Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (73 page)

 
          
“These
men . . . never saw them before . . . shooting me up with something . . .

 
          
Zaykov
finished tightly wrapping Maraklov’s arm, then helped him back into bed. As he
collapsed onto the pillow she checked the two men. The unconscious one was
being checked over by one of the Border Guards.

 
          
“Karl
Rodovnin,” the KGB soldier said. “He is badly hurt.”

           
Zaykov turned toward the second
man. “What are you doing in here, Boroschelvisch?”

           
“Administering an injection,” the
orderly said. “We checked his intravenous needle and were administering his
mineral solution into his drip meter when the guy goes berserk.”

           
“I’ve found the hypodermic,
Lieutenant,” one of the guards said, holding the plastic syringe. “It’s still
full and intact.”

           
“Take it and that bag of solution
to the infirmary,” Zaykov ordered, pointing to the overturned plastic bag of
clear liquid seeping onto the floor. “Have them analyze it. I want to know
what’s in it. Boroschelvisch, you are under arrest. Take him and Rodovnin into
custody.”

           
Zaykov turned back to Maraklov. She
had not seen him in several days because he was involved in the preparations
for taking the XF-34 to
Cuba
—and she had never expected to see him again
when he left. But even in the brief time they had been apart, the changes in
the man were frightening. He looked old, emaciated, pale skin stretched over
cheekbones, hollow eyes, thinning hair. “Andrei . . .”

 
          
She
could feel his body stiffen. He stared in shock at Zaykov. “Janet?”

 
          
Musi
looked puzzled. Janet? The name was somehow familiar, and she scanned her
memory trying to make the connection. Nothing. Perhaps someone Andrei knew in
the
United States
. . . “Andrei, it’s Musi Zaykov.”

 
          
His
tongue moved across cracked lips. Slowly, his eyes seemed to focus on her
instead of some shadowy figure in the distance, and he now seemed to recognize
the woman sitting beside him. “Musi . . . ?”

 
          
“Yes,
you will be all right.”

 
          
He
seemed to relax, let himself fall limp against the pillow, his breath coming in
shallow gasps. “Water.” Zaykov poured a glass of lukewarm water for him and
held the glass as he drank. She soaked a towel and wiped sweat off his face and
chest.

 
          
“What
happened?”

 
          
“I
don’t know. I woke up and saw those guys shooting something into the I.V. I
guess I panicked.”

 
          
“I
should say,” Zaykov said with a wry smile. “You almost killed Rodovnin. I am
having the syringe and the intravenous solution analyzed, and Rodovnin and
Boroschelvisch are in custody. The doctor will also tell us if he ordered an
intravenous feeding for you. I wasn’t notified of it.”

 
          
He
rolled painfully up out of bed, taking deep breaths, trying to force his
equilibrium back to normal, then turned angrily to Zaykov. “I don’t want any
more damned I.V.’s stuck into me.”

 
          
“The
doctor obviously felt it was necessary, you are so dehydrated—”

 
          
“I
said no more I.V.’s” He got carefully to his feet and began to test the
strength of his legs. She was shocked at the appearance of his body—he looked
as if he had lost well over seven kilograms since she had first seen him. Ribs
and joints protruded, and his muscles, once lean and powerful, looked stringy,
weak. “My body recovers just fine with rest, vitamins and water,” he told her.
“I’ve never needed intravenous fluids before.”

 
          
“And
I have never seen you so thin before, Andrei. Perhaps the doctor was right—”

 
          
“I’m
thin because the food around here is
lousy.
Hasn’t the KGB ever heard of steaks? The only protein around here is from
chicken and beans. Back in Vegas you could get a twenty- ounce steak dinner for
five bucks. You could eat like a pig for nothing ...”

 
          
Maraklov
paused, resting a hand on the bedstand. He halfturned to Musi. “Vegas,” he said
shaking his head. “It seems like a century ago.” Actually it was only a few
days.

 
          
“
Las Vegas
is not your life any more, Andrei. It never
was.”

 
          
“Then
what is my life? When do I get to live
my
life? When I arrive in the
Soviet Union
?
I think we both know my life will be anything but mine back in
Russia
...”

 
          
Musi
had seen this before but never believed it could happen to a man as gifted and
professional as Colonel Andrei

 
          
Maraklov.
It was more than the sickness caused by that machine he flew. It was common
among turncoats, traitors, double agents, informers, even hostages held for
long periods of time who began to identify with their captors. The feeling of
profound loneliness, aloneness invades even the strongest men, the feeling that
no one trusted you then, that no one really wanted or cared about you then. But
Andrei Maraklov’s situation was very different. He had been a Soviet agent
pretending to become an American—actually
two
Americans, as a boy and as a man. Now he had to leave that part of his life and
revert back to a strange new world. It was supposed to be his world, but it was
now as alien—in a way more so—as
America
was to the young Russian teenager so long
ago.

 
          
As
a young graduate of the
Connecticut
Academy
years ago, deep-cover agent reorientation
and surveillance had been one of Musi Zaykov’s first assignments. She had been
trained in studying the men and women who had returned from deep- cover
assignments, analyzing them emotionally, seeking out any lingering loyalties to
their former lives or resentments toward their new ones. Although the
personalities were always different, their emotional roller-coaster rides were
not. She had hoped Andrei would be different, stronger, better balanced. She
was wrong. Hopelessness, paranoia, anger, loneliness, guilt, even impotence—all
common symptoms.

 
          
The
intravenous solutions and injections would all check out, she was sure of that.
They would find no trace of contamination, no evidence of conspiracy. Rodovnin
and Boroschelvisch would check out as well.

 
          
Maraklov
had already made complaints about the food—that was typical. He had also
complained about the Soviet worker’s sloppiness and inefficiency, about
shortcomings in the Soviet government, about his new military commanders, about
his clothing, water and surroundings. Telling stories about his former
environment, making comparisons, was also to be expected. Unfortunately, so was
violence.

 
          
The
instructors at the
Connecticut
Academy
suggested that the closer one could get to
the repatriated man or woman, the better the transition would be. Strong
emotional ties often resulted—but they could be negative or positive emotions.
The “handler” was often the target of the repatriated person’s rage as well as his
or her love and trust. In this case it was easier to accept Maraklov’s love—she
hoped that she would not have to bear his hate as well.

           
She had thought about the
Connecticut Academy several times in just the past few minutes, while in the
past few years she had hardly given that place even a passing thought. What was
it about that place . . . ?

 
          
“Andrei,
please believe what I say,” Musi said, “your country wants you back. They
need
you back. You will be the guiding
force of an entire new generation of soldiers and citizens. You will be honored
and respected wherever you go. And it has nothing to do with that machine out
there. Military secrets are the most transient of all. It will be your
strength, your courage, your determination
and
your patriotism that make you a hero to our people, not that plane out there.”

 
          
“That’s
bullshit,” he said, turning away from her. “They want me because of what I
know,
not because of what I’m supposed
to be.”

 
          
“That’s
only partly true,” she said. “Of course, the knowledge you possess is
important, even vital to our national defense and security. Naturally,
imparting that knowledge will be your primary function when your return. But
your usefulness as a man and as a Russian will not end with that.” She moved
toward him and put a hand on his shoulder. “I can prove it to you, Andrei.”

 
          
“How?”

 
          
“Come
back with me. Right now. Leave the airplane here—”

 
          
Maraklov
spun around. “Leave it?
Here?”

 
          
“You
are killing yourself every time you fly it,” she said. “Look at yourself. It
drains you like some kind of electronic parasite. It will kill you if you
continue. Leave it. I can order a transport to take us to
Moscow
in the morning. Take whatever you want from
the aircraft—its most vital computers, diagrams, memory tapes, whatever. Or
take nothing. The aircraft is in the hands of the KGB. You have done your duty—
now let them do theirs. Come back with me to
Russia
and I guarantee you, you will be treated
like the national hero you are.”

 
          
He
stared at her, apparently considering her words. Her message finally seemed to
be getting through to him, she thought. He was finally beginning to believe her
. . .

 
          
“So
that’s it,” Maraklov said. “You don’t think I can deliver. That’s it, isn’t
it?” The Politburo doesn’t think I can deliver DreamStar—”

 
          
“No,
Andrei, that is
not
—”

 
          
“They
don’t want me flying DreamStar any more,” he continued angrily. “They never
did. I delivered it. They think they can debrief me and get rid of me. Now you
want me to go back to
Russia
immediately. Bring him back before he
snaps, is that what they said? Pick his brain before he freaks. Is that it?”

 
          
“Of
course not—”

 
          
“Lady,
I am the only hope of getting that bird out of here in one piece. They don’t
have a chance without me.”

 
          
“I
know that, Andrei,” she said. “If they want to get the fighter out of
Nicaragua
you must fly it. But there is a very good
possibility that they will not
want
to fly the aircraft out of
Nicaragua
.”

 
          
“Not
fly it out of
Nicaragua
. . . ?”

 
          
“Andrei,
our government tried to make a deal with the Americans for the return of their
fighter. They told the Americans they would turn the plane over to them in five
days. The same day they concluded that agreement we were caught trying to fly
the plane to
Cuba
. The Americans no longer believe us. You’ve said it yourself—we can’t
defend ourselves here. If the
U.S.
mounts an attack they’ll destroy this base.
It would seem the only way we can save ourselves is to turn the fighter over to
them.”

 
          
“Like
hell . . .” He recalled he’d momentarily considered it himself, but only in his
bitterness about what probably waited for him back “home.” But he could never
seriously go through with that . . . “Do you know what I’ve done? Do you
realize what I’ve gone through to get that aircraft here? I was the top pilot
in the United States Air Force’s most top-secret research center. In ten years
I could have been
running
the place.
I sacrificed it to protect and deliver this aircraft and I will
never
surrender it . . .”