souls, dying by will, sans symptom, sans blow, sans threat. That often occurred on Long Island, during those long campaigns. Oktobriana’s seeming peace, so expected and so unnatural, wondered me if, consciously or not, she prepped to do just that.
“Mal,” I shouted, growing anxious; Jake’s odd behavior hadn’t helped. “Hurry and exit soon—”
In the outer world something blew; someone with it, undoubted, at first listen. My stomach felt as if it were trying to claw free of my flesh. I rounded for the front door; Skuratov stepped into view again, his Shrogin leveled. As I fingered the doorknob, he spoke.
“Such a rush,” he said; my spine went rigid. “Concern is hereafter unwarranted. Our flight will be smooth and uninterrupted.”
“Slavic humor, Mal?” I asked, straight-faced. Drawing my hand from the doorknob I pocketed it, involuntarily reaching for the gun that we both knew wasn’t there. “There was a noise outside.”
“Is on occasion necessary to be more Russian than Russian to enjoy things Western,” he said. “Mercedes, for example. Exceptional automobile. German executives are so often lost that bombproof trunk on finest models is standard accessory. Bomb explodes, leaving irreplaceable corporate valuables unharmed so long as they are in trunk. Conversely, small bomb may explode within trunk, leaving excellent machine unharmed. Harm results only to hooligan opening trunk.”
Jake would have known, I knew; had seen, did know.
“Dream Team employs no wasteful folk. We prefer contacts warm and breathing without question. Rare people such as Jake are so adept and so unpredictable, however, that only one option is available when longterm schedule is considered. Your people’s loss is so great in this circumstance that I should later submit to Krasnaya letter nominating him to receive honorary Hero of Labor award posthumously, perhaps making amends.”
“Questions’ll rise with my loss, Mal,” I said. “Business hostaging is forbidden—”
“As is capture of scientists,” he laughed. “Is full accounting necessary? We know of your organization’s troubles. Those petty backbitings and dark conspiracies. You should employ Kremlinologists to observe such Byzantine struggles. As with all complexities, a simple lie suffices. Under tragic circumstance each of you suspected other of danger and took action accordingly. Possibly to make story sit better I should obtain honorary award for you, too, Luther. So. Condolences go out, your people briefly note and as soon forget. No room for sentiment in American business, true? Of course.”
“I’ll be missed—”
“And mourned for proper period. Then your name will go on small plaque in lobby. Meanwhile we obtain valuable scientist of our own country and at last possess gifted American equally expert in business and war. Two-for-one deal, true? Dream Team, like everyone, is always on lookout for bargains.”
His estimation of response was accurate. Twice before we’d lost Russian contacts, one homegrown, one lured later. Both times it was as if they’d suddenly slipped into nonexistence, leaving neither clue nor trail. Both times the reaction in the main office was that a hostage liabilitied, and therefore cut losses healed all the more quickly.
“Little one, will you at last tell us what your great discovery is? Alekhine was so careless in preparing reports.”
“You’ll hear nothing from me,” she said, standing at my side, aiming her look towards his feet; facing him eyesdown, as if pretending reverence. At any second, I knew, Jake would show.
“That is not strictly correct,” he said. “Later we have much time for stimulating conversation among friends. Discuss rumors and puzzles we hear. Inescapable rumor that Alekhine machine is time-travel device. Impossible, without question, yet this is what we hear.”
“Time travel completely impossible,” she said. “Rules of causality cannot be broken.”
“So we hear. But what marvelous uses such could serve for mankind. Go back into time, kill Hitler at birth, let Spanish Armada win, prevent Rome’s fall.”
“Mischief making at best,” she said. “Means of ultimate destruction at worst. But such is not and cannot be possible.”
“Go forward in time to see how glorious the future shall be.” His smile disappeared beneath lips’ blankets. “How miserable. There remains question, then, of where Doctor Alekhine has gone.”
“He is not far,” she said, holding eyes downward. Skuratov’s Shrogin was set to fire; had we brokeaway, we’d have been peppered before taking feet from the floor. Through my mind ran a dozen possibilities, none workable without Jake. Where—?
“Far enough, little one. One moment all instruments show his presence. Moment later, they do not. Day goes by, his light reappears. Week passes, he goes again. Does not come back. After three weeks no evidence of continued existence anywhere reachable. Peculiar thing if he is not far.”
