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Chelyabinsk U.S.S.R.
How hard should it be even in a closed city for two Afro-Russians to find each other?
Too dang hard! thought GRU captain Mikhail Khalatsyn, his mind rolling back onto his father’s southern English.
The closed city of Ozersk, code named City 40, had a population of eighty thousand. The Soviet nuclear weapons program had been born there. Inside City 40 was the processing plant of Mayak. Fifteen thousand personnel worked there, including physicist Mikhail Katkov.
The Black Russian’s arrival and his confrontation at the gate must have shot through City 40 and Mayak like a nuclear chain reaction. Comrade Katkov had to know Captain Khalatsyn was on site. So why hadn’t Mikhail found the man? Was Katkov deliberately avoiding him? Was he hiding something?
The cafeteria in Building #1313 was the hub through which all personnel eventually passed. Even scientists needed food to fuel their beautiful minds. Mikhail had been there a number of times at different hours yet no sign of the other black Russian. He’d spotted knots of scientists and engineers sitting together at tables eating lunch but no Katkov. Also in the secret dossier were files on all co-workers in Katkov’s section. Was Katkov an outcast? It pained Mikhail to think that. He knew what it felt like to be the only black pearl on a necklace.
And then, on a spectacular Monday afternoon in the foothills along the Urals, as Mikhail was passing by the main gate on his way to the cafeteria, a golden opportunity suddenly presented itself. He would rescue his target from the authority of inferior minds. The same two Ukrainian border guards, Oleksiy and Fedir, who had accosted him, were now bullying Comrade Katkov.
Katkov appeared to be what the Americans called a geek. He was tall, 1.83 meters (six feet), but with narrow shoulders and a soft body beneath the bright red sweater he wore. His loose-fitting khaki pants were Soviet style — which meant no style — that came right out of the 1950s. Not only was Katkov a man with no fashion sense, but he was also a man not built for combat. Only bullies of a peculiarly nasty construct would take pleasure in tormenting such citizens; i.e. KGB.
Traitor or not, it was Mikhail’s duty to protect all Soviet citizens. He moved towards the “disturbance” with the determination of a T-38 tank about to blitzkrieg two slovenly little Ukrainians: Oleksiy, the bigot with a false sense of himself, and Fedir, the nervous one with the good sense not to mess with a Spetsnaz captain.
Mikhail arrived just in time to hear Comrade Katkov yell at Oleksiy: “And your parents are farm animals!” Katkov had gone from annoyance to full fury.
Oleksiy raised himself up on the balls of his jack-boots and yanked his right fist backwards to strike a blow at Katkov, who towered over him by half-a-foot. Katkov instinctively turned away and threw his hands up to protect his face. No need, though. Mikhail grabbed the guard’s arm from behind and easily tossed him to the ground like the sack of shit he was. Then he pressed a massive boot on Oleksiy’s throat — not enough pressure to crush his thorax, but enough to choke him beet red. Then Mikhail leaned down and aimed two hooked fingers at Oleksiy’s eyes.
“Please, Comrade Captain!” begged the other guard, Fedir. Pointing to Katkov, “The man has no papers! We are not permitted to let him leave the facility! We are simply doing our duty!”
Meanwhile, his comrade in arms, Oleksiy, was making choking sounds and close to passing out. Mikhail was on the verge of cutting off enough oxygen to the man’s head to irreparably damage what few brain cells Oleksiy had left. Mikhail removed his foot. No sense in killing the man — yet. Too many witnesses.
“You know me, Fedir!” said Katkov. “I’ve passed through many times!” Then to Mikhail, “I like to take my lunch in a café in Chelyabinsk.”
No wonder Mikhail had not seen him in the cafeteria.
Fedir helped Comrade Oleksiy to his feet. With Mikhail on scene and in charge, Katkov’s boiling pot began to cool. Groups of passing scientists and engineers, both men and women, had stopped to watch. So, too, had a group of armed soldiers on patrol; they beamed with pride at their new commander. They also provided an effective deterrence should one of the border guards foolishly draw a weapon on their black Russian.
“He has no papers,” said Oleksiy hoarsely, rubbing his throat and eyeing Mikhail with intense hatred. “We will not let him through!” Oleksiy had meant to sound full of his own authority. Instead, his words came out sounding like squeaks from a fat piglet.
Calmly, “Oh yes you will, comrades. And me also.” To Katkov: “May I join you for lunch, comrade?”
“It will be my honor, sir. And I insist you allow me to pay.”
Mikhail grinned. “Who can refuse a free lunch?” To the guards: “You will call us a cab — immediately.”
Fedir scurried off to the guard shack to make the call. Oleksiy followed, occasionally turning his head to face both black Russians. His expression read: Why I ought’ta!
In the cab, after introducing themselves and shaking hands, Mikhail asked Comrade Katkov if he spoke English.
“Yes. And Portuguese. My mother is from Angola. My father is Russian. I also speak German and passable French.”
Mikhail switched to English: “That’s three more languages than I speak. You are quite a clever chap. I shall call you Smart Mishe from now on so we won’t confuse ourselves.”
“And I shall call you Army Mishe because you are so tough... You speak English as well as any American.”
“That’s because my father was born in Mississippi. He came to the Soviet Union in 1933. My mother is from Stalingrad.” Then Mikhail laughed. “Parents farm animals? Really, Smart Mishe, what was that all about?”
“The one named Oleksiy, a real moodak (asshole), said I was insolent because I dared question his authority.”
“In America when a black man stands up for himself he’s called uppity,” Mikhail grumbled. “Sorry to interrupt, please continue.”
“Then he said my father was a Russian who married an African ape.”
Fire, fueled by intense hatred, burned in Mikhail’s mind, but remained behind calm eyes.
As for the other black Russian, his words expressed extreme loathing: “I wish I was as strong as you, Army Mishe. He insulted my mother, I could kill him!”
“I’m the soldier, Smart Mishe. Please allow me the courtesy of killing.”
“Both my parents have PhDs in chemistry and physics. I doubt if either one of those morons graduated secondary school.”
Grinning, “If they did, then they must have cheated on their exams... My father is also a doctor, a surgeon to the Nomenclatura. A lot of Party officials owe their finely sculptured noses to him.”
Katkov grinned. “So, your father is in the arts. You must be quite proud. And he and your mother must be quite proud of you. Your reputation has preceded you, Comrade Khalatsyn. Everyone in Ozersk knows about the Black Russian, war hero. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“And it is my honor to call you my friend, Smart Mishe.”
“I suspect with friends like you, Army Mishe; I have no need to fear enemies.”
Mikhail smiled.
“And here in City 40 and Chelyabinsk there are plenty of KGB informants,” Katkov added. “They are everyone’s enemy.”
Katkov had shown poor judgment along with a careless tongue. He never should have said City 40, the top secret name for Ozersk, not even in English. Mikhail signaled Katkov with his eyes: Cabdrivers have ears, too. “Don’t assume they don’t speak English, especially in a place like Chelyabinsk,” Mikhail said in a hushed tone.
For the rest of the ride both Mikhails exchanged innocent chit-chat.
Captain Khalatsyn’s initial suspicion had been confirmed. Someone had gone to KGB and, as the American’s say, “Ratted Comrade Katkov out.” Mikhail was determined to find out who it was. It might help clear his new friend. Mikhail just could not imagine Katkov deliberately leaking state secrets. Still, it was his job to continue to probe.
He truly believed what Peter had told him: If Katkov is innocent no charges will be manufactured against him.
As the cab pulled in front of the café, Mikhail Katkov said they served Middle Eastern dishes. The café was privately owned by an Uzbek. His wife did the cooking and his children provided the wait service.
“A fine family run enterprise,” Katkov said in English as he paid the cabdriver, “and a very friendly place.”
“Are you familiar with Middle Eastern cooking, Mishe?” asked Katkov as he stepped aside and held the door open for Mikhail to enter first.
“Quite. When I served in Afghanistan there were several places like this in Kabul where I used to eat when on leave.”
A lie: Mikhail’s hatred of Afghanis and the shit hole country that spawned them ran deep. He went there to kill Afghanis not break bread with them. Even though the Academy’s fine restaurant occasionally listed Middle Eastern dishes on the menu, Mikhail would not allow a single morsel to assault his palate.
Katkov mentioned that he preferred to eat here instead of the cafeteria because the staff treated him like a human being. “It’s nice to eat alone in a restaurant but not feel alone,” he said. “Does that sound strange to you, Mishe?”
“No, not at all,” Mikhail replied, as a sad thought crept quietly into his mind: Outcast.
They sat near the window, although given Mikhail Khalatsyn’s intelligence training he would have preferred a more discreet table. Smart Mishe ordered a salad of sweet tomatoes, cucumbers, onion, mint, parsley, lemons, chicken kebabs, red pepper, hummus and pita. To wash it down, he ordered a non-alcoholic beer.
Non-alcoholic beer; is that what they call lemonade in here? “I assume the owners are Muslim, Mishe?” Mikhail asked. “Do they serve alcohol?”
“Oh, yes. Like us, they’re true communists and non-believers.”
Army Mishe ordered roasted chicken in a bed of baby potatoes, cherry tomatoes, and seasoned with turmeric, cumin, paprika, coriander, onion and garlic. He had to admit the meal was delicious and far superior to Russian cuisine. Maybe he’d have to rethink his gastronomic prejudices. He also ordered a Baltika, semi-dark beer. He’d have two more before they left the café.
“So Mishe,” asked Katkov, “what brought you here to—” This time he caught himself before saying City 40. “...to our facility?”
“After my tour in Afghanistan the army sent me here to help protect the facility from spies and terrorists. Not to mention the Friends of the People who stick to everything around here like dog shit to a boot.”
Suddenly Mikhail’s attention was drawn to three boisterous men who walked in the door. And speaking of shit.
The new customers were Eurasian men in border guard uniforms. Mikhail steeled himself for trouble, but then he noticed the guards and Katkov exchanged pleasant smiles and nods.
Surprised, “Smart Mishe,” said Mikhail, “I didn’t know you have friends in the border guards?”
“They’re decent chaps. We see each other here all the time. And they never harass me at the gate like the two Ukrainian moodaks.”
The three border guards sat down at a table across the room and began to talk amongst themselves. Obviously, Army Mishe was the topic. Finally, one of them stood up and headed towards the two Mikhails.
“Looks like one of your slanty-eyed friends wants to pay us a visit,” Mikhail murmured to Katkov.
“Please, Mishe, I will not tolerate bigotry even from a friend,” he replied in a hushed tone.
The guard stopped at their table and smiled at the Black Russian.
“Comrade,” the guard said in Russian, “it is a pleasure to meet you. We hear you quite thrashed Comrade Oleksiy. Congratulations. We hate the bastard. If you will permit us, we’d like to buy you and Comrade Katkov drinks.”
“Thank you, comrade,” said Mikhail, returning the man’s smile. Although he did not show it, he was relieved he did not have to fight these three. Unlike the Ukrainians, these men looked hard and formidable.
“Your uniform says you are Spetsnaz,” another guard called to them from his table. “My brother serves in Spetsnaz. He returned home safely from Afghanistan last month.”
“Please, friend, allow me to buy you and your comrades a bottle of this establishment’s finest vodka,” said Mikhail. “In honor of your brother’s safe return.”
The border guards roared their approval.
The two Mikhails joined the border guards at their table. Mikhail Khalatsyn and the Eurasians finished three more bottles of vodka that he happily paid for. As for Katkov, the physicist ordered another non-alcoholic beer. By the time Mikhail and Katkov left the café, the guards were quite drunk and completely unfit for duty.
Mikhail could not remember the last time he’d had such an enjoyable lunch.
“This has been the best day I’ve had since I’ve been here,” said Katkov. “Today I made a new friend — thank you.”
“How long have you been here, Mishe?”
“Almost two years.”
Mikhail felt truly glad that Comrade Katkov considered him a new friend.