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“It is a good thing you convinced them to leave,” Sofia said when Alejandro returned. “Tell me everything they said.”
“They know the van outside is yours. They’ve popped open the lock and found ammunition, a tuxedo and a party dress inside. They know you’re in the neighborhood and say you killed some people. They also know you’re not in your suite at the Gran Casino del Sol, and that a man in black escaped from your room. They are now interrogating the Russian call girl who took your place.”
Sofia ran a hand through her hair and began pacing the floor.
“What do we do?” asked Svet.
“We wait them out,” said Talanov. “The police will rummage through the van and file their reports while others continue their search. Once they believe the neighborhood is safe, they’ll haul away our van and leave a patrol car on the street while the others go home for breakfast. In the meantime we call the freighter and have them delay departure for twenty-four hours. This will give us time to make our move tomorrow night, once it’s dark.”
“If I want your opinion I will ask for it,” Sofia declared.
Talanov held up his hands in a gesture of sarcastic surrender and returned to sit at the table.
Sofia paced back and forth in front of the hostages, her lips muttering angrily while glaring at Talanov. She stopped and pointed at Carmen. “You, fix coffee while I think.”
A quivering Carmen, her eyes swollen from crying, sat huddled against Agent Pilgrim, her head on Pilgrim’s shoulder, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Pilgrim had brought her over while Alejandro had gone out to speak with the police and Carmen had not moved.
“Move!” Sofia shouted.
Carmen sniffled a few times but did not budge. Sofia stepped over to Carmen and slapped the Makarov in her hand. “I will ask you one more time.”
“She’s terrified. Unable to function,” said Talanov, standing. “The kid. Get her to do it.”
“My daughter is Noya, not Kid,” Anna mumbled bitterly.
Bixler touched Anna on the arm. A signal to be quiet.
“I know they are going to kill us,” said Anna. “So I want them to know our names.”
“He doesn’t care,” said Bixler. “That’s why he calls her Kid. To him, that’s all she is. Like a rock or a chair.”
Talanov strode into the living room and pointed at Noya. “Make us some coffee,” he said.
“Stay where you are,” commanded Sofia.
“Don’t make this about us,” replied Talanov.
“It is always about us,” Sofia said with a sneer. She looked at Bixler and said, “You, go make the coffee.”
Talanov motioned for Bixler to remain seated and stepped over to look Sofia directly in the eyes. “I do not care that you are in charge. If that is what my orders say, then so be it. I do care when you make foolish decisions in an effort to prove something that does not require proof.”
Sofia locked eyes with Talanov, her eyes boring into his in an attempt to stare him down. Talanov remained where he was, calm and unwavering.
“Colonel Talanov is right,” said Odin. “The woman is an American agent and the kitchen is full of potential weapons. Send the girl.”
“She’s the logical choice,” added Talanov. “The least likely to pose a threat.”
Sofia looked at Odin for a long moment before motioning Noya to stand. When Noya stood, Sofia grabbed her by the arm. “Your name. What is it?” she asked.
“Noyabŕina . . . Noya,” she replied, averting her eyes.
Sofia took Noya by the chin and forced eye contact. “A girl with the name of November. How quaint. Like April or May.”
Gorev was already shaking with rage but Bixler signaled him to remain calm.
Sofia looked Noya over. “You are a pretty girl,” she said.
“Leave her alone,” warned Talanov.
Sofia laughed. “I wondered what the Boy Scout would say,” she said. “You see, Noya, Colonel Talanov has placed me in a very difficult position. He has not shown me the respect I deserve. He keeps interfering with my authority by making decisions that are not his to make. What happens when you disobey, Noya? Your parents have to discipline you, don’t they? They may not want to, but they know it is for your own good. So I am left with a big decision. How do I teach Colonel Talanov a lesson? How do I let him know he has overstepped his authority by interfering in mine?”
“Let her go and we can talk,” said Talanov, controlling his anger. “The girl has no part in this.”
“She has every part in this, Sasha,” said Sofia. “She is a commodity of value, especially to you. The girl is powerless because I have the power. All of it. And I am willing to use it. And this flips a switch inside you. I saw it with the old woman. I see it now.”
“I care only what is good for this mission,” lied Talanov. Right now, he was willing to say anything to defuse this situation.
“I am what is good for this mission,” Sofia replied curtly. “Otherwise, Comrade Kravenko would not have placed me in command. He would have retained you. But he did not. He gave it to me. But you keep undermining my authority and making me look foolish. And that I cannot allow.”
“Let her go,” demanded Talanov, taking a step forward.
Sofia pulled Noya in front of her and jammed the gun to her head. Talanov stopped. Sofia saw him tighten his grip on his Makarov.
“If that gun moves from your side, Colonel, I will kill her,” Sofia declared. “And if by chance you are thinking of shooting me after I shoot her, think again.”
Hearing the sound of weapons being drawn, Talanov glanced around to see Odin and Svet with their pistols trained on him. They were standing together, about three feet apart, about ten feet away. No chance at all of missing.
Talanov looked at Noya and saw her staring up at him with the same dispassionate eyes he had seen before. They were deep and brown but completely devoid of emotion. No fear, no worry, no . . . anything. He was trained to feel that way. But Noya was a kid, and kids were not supposed to feel that way. They were supposed to be alive with crazy dreams, emotions and hopes for the future.
Obviously, this was no ordinary situation and Talanov realized that. Noya and her parents were running for their lives – from the KGB – from him – and yet Noya did not seem to care that they had been caught. Why not? She had just witnessed the murder of her grandparents. Everything they had hoped for and dreamed about was over.
Nor did she seem to be afraid of Sofia’s threats. And that was troubling, because she should be afraid. Were he in charge, Gorev and his family would be taken into custody and returned to the Soviet Union. With Sofia, he was not so sure. Which is why it bothered him that Noya was not afraid.
Kids were not supposed to feel that way.
“Is this how you want it to end?” Talanov asked, stepping between Sofia and her men and raising his Makarov. He knew Sofia had threatened to shoot Noya if he raised his weapon, but he could see in her eyes that it was a bluff. She was angry, unstable and a megalomaniac, but she was not stupid. One shot would alert the police and her grand scheme would be over.
Furthermore, by moving directly between Sofia and her men, Sofia was now in their firing line, meaning if they decided to shoot him preemptively, one or more of their bullets stood a good chance of going right through him and striking her. Which of course they would realize in a moment. That meant he needed to talk fast.
He said, “You shoot Noya. I shoot you. Your men shoot me and the police swoop in because of all the shooting. And none of us really want that. We all lose, and for what: the final word in who makes coffee?” He paused a moment, allowed his words to sink in, then said in a gentler tone. “Let the kid make coffee. Please. It is a logical choice – one of your men even agreed – so I am asking you to allow it.”
He knew the kid, Noya, was watching him while he watched Sofia, whose eyes burned with a rage she was barely able to control. Her finger twitched on the trigger of her Makarov but she did not pull it. Her nostrils flared several times.
With an angry sneer, she lowered her weapon and pushed Noya toward the kitchen. To Odin: “Go with the girl.”
Talanov responded with a nod of appreciation and stepped aside while Odin went with Noya to the kitchen.
In the kitchen, Odin leaned against the counter and placed his Makarov in full view. Noya stood in the middle of the floor, looking around, unsure.
“Make coffee,” said Odin impatiently.
“I do not know what to do,” Noya replied, looking at the variety of pots and pans hanging over a rectangular butcher’s block table. Other pans and skillets were piled on a shelf beneath the table. Near the stove was a small wooden box with a tiny drawer in its side and a crank-style handle protruding out of its top – a coffee mill – and beside it was a canister marked, coffee. On the blackened burner on the stove was a tarnished kettle.
Odin rolled his eyes and motioned for Noya to fill the kettle with water while he ignited the burner. He checked the coffee mill’s hopper and made sure it was filled with beans, then told her to crank the handle until the tiny drawer was full. Opening several cupboard doors, he found a coffee press and set it on the counter beside the mill. He then began taking a number of small white porcelain cups out of a cupboard.
In the living room, Sofia commanded Talanov to remain where he was while nodding for Svet to follow her into the dining room, where they began talking quietly. Talanov could not hear what they were saying although from their nods and gestures, he could tell it was something urgent. After several minutes, Svet pointed to his backpack over by the front door. Sofia nodded for him to get it. Svet brought it carefully to the table. When Sofia looked inside, she broke into a big smile and patted Svet on the shoulder.
Talanov thought about what he had just witnessed. A commando’s backpack always contained standard optional items, depending on the nature of the assignment. Those standard items would include first aid supplies, maps, weapons, ammunition, and ropes, would not generate that much of a smile. What was it, then, that had made Sofia so happy? What optional items did that backpack contain?
While Talanov pondered what they might be, Sofia dispatched Svet down a short hallway to find the back door. While Svet did that, Sofia strode back into the living room and faced the hostages.
“Where is a café?” she asked, “the nearest one that is open?” It was more of a demand than a request.
When no one answered, Sofia aimed her pistol at Carmen.
“The Gato Gordo Café!” Alejandro blurted out. “End of the street, turn right, two blocks.”
“Very good,” Sofia said. She pointed at Anna, who was sitting huddled beside Gorev, eyes lowered, arms clasped around her knees, which were drawn to her chest. “Stand up,” she said.
Anna scooted nearer to her husband.
“Stand up or I will kill you.”
Gorev told his wife to stand. Anna whimpered that she was afraid but Gorev squeezed her hand and Anna timidly climbed to her feet, where she stood in place, feet together, hands clasped tightly together in front of her, head down, shaking with fear.
Svet came striding back down the hall in his heavy combat boots. When he entered the room, Sofia looked over at him and Svet nodded.
Sofia grabbed Anna by the arm and brought her forward. “Such a little mouse, so drab and plain,” she said, snorting with contempt. “You, little mouse, are coming with me. Colonel Talanov, you and Odin will guard the hostages.”
“Where are you going?” asked Talanov.
“That is need-to-know,” Sofia replied, motioning Svet to grab his backpack.
Talanov watched Svet hoist the backpack carefully over his shoulder, as if it contained breakable items. When he and Svet locked eyes, Svet nervously looked away.
Svet’s reaction was not a good sign. By going to a café, Sofia and Svet were risking capture in an area crawling with police. Taking a hostage with them was also not a good sign. Were he in charge, he would have done the same thing, which is why he understood why Sofia had done it: to maintain control should Gorev somehow be tempted to escape. With Anna’s life in the balance, Gorev would do as instructed.
As for the backpack and the enormous risk Sofia and Svet were taking, there was really only one logical reason: Sofia was planning some kind of a diversion and Talanov knew what it was. A bomb. That’s why Svet was treating the backpack so gingerly. It contained explosives.
Detonating a bomb was a logical move, for by killing dozens of people, the police would abandon their house-to-house search, at least for the moment, which would give them more than enough time to whisk Gorev from the confines of the safe house. As to what type of explosive Svet was carrying, the Russian PVV-5A was a logical choice, although by using the powerful and wonderfully pliable C-4, especially here in Spain where America was widely unpopular, blame for the incident would be placed squarely on the shoulders of the Americans once forensic analysts did their thing and Spanish authorities had enough evidence to begin pointing fingers.
What to do? With Kravenko placing Sofia in charge, he was reluctant to interfere again and risk more lives, especially with two armed Soviet agents under her command. Plus, like it or not, detonating a bomb made sense, even if it was unthinkable on every other level. It would divert the police and allow them to escape from a situation he had created when he rescued that old woman. To therefore interfere with Sofia’s plans would spell suicide for his career, if not his life. Still, the thought of killing that many innocent people—
Talanov refocused when Noya entered the room carrying cups of coffee on a porcelain platter. She was having a difficult time because the platter was heavy and the cups were beginning to slide. When Sofia told Noya to hurry up, Noya’s arms began to shake. Talanov stepped forward to help but Noya lost her grip. The cups slid off the platter and crashed to the floor, splashing coffee all over Sofia’s feet. Sofia cursed and jumped to the side.
“You clumsy, stupid girl!” Sofia shouted, kicking the cups away and backhanding Noya with the Makarov.
Noya hit the floor hard, where she bounced once before rolling up onto her side, where she lay crying and bleeding.
Sofia yanked Noya to her feet and reared the gun back to hit her again. Talanov grabbed Sofia by the wrist. Dropping Noya, Sofia spun around to face Talanov while a tearful Gorev crawled over to his daughter. Nearby, Anna was sobbing, her hands covering her face.
“Mark my word, Colonel,” hissed Sofia. “You will answer for this.”
“Mark my word, Sofia,” Talanov replied. “Hit that girl again and it will be the last time you hit anybody . . . ever.”
“Do not make promises you cannot keep,” said Svet.
Talanov glanced around and saw Svet circling to the right with his gun. Glancing toward the kitchen, he saw Odin with his gun drawn as well. Both men had him in their sights.
Sofia twisted free from Talanov’s grasp and leaned to within inches of his face. “I know how quickly you rose, Colonel. Care to guess how quickly you will fall?”
“Don’t get your hopes up too high.”
Sofia dismissed Talanov with a sarcastic snort and kicked Gorev away from his daughter. To Odin: “Get that wretched kid into the kitchen and keep her there.”
Odin holstered his pistol, grabbed Noya and muscled her into the kitchen.
“My daughter is bleeding!” cried Gorev.
“She will live,” Sofia growled. She yanked Anna’s hands away from her face and grabbed her by the chin, forcing eye-to-eye contact. “Remember this day, little mouse. It is the day I did not kill your daughter. But I will unless you do exactly what I say. Do you understand?”
Her reddened eyes swollen from crying, a quivering Anna sniffled and nodded.
Sofia handed Anna to Svet, who made her sit on the floor, where she fought back tears, mouth open, wanting to cry but knowing she could not, her swollen eyes looking desperately – pleadingly – at her husband, who looked back with equal helplessness.
“Your samples, where are they?” Sofia asked, glancing at Gorev before grabbing Pilgrim’s medical bag and digging through vials of sedative, vaccines and antidotes. She located two single-use syringes in sterile packaging and tossed them one after the other to Svet, who caught and slipped them into his backpack. In the absence of a response, Sofia looked again at Gorev and said, “Do not make me ask you again.”
“I do not know what you are talking about,” Gorev replied in a wavering voice that was a failed attempt to sound convincing. To make matters worse, perspiration dots had formed on his forehead and he was biting his lip nervously, eyes averted, hands fidgeting while he sat on the floor.
Nearby, Bixler rolled her eyes.
Sofia stared at Gorev for a long moment before exhaling wearily and looking toward the kitchen. “Odin, shoot the kid.”
“Wait!” Gorev cried out. He pointed to one of his suitcases and Sofia motioned for him to get it. Gorev struggled to his feet and walked unsteadily over to where their suitcases had been placed together on the floor. The one he chose was scuffed and worn, with leather corners and brown trim. He brought it over and placed it in front of Sofia, who told him to open it.
After glancing helplessly at Bixler, who looked away, Gorev laid the suitcase on its side, flipped open the latches and lifted the lid. He pried at the lining of the lid, near the hinges, and ripped open a seam, which he folded back to reveal a length of thin copper pipe secured with string along one edge. He untied the pipe, removed it from the lid and pulled a wooden stopper from one end. Cupping his hand, he tipped up the pipe and allowed three tiny glass ampoules to slide out into his palm. Each miniature bottle was about two inches long, with a longer main section filled with blood, then a constricted “waist,” then a “mouth” that had been plugged with a glass pellet and dense brown wax.
Gorev handed the ampoules to Sofia, who gave them to Svet, who placed them gently in his backpack.
“Now, the antidote,” Sofia said.
With a deep sigh of regret, Gorev dug a final ampoule out of another secret pocket. It was shaped like the others but was full of pale yellow liquid. After pausing briefly, he handed it to Sofia, who inspected it with satisfaction before handing it to Svet, who placed it carefully inside his backpack.
“Wait here until we return,” Sofia said, leading Anna by the elbow down the hallway and out the back door.
“What the hell is in those ampoules?” Bixler whispered harshly to Gorev, whose face was pale and damp.
“That information is classified,” said Talanov.
“If that’s the case, why are you letting that psycho-bitch walk out of here with them? What’s she planning to do?”
Talanov did not reply.
“Look, whatever’s in those ampoules is obviously nasty stuff,” Bixler continued. “So nasty it’s top secret. So nasty it requires an antidote. So nasty the good doctor here had to transport it inside a metal pipe in a secret compartment. Look at him, Talanov. The guy’s freaking out.”
Bixler and Talanov both looked at Gorev, who had now slumped forward and was sobbing.
“What’s your girlfriend planning to do?” demanded Bixler.
“My colleague is in charge of making sure those ampoules don’t fall into enemy hands.”
“Come on, Talanov. You can’t seriously tell me you believe she took those ampoules for safe-keeping. You don’t trust the woman any more than I do. She’s unstable as all get-out.”
“How we choose to handle property stolen from the Soviet Union is not open to debate.”
“Look, you and I both know your colleague, as you put it, has turned against you. She’s gone psycho and wants your head on a platter, which shows me she’s not really your colleague, but an adversary.” Bixler lowered her voice. “I can help. We don’t have to be enemies. But I need you to tell me what’s going on.”
Just then, Odin came back into the room and motioned for Talanov to come with him.
“What’s wrong?” Talanov asked.
“The kid. I can’t get the bleeding to stop.”
Talanov looked over at Pilgrim. “How well equipped is your bag?”
“Talk to me, Talanov,” Bixler whispered harshly.
“Your bag. What’s in it?” Talanov asked Pilgrim again.
“It’s a field kit,” Pilgrim replied. “Emergency supplies, chemical ice packs, first aid. That sort of thing.”
“Let me have it.”
Pilgrim handed over her medical bag and Talanov motioned for Gorev to follow him into the kitchen, where Noya was sitting cross-legged on the floor holding a blood-soaked dishtowel to her head. Several other blood-soaked dishtowels were wadded up nearby.
After placing Pilgrim’s field kit on the floor, Talanov lifted Noya onto the counter. He handed Noya a clean towel and told her to keep pressure on the wound. He then placed the medical bag next to her and dug through it to see if it contained any potential weapons. As indicated, it was well-equipped, with suture kits and enough instruments and supplies to collect and preserve blood samples, remove bullets, and render first aid. There were also vials and packets of sedatives, and a number of vaccines. Most of the instruments in the bag weren’t a threat. But the suture kits contained scalpels. Talanov tore open each kit and removed the scalpels, then put the suture kits back in the bag and handed the bag to Gorev.
Gorev dumped the contents on the counter and Talanov watched him go to work. Standing casually to one side, Talanov thought about what Bixler had said. She was right: he didn’t trust Sofia any more than she did, not that he trusted Bixler, either, or her offer to help. The loaded question, of course, was what Sofia was planning to do with the ampoules. Was Sofia planning to release some of the anthrax in the Gato Gordo Café? The possibility was too horrific to entertain, even for someone like Sofia.
Talanov watched Gorev soak a cotton ball with hydrogen peroxide and begin cleaning the wound on Noya’s head. The peroxide bubbled and foamed and Gorev dabbed away the excess using other cotton balls.
Glancing behind him, Talanov saw the coffee mill Noya had used. A dusting of coffee grounds had been spilled on the counter. Nearby was a stainless steel carafe. Talanov peeked inside the carafe, saw there was coffee and filled a small porcelain cup.
“Anyone else?” he asked, gesturing with the cup.
No one replied.
“You’d think an American safe house would have a decent-sized mug,” he remarked, downing the tepid liquid in a single gulp.
He paused to watch Gorev use an antiseptic towelette to clean the skin around the gash of dried blood.
“Americans are known for their mugs,” Talanov continued, chatting casually while pouring himself a second cup, “which is one thing the Americans have done right. America is definitely not a demitasse nation. Most of Europe, on the other hand, is. Not me. Give me a mug over these ridiculously small cups any day.” Sipping his coffee, he saw Noya flinch when Gorev applied some lidocaine anesthetic to her wound. “So, Noyabŕina,” he said, “do you prefer to be called Noyabŕina or Noya? Which one?”
Noya did not reply.
“Either way, it’s a pretty name.”
Noya did not reply.
To Gorev: “Noyabŕina, from Noyabŕ – November. Why did you give her that name?”
Gorev did not reply.
“Come on, people, it’s called chitchat – distraction – and it makes visits to the doctor’s office much easier, even when that office happens to be in a kitchen.” Talanov took a sip of his coffee, waiting for an answer. “Well?” he asked.
“Noya,” she finally said.
“From the month of her birth,” added Gorev.
“So, Noya,” said Talanov, “tell me about yourself. What are your dreams? Your interests?”
Noya did not reply. She was sitting slump-shouldered on the counter with a vacant look on her face. Her father was working gently to anesthetize her wound.
Talanov observed them for a moment. “Dreams and interests?” he asked again.
Noya looked over at Talanov. “What does it matter?” she replied. “Such things, they are not possible.”
“What do you mean? Everyone has dreams.”
“We are born and we die. That is it.”
“Come on. You’re pretty and you’re smart. You’ll go far.”
“In Soviet Union, there is nowhere to go. A slow death or a fast one, what’s the difference?”
Talanov did not know what to say. He had never heard such depressing hopelessness spoken with such apathy and surrender. And while he knew kids were not supposed to act this way, he understood Noya’s despair. Every one of their hopes and dreams had been dashed – by him – after which she witnessed the brutal execution of her grandparents.
“Look, I’m sorry about your grandparents,” he said. “They didn’t deserve what happened.”
“You really should watch what you say,” stated Odin from the doorway. “Such a remark could be misinterpreted.”
“As you no doubt will see that it is,” Talanov replied, glancing at Odin briefly before watching Gorev open an iodine swab and dab it on Noya’s wound. To Gorev: “As my colleague over there will be happy to remind you, Doctor, I am no longer in charge, and while I am bound to uphold my orders within this new chain of command, I will make sure you and your family are kept safe and treated fairly.”
“And I say to you again,” said Odin, “do not make promises you cannot keep.” And with a sarcastic chuckle, he disappeared into the living room.
Talanov watched Odin leave, then noticed Noya eyeing him curiously while Gorev was deliberately not looking, he was so rigid with emotion, which was visible in his pinched lips and flaring nostrils. It wasn’t difficult to guess what Gorev was thinking, namely, that all the promises in the world would not change his inability – or unwillingness – to keep them safe from Sofia, who had already murdered his parents in cold blood. And he would be right, Talanov thought Talanov, lowering his head.
“Dreams are for not for people like us,” Noya remarked.
“What do you mean?” asked Talanov, looking at her.
“In Soviet Union, we are told what we will become. It does not matter what we want. But I have heard that in America dreams come true. So I tell my father, but he say we are not in America, and I am to keep such thoughts to myself. But he could see that I am sad, so one day he comes home and says he had found a way for me to have a dream. That we would go to America. That I would one day fly in a helicopter.”
“Enough,” said Gorev sharply. To Talanov: “I am sorry. All this nonsense about flying in helicopters.”
“Is that what you’d like to do?” Talanov asked Noya.
“She spoke out of turn,” said Gorev. “Forgive her, please. She is young and does not know when to be silent.”
“Is it?” asked Talanov again, his eyes on Noya.
Noya shrugged.
“The Soviet Union has the most advanced helicopters in use today. The Mi-24 – the Hind – and the Mi-8. Plus the fours and the sixes. We lead the world.”
“Not really,” Noya replied.
“Oh?” asked Talanov, amused.
“Do you know who invented the helicopter?” asked Noya.
“Can’t say that I do.”
“The Chinese, in 400 A.D., as a toy,” Noya replied. “Leonardo da Vinci then designed an aerial screw, with Mikhail Lomonosov proving the concept in 1754 with a model that was powered by a spring. Many inventors had a part in its development – Alphonse Pénaud, Gustave de Ponton d’Amécourt, Thomas Edison, Jacques and Louis Breguet, Paul Cornu and others – but it was the Focke-Wulf Fw 61 – first flown in 1936 – that was the first functional helicopter. Henrich Focke was German. But it was the great Russian inventor, Igor Sikorsky – he was born in Kiev, but Ukraine was then part of the Russian Empire – who created the first mass-produced helicopter, the Sikorsky R-4, once he emigrated to America. He also wrote a book – The Message of the Lord’s Prayer – and another one – The Invisible Encounter. Sikorsky believed in God.”
Talanov stared at Noya with utter astonishment. “How do you know all of that?”
Suddenly embarrassed, Noya looked away.
“Tell me,” Talanov said.
Noya looked down and did not reply.
“Designing helicopters has always been her dream,” Gorev explained. “The only time I see her smile is when she talks about propulsion mechanics, power density and anti-torque control. You would not believe all that she knows. She would make an excellent engineer.”
“The Soviet Union needs good engineers.”
Talanov waited for some kind of response but there was none. Noya sat in silence on the counter, shoulders slumped, wisps of hair covering her face while she looked down at the floor.
“Is that something you’d like to do?” asked Talanov.
Noya kept staring at the floor.
“Designing helicopters is a noble ambition,” Talanov remarked. “A worthwhile dream. When this is over, I will make inquiries on your behalf.”
Noya did not reply.
“Would you be interested in that?” he asked.
Noya shrugged.
“Is that a yes or a no?” asked Talanov.
“What does it matter?” Noya replied.
“I guess that depends on whether you want to just read about Sikorsky or go up into the sky after him.”
Noya frowned and thought about that.
“It is one thing to have a dream,” said Talanov. “It’s another to do something about it. The difference between an R-4 and the dream of one . . . was Sikorsky. He aimed for the sky, and went after it.”
After removing the atraumatic needle from the suture kit with its attached length of thread, Gorev began stitching Noya’s wound. “You speak of designing helicopters,” he said. “My dream was to become a doctor, and I became a doctor to heal people and help them. But what was I made to do? Kill people. The KGB put me in a laboratory and I was told to engineer new viruses and bacteria. Anthrax was my specialty. I was then told to inject my new strains into prisoners, to see how quickly they died so that we could do this to our enemies. That is what the KGB did to my dream.”
“Do you want her to hear all of this?” asked Talanov.
“What difference does it make? It is easy for you to tell my daughter to have a dream when you are the one who will crush it.”
“You may want to watch yourself, Doctor.”
“Or you will – what – exile me to Siberia? You are planning to do this, anyway. You have already killed my parents.”
“What happened to your parents was unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate,” repeated Gorev. “You murder my parents and call it . . . unfortunate?”
Talanov did not reply. In truth, he didn’t blame Gorev for being so bitter.
Gorev continued, “Operation Barbarossa. This was the codename for Germany’s invasion of the Soviet Union during World War II. My father was there, fighting against the panzer divisions of Hitler when he laid siege to Moscow. He lost three toes and two fingers to frostbite. But he survived. He survived the winter, and the Nazis, but he could not survive you. You, the people who should be protecting us.”
“He didn’t do it, Papa,” muttered Noya.
Gorev stared at his daughter. “What did you say?”
“Colonel Talanov. He didn’t do it.”
“This man is KGB,” hissed Gorev, “and my parents – your grandparents – are dead. Other people are dead, too, and that woman – that murderer – took my Anna – your mama – and he did nothing. He just stood there and let it happen. He will tell us it is because of his orders. Rubbish! I had orders, too – to kill innocent people by infecting them – but they were wrong. So I did something. Even though we were caught and it was for nothing, at least I did something. At least I tried. So do not think because he stands here and talks about helicopters and flying up into the sky that he is your friend.”
Noya looked down, averting her eyes.
Gorev said, “You mean nothing to him, Noya. Nothing! This man is a killer.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
“Believe him,” said Talanov. “It’s how things are.”
“Then why did you stop her from hitting me?”
Noya’s words hung in the air, suspended, and Talanov did not know what to say. He had stopped Sofia from hitting her . . . threatening her, in fact, if she ever tried it again.
“You could have let her, but you didn’t,” said Noya. “And she was going to, but you stopped her. Why?”
“I just couldn’t, “ Talanov began, his voice trailing off.
“You are not what everyone thinks,” Noya said.
For several seconds Talanov stared at Noya before rubbing his forehead and awkwardly looking away.
And for the briefest of moments, Noya smiled.
