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Winter in Moscow can be magical, especially when it is snowing, and tonight it was snowing heavily. The flakes were large and blew silently from left to right as Talanov walked along the quiet street in a full length woolen coat. His shoulders were bent against the wind, his hands were in his pockets, and his boots squeaked on the fresh powder. On his head was a sable Ushanka. His exhales came out in steamy puffs.
He had spent the day handling paperwork in a cramped office in the Lubyanka building until the building was almost empty. It was the festive season in the lead up to New Years Eve, and most people left work early. By six o’clock it was dark outside and by eight o’clock his stomach was growling.
In a restaurant a few blocks away, Talanov was given his usual table, which was a round corner booth. He normally ordered something different each visit, which was an old habit to mix up his routine, but tonight he ordered the same soup he had ordered last night, which was thick with onions, leaks, potatoes, peas, carrots and large chunks of ham. As always, it was served free of charge, with extra slices of dense homemade brown bread and butter. Anything to honor the esteemed hero.
As planned, Talanov had managed to sell his trip to Spain as a success. This was aided by official news reports, which said a Chinese agent named Xin Li had infiltrated the KGB and stolen state secrets, which she was attempting to sell to American agents in Spain when Colonel Talanov stopped her. The news reports deliberately avoided identifying Xin Li by her Russian name, Sofia Dubinina.
Sitting alone in the booth eating his soup, Talanov was interrupted by a group of Muscovites stopping by to wish him happiness for the new year. Talanov smiled and returned the greeting. After the group had departed, he looked across the busy restaurant to the New Year Tree. Positioned near the large front window, it was a broad fir tree that had been cut from the forest, which in turn had been decorated with ornaments, tinsel, and colored lights. Between him and the tree were more than twenty tables filled with families and groups of young people. They were laughing and clinking glasses and talking happily. The sight of them made Talanov frown, not because he was against New Year festivities or people enjoying themselves, but because Noya should be enjoying this moment, too. She should be singing Christmas carols and eating turkey and opening presents with her friends.
In the wake of Noya’s death – which was now over six months ago – he’d become even more cynical and bitter toward the KGB and what it represented. And it took everything within him not to let his feelings be known. But he hadn’t, and during these months, working undercover as November Echo, he had supplied La Tâche with the names of numerous Soviet moles operating within the United States government and related private sectors. He had also supplied him with information on Soviet weapons programs and ongoing intelligence operations. He remembered La Tâche once asking him how a Soviet KGB colonel could betray his country. His reply was that he was not betraying his country, but only the disease infecting it.
“People should not have to live in fear of their government,” Talanov remembered saying. “That’s why I’m doing what I’m doing. This isn’t about Russia. This isn’t about America. It’s about the Noyas of the world. And don’t for a second think I won’t hold you every bit as accountable as I hold myself and those I’m taking down. Does this answer your question?”
Talanov remembered how loud the silence was on the phone.
“Then we understand one another,” Talanov had said, hanging up.
Talanov’s reverie of La Tâche was broken when a noticeable hush fell over the restaurant. Looking up, he saw everyone staring at the powerful man filling the doorway of the restaurant. Dressed in a thick black parka and Ushanka, Zak glared around the room and watched everyone avert their eyes. He then made his way across the floor.
“You really enjoy that, don’t you?” said Talanov when Zak approached, “scowling at everybody as if one of them were about to become your dinner.”
With a grin, Zak flagged down the waiter and ordered a big bowl of beef Estouffade, which would arrive as fist-sized chunks of casseroled beef in a coating of thick gravy.
“This came for you,” he said, taking a postcard from his pocket and sliding it in front of Talanov. “It had been slipped under your door when I came up to see if you wanted to join me for dinner. When I didn’t find you, I guessed you’d be here.”
Talanov looked at the card. It had been addressed in Cyrillic to Colonel Aleksandr Talanov. No address. No postage. Just Talanov’s name, a simple message, and a signature, “Love, Irene.”
With a forkful of food poised near his mouth, Talanov stared at the name.
Irene.
Donna Pilgrim.
“He then read what Pilgrim had written. Remembering our song. Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, Melissa, and thyme.
“We don’t get a lot of American music but even we got this one,” said Zak. In his deep, gruff voice, he sang the familiar Simon and Garfunkel stanza: “Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.” He paused. “Odd that Irene would make such a mistake, substituting Melissa for rosemary.”
Talanov still had the forkful of food poised near his mouth while he listened.
Zak continued, “As you know, we studied medicinal herbs during our training, years ago, so I looked through your library and found your copy of the botanical book we were given during survival training. Guess what I read on the way over.” He opened the book to the page he had dog-eared and slid it in front of Talanov. Shown beneath the heading was a photo of a plant that looked like mint. Below the photo was the following description: Known widely as lemon balm, Melissa officinalis is a spasmolytic herb possessing powerful anti-bacterial/anti-viral properties that fight infection and reduce inflammation and fever. Administer with twelve or more drops of thyme (thymus vulgaris CT thymol).
Talanov stared in shock at what he had just read.
Zak said, “Melissa wasn’t the name of a woman, Alex, but the name of an herb.”
“And because Gorev was talking to an American student,” said Talanov, “he used the English word, Melissa, so that the student would understand him. Otherwise, he would have used one of our Russian terms, Medovka or Limonnaya myata.” He read again from the book. “Administer with twelve or more drops of thyme.” He looked at Zak, who smiled and nodded.
“Gorev wasn’t telling the student to find Melissa in time,” said Zak, “but to mix lemon balm – Melissa – in thyme.”
Talanov sank back and closed his eyes. He knew herbs . . . had learned about them in survival training. He had instinctively remembered giving Noya the lemon balm, which did indeed stop her coughing. If only he had given her more. Even without the thyme, the lemon balm – the Melissa – would have kept her alive until the doctors could have taken over. If only he had—
His thoughts were interrupted by Zak’s hand on his arm. Opening his eyes, he saw Zak nod toward the card. “Turn it over,” he said.
Talanov stared at him for a moment then flipped over the postcard. Pictured on the front was a sleek white twin-turboshaft S-76A Sikorsky helicopter, with two wide vertical red stripes painted across the fuselage. Greetings from the Sikorsky Aircraft Corporation, the printed message said. Beneath it was a handwritten message in cursive. For my hero. Aim for the sky.
With his mouth hanging open in utter astonishment, Talanov looked over at Zak, who removed a bottle of vodka from his coat pocket and placed it on the table. “That’s right, Alex, Noya’s alive. You did it. You saved her life. The lemon balm you gave her worked long enough for doctors to administer an antidote.”
Staring at the postcard again, Talanov felt a tear run down his cheek. For my hero. Aim for the sky. Noya had written those words for him, but in truth, he could write them for her.
Zak unscrewed the cap and handed the bottle to Talanov. “To Noya,” he said.
And both men broke into huge smiles.
